And here is another blog post brought to you by the Cow, the Fish and the Riceball! Riceball here (heyy!) and today I'm going to be giving you a background idea of what today's blog post's going to be about.
So on Thursday the 10th of September this year - a day before the blessed birthday of our favorite fetish Tri!- we celebrated her birthday one day early as I couldn't make it for tomorrow's movie. The Scorch Trials, too :(
Anyway, we forgot to prepare the matches for the cake so Cow and Fish went to buy a box of them. After that I got to handle what remained of it (don't worry, it's pretty much still in one piece- a whole new record!)And basically my friends and I pieced together this wonderful pun here (phase 2 is entirely by me):
Phase 1: I'm a matchmaker. *holds up the matchbox and waits for the person's reaction*
Phase 2: I can make sparks fly, you know.
Funny because I consider myself the least funniest person ever. Anyway.
As I cradled that matchbox in my hands I was like, "Hey, why don't I write the story adaptation for the Little Match Girl?" You see, we were assigned to write a fairy tale, fable or bedtime story adaptation any way we wanted. Cow, Fish and I had been racking our brains the whole entire week (we came up with some completely far-fetched ideas as well as some good ones although they were sort of borrowed from other fairy tales) and I suddenly remembered this story.
P.S If you haven't read the original, I seriously do not know what you have been doing throughout your childhood. Prepare some tissues.
The story revolves around a young unnamed girl suffering from the early stages of hypothermia who shivers alone on the street on a cold Christmas' Eve, waiting for people to come buy her matches. She does not dare return home in case her abusive father beats her if she does not manage to sell any matches. In order to keep herself warm she lights a match, and sees visions of lucky children with families all beside the fire, digging in to presents and a Christmas feast. The girl looks to the sky and spies a shooting star, and is reminded of what her grandmother once said: a falling star meant that someone was dying and going to heaven. She then lights another match, and sees her late grandmother, the only person who had ever cared for her. She keeps lighting all her matches just to keep the vision of her grandmother glowing, and when she finally uses up all her matches, people find the pitiful sight of her on the street the next day, dead. This story was intended to have a happy ending, since the girl is dead and can find peace with her grandmother in heaven, never to suffer.
And there, the wonderful and touching story written by Hans Christian Andersen; you can't see any harm in re-writing this beloved children's tale. The question is, how?
~ Font color change because I'm writing this the next day. ~
Right now Cow and Fish must be having the time of their lives with Lou and Tri (happy birthday Tri! :). It's Scorch Trials Day, and since I have no company whatsoever at home at the moment I thought I should just experiment with this. I sort of impressed my dad on the way home from school (believe me, my dad is one of the hardest people to impress. Ever.) and I'm just really keen to write it now... so who's going to stop me? :)
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Children's Tale Rewrite: The Little Match Girl
Despite the vast sea of last-minute Christmas shoppers bustling
around the street on Christmas' Eve, none of them stopped to chance upon a glance of the little
girl huddled in a nook around the corner of a building. She continued to shake,
her frail limbs hugged close to her little figure as she struggled to light a
match with her frozen fingers. The numbness in her hands caused the match to
drop limply onto the pavement before it could touch the box’s coarse surface.
She eyed the fallen match in despair, eventually leaning forward and
picking it up to try again. She attempted to call out words of advertising
hoarsely, but the crowds rushing around at this hour of the day—when the lamp
posts illuminated the snow-covered sidewalk with a soft golden glow—drowned
out her high-pitched voice.
One man had rounded the corner and unknowingly kicked up a
snowdrift with his heavy laden boots. The flakes settled on her bony shoulders,
and she sneezed violently, making the man jump. Instead of apologizing, the man
growled and sent another pile of snow flying through the winter air, just so it
would ease his fury. She held her tongue and kept quiet, too shaken to say
anything, and her knees pressed closer to her chest. All of a sudden a shout
came to her ears. A boy around her age was halting the man, running up to him
and speaking quickly. He looked annoyed, and slightly mad. The man’s face
instantly darkened at his words.
