Week 3 Writing Homework

Go Back to Course

Write Narrative on ‘Photograph’ using all techniques listed in slides (500 words)


Slides: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1I4h1A0b1Y7eiFxULrb-HTp0xpyrrleen?usp=sharing

Please upload your homework as a comment below:

  • Due Date : November 4, 2025
  • Feedback will be shared in 3-5 days

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

The maximum upload file size: 256 MB. You can upload: image, audio, video, document, spreadsheet, interactive, text, archive, code, other. Links to YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and other services inserted in the comment text will be automatically embedded. Drop file here

50 thoughts on “Week 3 Writing Homework”

  2. Varoon

    The photograph had always hung crookedly in the hallway. A boy, no older than ten, grinning with a gap-toothed smile, his arm slung around a golden retriever. Behind them, a sunlit field blurred into memory.
    Ellie paused beneath it, suitcase in hand. The house was quiet now—too quiet. Dust motes danced in the morning light, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. She reached up, straightened the frame, and let her fingers linger on the glass.
    The dog had died first. Then the boy—her brother, Jamie—three summers ago. The photograph was taken the day before everything changed.

    Three Years Earlier
    Jamie had begged her to come outside. “Just one photo, El! Mum says we’ll frame it.”
    She’d rolled her eyes, still sulking from a fight. But something in his voice—hopeful, urgent—had tugged at her. So she’d grabbed the camera, snapped the shot, and watched him race off with Max, the dog, barking behind him.
    That night, the storm came. Trees bent like dancers in agony. Jamie had gone out to fetch Max, who’d bolted at the thunder. He never made it back.

    Present Day
    Ellie stepped into Jamie’s room. It was untouched—his books stacked neatly, his shoes still by the door. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the photograph from her bag. The same one from the hallway, but this copy was faded, edges curled.
    She flipped it over. On the back, in Jamie’s messy scrawl: “Best day ever. El smiled.”
    She hadn’t known he’d written that.
    Her breath caught.

    In the weeks before the storm, Jamie had grown quieter. He’d asked strange questions—“Do you think memories can live in pictures?” “If something bad happens, will you remember the good stuff?”
    She’d brushed him off. “You’re being weird.”
    But now, she wondered. Had he known? Had he felt something coming?

    Ellie closed her eyes.
    She was back in the field. Jamie was laughing, Max chasing butterflies. The sun was warm, and her heart was light. She raised the camera, and this time, she didn’t rush. She let the moment breathe.
    Click.

    The house would be sold tomorrow. But the photograph—Jamie’s photograph—would come with her.
    She placed it gently in her suitcase, nestled between her sketchbook and a half-written letter.
    As she turned to leave, the hallway light flickered. Just once.
    She smiled.

    Reply
  3. JASH

    The Photograph

    Present — November 3rd, 2025

    The photograph slid from the attic box and landed face-up on the floor.
    Mara almost ignored it. She was searching for Christmas lights, not memories.
    But the image stopped her.
    A family of four. A man, a woman, two children—a boy and a girl—standing by a lake so still it looked painted. Everyone smiling. The mother’s hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl clutching a folded paper boat.
    Mara’s breath snagged.
    The woman in the picture looked exactly like her. Not similar. Identical—same jawline, same faint scar above the eyebrow, same uneasy smile.
    On the back, in fading ink:
    “By the lake. August 3rd, 1998.”
    But Mara was born that month.
    She searched the date online. Miller’s Lake Tragedy: Child Lost, Family in Shock.
    Names: Daniel and Elise Porter—survived. Son, Leo—rescued. Daughter, Mira—missing.
    Mira.
    The name felt too familiar, like a word from a dream.
    She looked again. The water behind the family wasn’t calm anymore. Beneath the reflection of trees, a faint shape hovered—pale, human. Watching.
    She rubbed the surface, but the image only seemed to ripple.
    A drop of water fell onto her wrist.
    Then another.
    She glanced up. The rafters were dry.
    The attic air thickened. The edges of the photograph curled inward.
    Her reflection in the glossy paper began to move.
    It smiled. Wider.

    August 3rd, 1998
    The lake glowed under the summer sun, a perfect mirror for the sky. Elise Porter framed her family through the camera lens—Daniel’s steady arm around her waist, Leo’s bright grin, Mira’s white paper boat trembling in her hands.
    “One more picture,” Elise called.
    “Make it quick, Mom!” Mira laughed but didn’t move.
    Elise pressed the shutter. Click. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
    Then she saw something. Out beyond the reeds—a pale shimmer breaking the surface. A face. Watching.
    She blinked. Gone. Only ripples remained.
    Probably nothing, she told herself.
    That was the first hint.
    Mira placed the paper boat on the water. The current caught it, spinning faster, faster.
    “Don’t go too close,” Elise warned.
    Mira leaned forward. Toes touched the surface.
    A splash. Sudden. Sharp.
    Daniel ran. Leo screamed.
    The lake swallowed its ripples whole.
    Elise dropped the camera. It landed in the mud, lens staring upward. When she lifted it later, its final image gleamed wet and strange, colors shifting like water in sunlight.
    That was the second hint.
    Even days later, the photograph refused to dry. Its surface stayed cold, faintly damp, as though something pressed lightly from the other side.
    That was the third.
    They couldn’t throw it away. They framed it instead.
    Years passed. The house sold. The attic emptied.
    The photograph waited—patient, unblinking.
    Waited for hands that looked the same.
    Waited for her name to be spoken again.
    Waited for Mira.