"You'd better scram, Jones, or I'll call the constable on you!" Then the heavy laden footsteps of boots scraping on a sidewalk gradually became
softer. Her fear vanished, only to appear again in a moment.
The boy had stopped in front of her. His knees were bent slightly,
so his face inclined toward hers. She didn't look up though, and that caused
the boy to scratch the side of his head curiously. "Are you alright?"
he said after a moment's hesitation. She pursed her lips tightly, unwilling to
answer him. The boy had crouched down now, so she could see his dirty blonde
hair peeking from under his messenger boy's cap and the thick coat he wore over
his broad build. Still she refused to look up, her face still buried in between
her knees.
The boy wrapped his arms around his own knees and stared at her.
After a while a voice came. "Who are you?" His innocent green-eyed
gaze met her frosty blue one, her heavy-lidded eyes cold and bloodshot. Her
comment had come out uncertain, uneasy. He smiled a little just to reassure
her.
"Aidan. My name's Aidan." His unruly strands had fallen
right over his eyebrows. He motioned to the faded signboard above her, a message crudely carved onto it
with a blunt knife. "I take it that you tell fortunes?"
The girl kept silent. Aidan drew his mouth into a straight line.
How was he going to get her to speak if things kept on like this?
Just when he was about to give up and straighten to walk back, she
spoke again. "What will you give me in return?" He fished into his
coat's wide pockets, and retrieved a coin. He gave it to her, noticing how cold her hands were when she reached for it. He took the time to see
her clad in a tattered jacket over a long skirt, the color waned with the
times, once-white socks turned to gray and worn black shoes as she kept the
coin in a little rusted tin hidden in a deeper corner of the nook.
"Are you listening to me?" He shook out of his train of
thought when he heard her voice. "Sorry, pardon me. What did you
say?" The girl let out a small sigh.
"What would you like to know?" Her fingers had trailed
to her matchbox, and there she picked out a match, prepared to strike it with renewed
spirit. The frost in her blue irises had vanished—for the time being. Aidan's
mouth perked up at the corners as a look of mischief clouded his eyes.
"Tell me what my surprise Christmas present from Mummy
is." From the look on her face she was disappointed, but he was not to
know that. Wisps escaped her mouth as she muttered something under her breath. Aidan’s rosy cheeks sucked in, and he huddled in too,
squatting on the sidewalk in front of a strange girl who claimed to be a
clairvoyant on New Year’s Eve.
The girl struck the match against the box. The flame instantly
emerged, bright and blazing. Aidan’s eyes trailed to her face as he saw her
eyes widen. Those blue eyes, once cold and seemingly heartless, had now a
twinkle, a spark that could never be extinguished. He wondered if that happened
to her every time she told a fortune, because it certainly did brighten up her
appearance.
“I see,” she mumbled as the flame slowly engulfed the match, clawing
at her fingers. “I see…”
Aidan closed his eyes and waited.
He stood up abruptly, brushing off the snow onto the ground at her
feet, and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “You’re no good,” he
retorted angrily. “Why would Mummy get me a book of all things? She knew what I
wanted! A new set of toy soldiers!” He scuffled, his rage evident on his
flushed face. “I’m going home.”
“Everyone's the same!”
Her cry echoed down the streets now
dwindled to a mere thirty people walking about. He knew it must be evening soon.“Everyone’s the same old selfish idiot that only hears what they want to
hear!” He might have seen her eyes shine due to the water welling up in them,
but he brushed the thought away as she continued.
“Why can’t I get a word of thanks for once?” She flung her arms
exasperatedly and blinked
furiously. “Why can’t I do what I’m told to do without getting hurt?”
The tears started to fall from her eyes, which froze into icy droplets on her porcelain face. Suddenly Aidan realized
she had meant more than just what he did to her when he spied a side of her gray
sock, marked with the vermillion-brown of dried blood. Upon a closer look there were small yet noticeable scars littering her once-fair skin, some wounds deeper than the others. This girl, her fingernails caked with dirt, eyes brimming with tears, was indeed a pitiful
sight for anyone who bothered to notice her. He felt a pang in his subconscious
that he could not figure out, and the next thing he knew he was by her side
again.