    Reply
  5. AryanR

    The Photograph

    Present Date, September 7th, 1982
    Maya walked through the door of her new house – 91 Coral Avenue – and thought of what to do. ‘I could make some breakfast’, she thought, ‘Or maybe get some shed work done.’ Then Maya looked down at the dark, cold basement were the only light illuminating the room were small lamps that lined the walls, staring smugly at whoever dared to step down there. ‘Uh-oh. Cleaning.’ Maya thought. As she walked down the dimly-lit corridor, she thought of all the events that had happened to her in the last 24-hours – the news of her grandmother’s sickness. The last word of her grandmother – ‘May the secrets reach you, and may you not be clouded by lies forever’. The peaceful – or was it? – death of her most admired family member. The funeral where Maya’s hands couldn’t stop shaking. The will read out – the mansion to Maya. As Maya crept down those corridors, terrified to make a sound, her mind dawned on the thought – what secrets could her grandmother be talking about. As she reached the bottom of the staircase after lots of rattling of the railing and creaking of the steps, she met a brown chest lined with grandeur. The borders were etched in gold curves, its lock ominous and secretive. I noticed a key sticking out from under the chest. I pulled tight, and with a glow, it unlatched. I stuck it in the lock and was about to turn the key when a thought drifted across my mind. ‘What if this isn’t meant for me?’ Realising I was hesitating too much, I turned the latch without another thought and the chest gleamed open. But the gleam drifted away almost immediately because it wasn’t gold, or jewellery, or anything else that others would consider valuable. It was a photo. But to anyone in my situation, it would be more valuable than any necklace or bar of gold in the world. Because on the picture was three people outside a building with white paint peeling off the top reading ‘Manhattan Orphanage’. The woman in front was my grandmother. And the two children were me and my brother… It was all a lie…

    July 5th, 1943
    ‘Move a little bit to the right. A bit back-No, no, too back. A bit forward… perfect. We need you to say promising things to support our company, like, how I got two wonderful children, or something. Just anything to promote our band.’ Reluctantly, I agreed. I was already thinking of what story I would tell these kids when they were elder and more curious, so they wouldn’t make me tell them about this orphanage. Maybe there parents died in a car crash. Or their parents didn’t want them. Something like that. But if it meant I could help these kids grow to become amazing people, I would make up any story and pose in any advertisement. No kid deserves to live in a filthy orphanage where having a banana for once is considered luxury. I just hope they wouldn’t figure out the truth before they are ready for it.

    Reply
  6. Elisa Liu

    A photograph
    ————-
    Present day, The Eleanor Orphanage, 2023-
    I crouched down, my nails scratching the weathered wood and giving out a small creaking sound. I hate this orphanage, it’s dusty and boring and creaky and all the kids here are obedient and quiet and NEVER talk back to me. I look at the cobweb filled corner, shuffling on the mat that they gave me to sit on while I’m in time-out. But then my eye catches onto something wedged in the cobwebs, nearly invisible.
    A photograph
    A piece of paper.
    Something that might not be boring.
    I reach out for it, cobwebs sticking onto my dirty hands and carefully unfolded it, ripping a small corner off by accident. In the black and white photo was a lady in a dress, standing outside of an orphanage, the very orphanage I’m in, but she isn’t smiling. I bring the photo closer to my eyes, realising the small glint of sunlight in her eyes. She’s crying, for some reason. I glance at it again.
    ————-
    58 years earlier, The Eleanor Orphanage, 1972-
    I inhale, quickening my pace. They are taking the orphanage out of my hands, they are taking it along with all of my hopes and dreams. My hands stiffen, crinkling the photo of me in front of my orphanage. This may be my last hope, to prove I exist, to prove I meant something. There is a young lady, maybe in her early twenties in the entry of my orphanage.
    “Hello Eleanor.” She says coldly, spitting out my name as if it were a rotten pear. I shivered internally.
    “Hello.” I say back, trying to square my shoulders.
    “We appreciate you handing this orphanage to us. We promise we will take good care of it and it’s children.”
    I look at her. Now I know who she is. Victoria, the new owner of my orphanage. I don’t say anything back, I just nod quietly and try to slip into the orphanage. She steps into my way, blocking me off.
    “Sorry, I just want to get something of mine that I forgot,” I mumble, scratching my neck nervously. She glares at me suspiciously. Ten seconds of silence pass, and then she steps aside, letting me through. I nod respectfully, before walking out of her view and sprinting to a corner. Sun was filtering though a nearby window, completely lighting this corner up. My hands touch the smooth wood before finding a crack and shoving the photograph into it. It looks loose, as if it is going to fall any second but I stand up anyway. I want someone to find it, anyone, as long as it is not Victoria. I turn away, trying not to look back, and head for the exit.
    ————-
    Present day, The Eleanor Orphanage, 2023-
    My eyes glint with something new. Not anger, but a tiny flicker of sadness. I flip the page over.
    ‘Even if they take away all of your hopes and dreams, even if they take everything away from you, you can still be happy.
    It may be the end of my story, but it is only the beginning of yours.
    -Eleanor White, 1972

    Reply
  7. Summer

    The Photograph
    The attic was colder than she remembered. Dust hung in the air like fog, swirling with every step. Nora hadn’t been up here in years. Not since the funeral.
    She tugged open a warped drawer in the old cedar chest. Inside, a stack of yellowed papers, brittle with age. Beneath them—something else. A photograph.
    She held it up to the light.
    Four children. A summer day. A tire swing. Her brother, James, grinning. Her best friend, Lessie, mid-laugh. Nora herself, arms flung wide. And—
    She froze.
    The fourth child. Back turned. Bare feet. A blur of motion. No name. No memory.
    But something about him felt wrong.
    She flipped the photo over. “Liam. July 1997.” Her breath caught. That was the summer James disappeared. Her fingers trembled. The air felt heavier. She stared at the boy’s face. No—at the space around him. The shadows behind the swing. The way the trees seemed to lean in. She blinked. Looked again. Just trees. Just memory. But her pulse was racing. She remembered the scream. Not James’. Not hers. A different voice. Thin. High. Wrong. She dropped the photo. It landed face-up. Liam stared out from the paper. Still. Waiting.
    JULY 1982
    That summer had been blistering. The creek shimmered with heat, and the tire swing became their kingdom. James dared them to fly. Lessie kept score. Nora kept up. Then Liam appeared. He didn’t speak. Just watched. James said he was a cousin. Nora didn’t ask questions. She remembered the way he stood at the edge of the woods, unmoving, like he was listening to something only he could hear. The day before James vanished, Lessie brought her dad’s camera. “Say cheese!” she’d shouted. The shutter clicked. James climbed the tree. Higher. Higher. “You can’t catch me now!” he’d called down. Nora had laughed. Then—silence. A splash. A scream. Not James’. Liam’s. She remembered turning. Seeing the boy’s face twist. Not in fear. In something else. Then he ran. Into the woods. Gone. They never found James. Never found Liam. Just the photo. Just the shadow in the trees. And now, all these years later, Nora finally saw it. The shape behind them. Tall. Watching. She hadn’t remembered it before. The attic creaked. She wasn’t alone.

    Reply
  8. Emma

    I found the photograph tucked between the pages of an old book. It was faded, with edges curling from time, but the image captured a moment that seemed alive despite the years. Two children sat on a wooden swing, their faces glowing with laughter, hair tousled by the wind. I could almost hear their joy echoing across the page.

    I held the photograph closer. The memories it carried were invisible yet palpable. I did not know these children, yet something about the image felt familiar, as if I had walked in that park long ago, under the same sun, beneath the same sky.

    I remembered the first time I had truly noticed the power of a photograph. I was ten, sitting at the kitchen table with my grandmother. She had pulled out a small box, worn and scratched, and inside were dozens of black and white photographs.

    “Who are these, Grandma?” I asked, picking up a picture of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, standing beside a man with a kind smile.

    “Your great-grandparents,” she said softly. Her fingers traced the edges of the photo. “This is the day they met. I was just a little girl running behind them.”

    I leaned closer, studying the photograph. There was something magical in how it froze a moment in time yet seemed to carry life within it.

    “Do you think they knew how happy they would be?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

    Grandma laughed, a sound warm and gentle. “Perhaps not. That is the secret of photographs. They capture what is and leave the rest to imagination.”

    I thought about the children on the swing again. Their laughter seemed suspended, eternal. I imagined their lives, the paths they had taken, the memories they would carry forward, just like this photograph would carry them to anyone who found it years later.

    The photograph reminded me that life was made up of fleeting moments. A smile, a glance, a simple touch, all could disappear in an instant. Yet a photograph could hold them, quiet and patient, waiting for someone to see them again.

    I placed the photograph back on the table. A breeze from the open window rustled the pages of the book, and I imagined the children on the swing, still laughing, still flying just above the ground.

    “Maybe one day,” I whispered, “someone will find a photograph of me and remember this moment.”

    And in that quiet thought, I felt connected to all the people who had ever held a photograph and let it speak for them. I realized that a photograph is not just a picture. It is a story. A memory. A small fragment of life preserved forever.

    I walked away from the table, leaving the photograph where it was, knowing that it would wait patiently for the next person to discover it, to breathe life into a moment long past.