The girl started. Aidan fixed his stare on her determinedly.
Surely she must have a name. What else would she go by?
“Emma.” Her eyes darted away from his line of vision. “I’m Emma.”
“I’m sorry, Emma. For earlier.” He could feel the snow whirling
along with the cold winter wind that brushed past his ear. “What can I do to
help you?”
Emma’s shocked gaze befell him. It was his turn to be shocked when
she held out her pale hand. “If you want me to answer that…” Aidan groaned at
her meaning, fished into his pocket again and miraculously pulled out another
coin. Dropping it into the center of her palm, Emma tucked it away and brushed
a stray lock behind her ear.
“All I want right now is for someone to hear me out.” There were
slight pauses in between when she said this, which made Aidan get the
impression she was never really used to talking to people before. He crouched,
and though his legs ached, he listened.
“My mother died after I was born. My father used to be a
spectacular businessman until my mother died—he blamed it solely on me. His
work took a turn for the worst… his company’s bankrupt. Now he sits around
holding a bottle to his lips and hitting me with a bullwhip if I don’t sell out
all these matches.”
So that explained the mass of scars. Aidan had certainly heard of the word ‘bankrupt’ before, and since
he did not exactly know its meaning, thought that this girl was rather smart,
like all the other girls in his school. Maybe she wanted to go to school too…
“Matches.” His attention snapped back to Emma, a ghostly smile lit
up on her face. “That’s all we can afford for the New Year’s.”
“But there must be some way I can help!’ He cried indignantly, his
eyebrows knitted in concentration. “Is there really no other way?”
Emma
held out her hand again. This time he flopped in a coin without hesitation.
“There’s
a falling star tonight.” Aidan was either too engrossed or too stupid to
realize she’d ignored his question entirely. “My granny says if there’s a star
falling, it means someone is dying and is going to Heaven.”
“My
mummy says that falling stars are called shooting stars,” Aidan boasted. “She
says you can make a wish on them and it will come true.”
That
was it! Make Emma wish upon a star! As he opened his mouth in excitement, she
interrupted.
“I
don’t believe you.” His mood fell. “Why don’t you wish and we’ll see what
happens?”
“Okay!”
Aidan cried, now pumped up all over again. He breathed deeply, and, his eyes
solidly fixed on the burning star, spoke.
“I
wish to do something meaningful in my life.”
There
was a sound of surprise from Emma. He glanced over at her, and she made a face.
“Why’d
you wish for that? I thought you said you wanted a new set of toy soldiers?”
Blue
met green. A gaze filled with confusion, and another bubbling with
determination.
She
blinked. Slowly, she reached for her matchbox and lit another. The warm blaze
made shadows dance across the old buildings that were now abandoned. Silence
filled the air. There was not a soul in sight. Aidan glanced at the hand
holding the burning match and realized how petite it was. Was it just him or
had she just turned paler?
“I
don’t know, Aidan.” He watched, as she lit another match, one after another,
keeping quite still throughout this whole ceremony of lighting matches. He
pursed his lips slightly, now red and chapped from the cold.
“How
did you know about your clairvoyance, Emma?” The girl looked up from her light.
He could see the dark eye bags forming below her irises.
At
last she slowly reached out and opened her palm. When he reached into his
pocket, he found no coins. He began to panic.
Emma
seemed to realize. Smiling softly, she pulled her hand back. “I saw my own
fortune once.” She brushed back her mess of hair so it cascaded down her back. “It
was on a night like this, too.”
Her
smile didn't waver. “I saw a lovely feast, and lots of presents… and I saw the
smiling faces of the children who ripped them open.” Her mouth emitted a
tinkling laugh and Aidan wondered how she was able to laugh like that in her
condition. “And then… I saw my grandmother. She was there; her arms
outstretched, beaming at me…”
Emma's eyes donned a wistful look.“My granny is the best granny that has ever walked this
earth,” she proclaimed. “She has the purest soul in the world. It’s even whiter than snow.” She said this with so much passion, so much fury that Aidan did not
dare argue.