    Reply
  10. Jess1ca

    2014 May 3rd Tue
    At first, Natalie had almost ignored it. She knew that she was here to arrange boxes for her new house, not looking for heartfelt memories that she had weaved together with her family. She placed the old weathered box on top of another, but as she turned to repeat the process, her eyes darted to the photograph once more. The image seemed to hum with a melody of its own. It was a blurry image of a happy family standing in front of a heavenly landscape with fields of green stretching endlessly behind them. A blue bicycle lay on a boy’s feet with a bent front wheel while behind him, a woman with warm, hazel eyes had a smile brighter than sunlight piercing through a dark room. Her arm was around a man in a black suit with a serious expression, yet his eyes seemed to have the slightest hint of joy. In front of him, his hands lay on the shoulders of a small girl with hair that matched her mother’s, her pink dress frilled at the ends like blueprints. Natalie squinted. The girl in the picture looked oddly familiar – like it was someone she knew. Her memory suddenly snapped at her… it looked like herself, when she was younger. Not similar, but identical. She had the same pink bow on her hair that Natalie had, while her dimples looked the same when she smiled. But something within her knew that it wasn’t her. It was impossible. This looked like this was an image in the 1990’s, when she was about two years old. She stared at the photo again, observing the bottom of the paper.
    ‘May 4th 1990 Wed, – Dad did an exam for his work and passed!’ it read, the letters wobbly and messy like it was scribbled by a five year old. The words echoed through the air, the photograph slipping out of her hands, flipping like coins in the air waiting to land on the table of tomorrow.

    May 4th 1990, Wed
    I sat cross-legged on the soft emerald grass, waiting to prepare the photo that would be framed on our wall tomorrow in the morning. “Hurry up, Mum!” Natalie cried, her young innocent eyes eager for me. “Okay, okay, Nat, calm down. I’ll be there soon. Just wait for me to adjust the angle so we get a perfect shot. Why don’t you play with your brother Jake while you’re waiting? Ask him for a ride on his bike, and he’ll surely let you.”
    “Okay, Mum! Just be quick then!” Galloping away at full speed, I watched Jake teach her how to ride a 2-wheeled bike. I smiled, ‘If only this moment could last forever…’ I thought. By the time Natalie and Jake had turned back at me, I had finished adjusting the angle and preparing everything for our family photo. When I opened my mouth to tell them I was ready, moments of joy turned to horror. Arthur bolted towards them, dropping his expensive suitcase we had bought together. I looked forward. No… Jake…Natalie… They were riding together at an uncontrollable speed towards the deepest lake in the state. This can’t be happening… they don’t even know how to swim… What am I doing here? Shouldn’t a real parent be sprinting towards them? Seconds later, I ran towards them. Desperate, with a tiny ray of hope. But when I got there, the first thing I saw was my husband Arthur sighing with a tear rolling down from his face. I had never seen him cry before…he was always serious, talking about work non stop on the breakfast table, never even mentioning our kids’ names. But behind this mask, now I saw what a devoted parent he was. “Elisa,” he whispered. “Elisa, Elisa, Elisa…” I put my hands to my mouth, bullets of sweat still trickling down my forehead. I couldn’t bare to look at the lake, the floating images of my children drowning, or the pale hand of Jake reaching out of the water for help. But I knew we both couldn’t swim. We would both drown ourselves. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get our children in time.” I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t budge. I knew things would be over – the memories we made with our children and the happiness that was formed between everyone in our family. But with both of the children gone, everything would collapse. I covered my face with my sweaty hands, but when I removed them, Arthur was gone. And the only thing near me was a splash. “No,” I whispered. “ARTHUR!” I screamed, my breath catching between my heart and my throat. I fell on the floor, and a glassy sapphire orb rolled down my eyelid. Would I have to continue my life alone now? Without any of my beloved family members? I knew for a fact that the light in my life had disappeared. The darkness I had experienced when I was a child would return once more. I picked up the camera that we had all bought together with our money combined – Jake’s, Natalie’s, Arthur’s and mine, but now this was the only thing that would be a memory of our family. When I turned to gather our crimson checked picnic mat, something strange rang like a bell in my ears. I looked behind me, to the lake. And I spotted a moving figure – pink, black and blue all squashed together.
    I dropped everything and rushed to the very edge of the lake as fast as my legs could carry me. “Jake! Natalie! ARTHUR!” I screamed
    until my lungs and my throat started to hurt. Then Arthur’s head popped out, and his eyes were closed. A moment of horror
    approached me again, but I heard a voice, quiet yet so loud to my ears. “Elisa…” I pulled his arm with all the strength I had. I didn’t care if my arm hurt, or his did, as long as we were one big happy family again. After coughing out water they had swallowed, I asked, “Are you okay, everyone? Arthur, how did you rescue them? Jake, you pigeon, how did you even end up in the lake with Natalie? And Natalie… I’m sorry. I promise I will hurry up next time when taking a photo,” I laughed, bursting into tears again. “Why are you crying, Mum?” asked Natalie with a confused expression. “Shouldn’t you be happy if we’re safe?” asked Jake. “I suppose so,” I laughed again, wiping the tears off my face. “Let’s all dry our clothes in the sun so we can take a final photo together,” suggested Arthur, sharing his idea in front of us for the first time in years. When we took the photo, we returned home, and gazed up at the photo we had framed on our wall. When I left to cook dinner, I could hear the sound of the laughs and sadness echoing from the photo, like a melody pleasant yet sophisicated.

    2 Decades and 2 Summers later, September 5th 2012

    I gaze up at the photo again. My darling Natalie’s hair glimmers like sunlight on water, each strand a shiny diamond representing the memories of us together. As I look closely at my lovely Jake, he returns my smile, yet his one looks younger, brighter and less melancholy than I am. I hope they’re healthy and well now. The never-reaching tomorrow that never happened doesn’t feel too distant now. When I used to think that today’s tomorrow would never happen, I guess I was wrong. Now, I realize we don’t create memories using photographs to remember life – we remind memories to remember our lives. And with that, I finally rest in peace, hoping that my children will live their years beautifully. Goodbye, my dear Jake and Natalie… I must go now. I hope you enjoy your lives like I did and remember the best times that were created in your lives.

    Reply
  13. huashang66

    The Photograph

    The photograph had always hung like a crooked bat on the dusty wall of the hallway. A young boy, no older than 7, was crouched in the center, his arm slung over Dan, A cow covered with a mosaic of brown and white. In the background, a wheat farm lay, its stalks standing straight and tall like valiant soldiers. Alaita stood with her backpack and suitcase. This was the only thing left in the house. She straightened her glasses and looked at the photograph. The house was silent. This was the first time the house had been quiet ever since the passing of James. She reached up and stretched to bring down the framed image. Dust lingered in the air dancing and leaping with purposeless excitement. She smelt the wood. It had a slight smell of lavender, and the old antique smell that libraries have in their archives. Dan, the cow, had died first. James had passed a mere 23 minutes after. It was taken, just before the chaos struck.

    3 years earlier
    It was October 12, 2014, and James called out to me. “Al, come over here and take a photo for me”, he called. Constantly, he pleaded for an image and, after an unending argument, she gave up. In resistance, Alaita grabbed her camera. And took a photo of James with his arm slung over his greatest friend, Dan. A few hours later, thunder struck. The cows, screeching calls of pain and misery were heard by all, but none chose to save the poor cow, except for James. He grabbed a raincoat and umbrella and rushed out into the storm. A tornado in the distance, had forged a path and now made a beeline towards the house. James fell to his knees. At that same moment, so did Alaita. She stared as the demon of wind and rubble smashed down the trees in its way, tracking James the whole way. After a relentless chase, he passed away, his last screams etched in a tapestry on his face.

    Present day
    She stared at the sky, flocks of birds drifting on the breeze, wind flowing under their feathery wings. She had slipped that photo into her favourite frame herself. The thought of him let free a watery tear, held back by years of mourning. She looked at her camera. It was old now, yet it served as a memento of the time she had with James. Their farm was about to be sold, their new house deep in the city. The loud calls of bids from the loud auction echoed in her ears. She looked down at the thing in her hands and clutched them to her chest. She would never forget James, for his bravery that led to his demise.

    A Week Later
    Alaita unzipped her suitcase. They had moved to their large block in the city. She opened a special box she personally put in there. She opened it, and her two memories stared up at her.

    Reply
  14. Kingsley

    The Photograph
    In the heart of a colossal mansion, Max wandered casually around the house, trying to think of a daily discovery to make. His mind span in relentless circles as he attempted to think of something interesting to fill up his spare time. Max remembered his grandpa voice when he told him a magical secret, whispering, “I own a camera which I now abandoned. It was a gift from my dad, who said it was special and otherworldy. I used it, and it was. But that camera… don’t ever touch it.” he stammered as trembled in trepidation. “That camera doesn’t take pictures. It takes lives.”

    Max laughed it off, slapping his knee carelessly.

    “I won’t touch it. I won’t. Come on. Trust me.” he said nonchantly, his energetic voice resounding across the entire mansion. It was the last words he heard.

    Ever since his Grandpa mysteriously disappeared, Max’s curiosity was sparked. Every day, he would check the house entirely, navigating all the floors and all the room – all except the spooky attic. He meticulously checked every hiding spot, his eyes darting across the house as he rummaged through cupboards and closets. But still, he couldn’t find it. There was only one place left. It was the attic. Untouched. Forgotten. Abandoned. Right until now.

    Max dashed in stealthily, checking every closet and tiny crack. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he desperately searched for the camera. Just as he was about to lose hope, he spotted it. In the midst of the abandoned place, pervaded with cobwebs and dust, the silver camera sat on a wooden table like a forgotten artefact, waiting to be utilised again. Aureate tendrils of sunlight shone through the cracked window as the camera’s dull lenses glimmered radiantly, bathed in golden light. Max approached the mahogany table his eyes filled in wonder. He lifted it up with care and observed it closely.

    He positioned the camera at his cat, hoping for a miracle to happen. He shut his eyes, waiting for a surprise. He snapped a photo and then opened his eyes. Was there a miracle? No, the cat was gone. There was nothing but a black and white photo of his cat, at the exact position that he took the photo in.

    Max ran out, hoping never to see the camera again. The lense pointed at him, blinking monotonously, greedy for more. A white flash burst out of the machine, piercing Max like a bullet. Max cried for help, but his voice was now a bare whisper. His legs collapsed like a falling tower, crashing onto the carpet with a thud. He felt like he was under the force of a steamroller, being compressed into a tiny ball. And he was. Max stared into the reflection, realising he was nothing but a photograph.

    He waited for assistance. He begged for help. He cried for support. But he was nothing but a photograph.