A loud chime rang throughout the empty town. He stood up slowly and looked toward the giant town clock in the distance. The chimes continued for twelve times until the town became silent once more. He knew he must be going home soon. And yet, there was something holding him back.
“So
you saw her…” Aidan spoke with mild hesitation, his back still turned to her. “So that was your fortune? Your
grandmother?”
“Yes,”
He could feel her smile even though he couldn't see it. “I remember finishing all
my matches.”
“But
you saw a feast too, remember—what? How do you still have so many matches left—?”
His face froze when he turned back to that nook around the corner.
The nook
where she used to be.
In
that nook was a small red rusted box with a faded message imprinted on it. Upon
closer inspection, it read:
“In
loving memory of Emma Brookes, a child found dead on this street on New Year’s
Day, 1845. Donations will go to the Promise Home orphanage in Buckingham Street, England.”
There
was a coin slot, and, to his great astonishment, in the translucent box he
could make out the three coins he had previously dropped into Emma’s open palm.
Aidan’s head spun. Then, when he finally looked toward the town clock and
gasped at the time, he picked up his pace and ran straight home.
He
had just puffed his way back to his house and hung up his coat to dry when his
mother walked into the living room, clad in a flowery apron and applying a
nagging tone to her voice. “Aidan Jones! Where in the world have you been? Your
father and I have been so worried!” Aidan could tell by the wrinkles on her
face that they truly did worry about him.
“Something
strange happened just now,” he said quietly, sitting down slowly onto the rug
and reaching underneath the gigantic Christmas tree, dangling with the
decorations he’d forgotten to come back on time to hang. "Mummy," he began shakily as his hands closed in
around a package, rectangular and solid, and he drew that out. "Do you know anything about a girl named Emma Brookes?"
"Oh, the poor dear!" Mrs. Jones bent down and ruffled his hair in a motherly way. "She'd been there ever since your father and I moved to the city. The child's long gone, and found on Christmas Eve about five years ago... a tragedy indeed!"
Aidan's face remained expressionless, and suddenly his mother’s
cries on telling him to have his supper first before uncovering his present
became distant shouts in a endless void as his fingers moved silently over the
bright wrapping paper, his eyes captivated. Without hesitation he grabbed a
corner and tore.
Aidan’s
eyes trailed from the shiny blue cover to the frosted window. A cold gust of
wind blew into the house as he shoved it open and poked his head out into the
night. There he could see, up there where the falling stars were, was a certain
one that outshone the rest. At last he turned back to the room, where the blazing
fire in the hearth told him of her last unwavering smile. Smiling to himself
too, he retreated to his father’s favorite armchair and opened his new
storybook, ‘The Little Match Girl’ to the very first page, and read aloud, Emma’s
flickering ghost listening at his feet.
Aidan had grown up to be a successful businessman and had been contributing generously to Promise Home on Buckingham Street in England, in memory of Emma Brookes—the girl who'd struck the light in his life.
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When you sign up to chat
with strangers, some app might ask for your hand phone number,
email address, name, and what's more, even the place where you stay.
Even if you don't need to insert your real identification, there's always a way a
stranger can use to track your phone or even hack into it and get
information about you. Don’t be shocked by the ways that they use: sometimes they
will send you links that when you click it it will implant a virus into your phone. 
Nevertheless, at
intervals you might meet people who are very confident. And what I mean by
confident is the stranger will use a seductive choice of words to have you ‘turned
on’, making your mind think differently. These types of sick strangers will talk to you and send you inappropriate images. A few will plead you to
take inappropriate, horrific and shocking pictures, convincing you that it’s
okay to do it- we call this mind pollution-.The moment you start to think it’s okay will change everything. You might
start to do things that are unbelievable and jaw-dropping like masturbating. To make things even worst, you’ll even have the liking of it. On
the other hand, if you have a strong will, I’m sure you can get out of this
situation before it has even started.