    Reply
  15. Kyle Hui

    Present day

    A blurry black and white photograph hung in the dusty attic, spider webs everywhere like landmines. This was the home to a war veteran specifically my grandpa Anthony. His house has been untouched for many years weeds and grass like giraffes’ neck, impossible to breech through these natural defences. It took me weeks to clear this jungle, and it was burden. When I finally reached the door, I was nothing but bones, I had no muscle all my skin has been attacked vicious plants. When I went up the attic, I dodged spider webs and other this like mouse traps (even though I stepped on that thing like ten times) and finally saw photograph with writing behind it. I took it downstairs and sat down. I breathed a heavy breath this is about to be the toughest day of my life

    2001 9/11

    If you receive this letter, son this means I didn’t survive.

    I don’t have much time, but I want to tell you I love you and will be proud of whatever you become.

    Anthony

    Present day

    I never realised that he died on that plane but as bad as things might get I new that he will always be there for me watching over me.

    Reply
  16. Tina Y

    The Photograph
    “Who is this?” Memory and Curiosity had asked.
    It’s a photo. Of me and my sister—before she died.
    “Why are you here?”
    I am visiting her old house.
    “How did she die?”
    He killed her. Strangled her to death.
    “What did he do?”
    I sighed. The relentless questions were not going to stop until answered.
    My mind stopped, and replayed the ten-year-old memory.
    ***
    Brother. Don’t. You are going to hurt Sarah.
    I just saw you grab the rope from the garage. I know your plan. I saw it on your phone.

    “C’mon, let’s strangle her 2day.”
    I am not spitting out random words. I am quoting the direct words you had texted to your friend.
    I know you are overwhelmed by envy. You are jealous that Sarah is the oldest child. I know you wanted all of Father’s will. You are planning to hurt Sarah. No. You killed her. I saw her death in front of my eyes.

    You grabbed the rope that always hung on the wall as a decoration. You tied it onto the top sister’s doorway, you used so many mechanical objects and nails to make deadly contraption.

    When my sister passed that door, I pulled the lever and the rope came down perfectly on her neck. Then, I switched the blue lever on, and the rope started to rise, lifting Sarah off the ground.

    I didn’t do anything. You had killed her.

    ***
    Why am I next to the cops? Why is an officer handcuffing me?
    “Jude Myclarre. You are being arrested for murder of Sarah Myclarre.”
    What? How did they find out?
    “So, were you the murderer? Were you guilty?”
    Yes, I was, but I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?
    “Think Judy,” Truth had whispered in my ear. “You were driven mad by envy. You also wanted the money. Guess what? At the end, your father gave it to your mother, who gave it to your cousin.”
    “Judy, you have pushed me to your brother,” Blame said.
    As I looked at the house, I didn’t notice the photograph on the side of the road.
    I didn’t notice that it had ripped, separating me and my sister. My sister’s side of the photograph danced in the wind, disappearing into the sky, as mine fell into the drain.
    My sister had moved on. She had left me just how I had left her.

    Reply
  18. Zac Cui

    Rip

    Present (2024)
    No one talked about the photograph. It hung on the wall. Untouched. Unmentioned. Left behind. It had been years since anyone muttered a word about it, or even glanced at it. We all knew that any query would be met with a glare and stone cold silence.

    2019
    “Eliza, come back!”
    I didn’t
    “One last photo” she begged
    “No”
    “Come on”
    “Fine”

    Eliza trudged back to the tent, feeling the smooth sand under her feet. She went in without cleaning her feet and placed herself next to her brother.

    Click.

    She leaped out of the tent, grabbed her surfboard and sprinted to the crashing waves.
    “I bet I can beat you there, Max” she chimed.

    Then she disappeared into the waves.

    Present
    For the first time in years, I thought about my sister Eliza.
    I paused, then brushed the dust away.

    The vibrant picture was a canvas of colours, Eliza’s smiles shining vibrantly. The memory seemed distant in his head, a million miles away, though the sandy shores were only an hour away.

    I pulled myself into Eliza’s room and tried to summon memories from the corners of my mind. The cockroach incident. The begging of books. My eyes watered, tear glands leaking tears. I had let this hide away for too long.

    2019
    Eliza shrieked as the wave pulled her into the sea. She struggled against the strong tide, legs kicking uselessly. The board washed away, and she gasped as water filled her lungs. She swam forward as hard as she could, but the tide pulled her out to sea nonetheless.

    No, Breathe.
    Try to get help.
    Stop struggling.
    I’ll be fine.
    Swim.
    Tread.
    Stay afloat. Swim to the sides, then.
    Struggling.
    I can’t get out.

    Present
    She knew Eliza had disappeared at sea, but what had it been? She had charged at the waves, so a rip? I took the framed photograph off the wall, fanned the dust away. I could see the willingness to get in the water lingering in her eyes, her smile a mask of her excitement and exasperation. I flipped the photograph around, and there hung scrawny writing. In memory of Eliza and the several other people caught in rip.

    Maybe others had suffered this. Maybe it was just a wall, blocking the rest of life. Maybe it had to be knocked down. A sacralise. I picked up Eliza’s favourite book and held it to my chest.

    Maybe I could forget.

    Reply
  21. Aarav

    “The Glass Compass”

    The rain had already soaked the sleeves of Sam’s coat by the time he reached the pier. He wiped his hand on his jeans, hesitated, and knocked twice on the cabin door.

    Inside, the rhythmic scrape of sandpaper stopped.

    “Come in,” came a voice. Low, distracted.

    He pushed the door open. The room smelled of varnish and salt. Eli stood over a half-built model ship, its tiny rigging hanging loose like nerve endings.

    Sam gave a small, nervous laugh. “Still making things smaller than they need to be, huh?”

    Eli didn’t look up. “Still showing up late.”

    Sam set something down on the table between them, a glass compass, cracked through the north point.

    Eli’s eyes flickered to it. His hand froze mid-motion. “You kept it.”

    “You gave it to me,” Sam said. “For-” He stopped. “Yeah. I did.”

    They stood there, silence thick as varnish drying. Outside, gulls screamed and the tide thumped against the posts.

    Ten years earlier

    The two of them, younger, sunburned, balanced on the old dock, tossing pebbles into the water. Eli held up the compass, sunlight scattering through it.

    “It always points north,” he said. “Even if you don’t.”

    Sam snorted. “What does that even mean?”

    “You’ll get it when you stop running from everything.”

    “Or maybe,” Sam said, “you’ll get it when you stop chasing control.”

    Eli smiled, small and secretive. “Maybe.”

    They both laughed. The sound carried over the water like something alive.

    Back in the cabin, Sam ran his thumb over the crack in the compass.
    “So, the paper said you’re opening a whole museum now.”

    Eli shrugged. “Someone has to remember things.”

    “Right,” Sam said. “Because forgetting’s a crime.”

    Eli turned then, eyes sharp. “Some things were crimes.”

    Sam looked down, pretending to study the ship’s hull. “You always did like your sentences tidy.”

    Eli picked up the sandpaper again, slow and deliberate. “And you always liked to leave before the ending.”

    A pause. Rain hissed against the window.

    Sam said quietly, “I didn’t come to argue.”

    “Then why are you here?”

    “To give this back,” Sam said, pushing the compass closer. “You’ll keep it safer than I ever did.”

    Eli looked at the object for a long time. Finally, he said, “It’s cracked.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Still points north?”

    “I guess that depends on who’s holding it.”

    Eli brushed his thumb across the fracture. A small laugh escaped him — quick, unguarded, gone almost as soon as it came.

    Sam gave a ghost of a smile. “And you’re still measuring the wind.”

    Eli’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite not. He set the compass beside the ship, slightly askew.

    They stood in silence, listening to the rain soften against the cabin roof.

    “Maybe tomorrow,” Sam said, more to himself than anyone else.

    Eli didn’t answer. He only nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and returned to the sandpaper.

    Outside, the tide shifted. The pier glistened wet in the rain light, and the door remained slightly ajar.

    Reply
  23. Aarav

    The Photograph

    Summer 2024, Lonely Street (Mara Harper’s House.)

    The photograph slid from the attic box and landed face-up on the floor.

    Mara almost ignored it. She was looking for old Christmas decorations, not memories. Not memories of a family that abandoned her.

    But something stopped her.

    A family of three, a man, a woman, and a boy, posed on a cracked porch. The woman’s hand rested lightly on the boy’s shoulder. He clutched a small toy soldier, paint chipped and arms stiff. They all smiled, but their eyes carried something else; hesitation, maybe fear, maybe loss.

    Mara’s breath caught.

    The woman looked exactly like her. Not similar but identical. An exact copy. Same blue eyes, same faint scar above her eyebrow, same uncertain smile.

    On the back, in fading ink:

    Summer 1963 — 8 Forgotten Street (The Harper’s House.)

    Her fingers trembled. The Harper House had burned down long before she was born.

    She set the photograph down carefully, half afraid to touch it again.

    Summer 1963, 8 Forgotten Street (The Harper’s House.)

    The porch creaked under the weight of the sun.

    Elise Harper straightened her dress and adjusted the camera. “One more picture, everyone. Make it count.”

    Daniel wrapped an arm around their son, Jonathan. The boy hugged his toy soldier tightly, eyes darting to the trees at the edge of the yard.

    Jonathan grinned at his mother. “I’m ready, Mom.”

    Elise pressed the shutter. Click.

    The world seemed to pause.

    Then Jonathan’s gaze flicked toward the woods. Something shimmered at the edge of the clearing, pale and sudden. He blinked. Gone.

    “Don’t wander too far,” Elise said, her voice soft but tense.

    He nodded, but his fingers stayed tight around the soldier.

    That evening, the house smelled of smoke and dinner. Daniel left the toy soldier on the floor, forgotten for a moment. Elise noticed but didn’t pick it up. She knew it belonged somewhere else, but she didn’t know where.

    The house grew quiet, the kind of quiet that holds its breath. Far away a heartbeat stopped.

    Present

    Mara traced the edges of the photograph, curling as if it had a pulse of its own.

    She looked toward the empty fireplace below, remembering the smell of smoke, the news reports, the family that once was.

    Carefully, she folded the photo and slid it back into the box.

    She stayed in the attic a little longer, letting the air settle, listening to the house breathe.

    Then she noticed a small shape tucked behind the floorboards—a chipped toy soldier, half-hidden under dust.

    Mara crouched and picked it up. The paint was worn, the arms loose, but she could still make out the tiny uniform.

    Her chest tightened. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. She didn’t even know what she was hoping for.

    But for the first time, the photograph made sense in a way words never could. She felt hope. She felt at home. And for the first time she felt loved.

    She held the soldier in her hand, the photograph in her lap, and let herself sit there, letting the years fold together, one quiet heartbeat at a time.

    Reply
  24. Jo Gao

    Present day – 24/12/15
    The photograph lay there – hidden by cascades of dust, never touched, never moved. Sunlight spilled into the attic like honey on a dewy morning. Boxes filled to the brim with old books stood in the path of Amelia Salvatore to the single piece of frozen time. She slowly approached it, cautiously placing her each foot on creaky floorboards.
    Her dark hair swept over her shoulders as her curious eyes scanned the image. She ran her thumb delicately over it with a faint a smile. She saw a girl, in her teen years under an autumn tree, with a large smile plastered across her face. She had brown swirls, pulled back into a messy bun and grey eyes that glinted with pure innocence – unaware of the scene about unfold.
    September 1st, 2001.
    Amelia grinned as the golden leaves of the Maple tree in her backyard flew in the air. Her mother, a young woman in her late thirties who had a smile so bright that it could light a room, held a camera – the lens slightly dusty but fitting right in her hands. She was taking pictures of young Amelia with the leaves caught in her hair, stifling giggles. It was the afternoon every daughter imagined with their mother. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could ruin this perfect capture in time, right?
    A sudden gust had swept through the yard that day, scattering the leaves and laughter alike. Amelia’s mother lowered the camera, her smile faltering just slightly. High pitched ringing screeched in the air from the house, ear piercing enough to deafen you. It was gone as quick as it came. She hesitated, then handed Amelia the camera with a wink. “Keep smiling, I’ll be right back.” Then she walked through the glass doors to their home, leaving just a space for wind to fly in.
    Amelia had waited. She had twirled beneath the tree, capturing her own blurry shots, imagining her mother’s return with hot cocoa and more laughter. But the minutes stretched. The wind grew colder. She never came back.
    Present day.
    Tears rolled down Amelia’s cheeks, her breathing a breath heavier. That day. The day her mother disappeared. The day she moved in with her awful aunt, with the memories of the interrogating voices in the court flooding her mind. And how it was left a cold case, never resolved. She would never know where her mother was. She would never know what it would be like if her mother was still alive. She didn’t even get to say goodbye, not even an ‘I love you’. The memories of her childhood was lost with her mother. Amelia sat in the attic, the photograph trembling in her hands. The silence around her was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the wind outside—like an echo of that long-lost afternoon.

    She closed her eyes.

    In the darkness behind her lids, she saw it again: the golden leaves, the laughter, the warmth of her mother’s voice. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. A fragment. A flicker. A truth that time couldn’t erase.

    She placed the photograph inside her coat pocket, close to her heart. It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t justice. But it was something.

    A promise.

    That she would remember. That she would live. That she would carry the light of that smile into every shadowed corner of her life.

    And as she descended the attic stairs, the floorboards creaking beneath her, Amelia Salvatore didn’t look back.

    She didn’t need to.

    The memory had already followed her down.

    Reply
  25. rockyli

    2/11/2025

    Inside the old abandoned warehouse there were several piles of scrap metal and about 30 barrels of Stop bath, Developer and Fixer.

    The warehouse was one of the unorganised things Cosmo has ever seen. His family had always been poor ever since his great-grandfather’s photography company fell into a huge debt with the bank.

    But he had never expected the place to be as run down as this.
    Cosmo dug through the pile of metal like a dog for scrap to sell when he came across a photograph slid onto the ground next to him.

    He didn’t even see it until he saw the elegantly scrawled title:
    Last Happy Memory with our Toddler Cosmo.

    The colour drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the walls behind him.

    Toddler Cosmo had the same Lapis lazuli eyes, same starved and slim arms and even the dimples on his grinning cheek look the exact same.

    He was an exact replica of toddler Cosmo.

    The amusement park behind the couple and toddler stretched across the photograph, frozen and vibrant, every ride, every light, every shadow perfectly captured. But out of the shadows he saw something that shouldn’t be in the photo.

    2/7/1985, 3:14 PM.

    The amusement park was full of life. Children ran everywhere, laughing and shouting and occasionally begging their parents for ice cream. The carousel spun round and round, its merry music created an invisible force that pulled toddlers towards it. Toddler Cosmo ran toward it with his short uneven legs. Occasionally tripping over as a result but getting up from the warm encouragement from his parents that followed behind. The smell of popcorn, candy floss, and warm sunlight filled the air creating a shield that covered the stench of evil.
    Under the roller coaster, a cloaked figure stood completely still. It didn’t move or make a sound, but that corner felt cold and strange, like happiness couldn’t reach it. Everyone else was too busy having fun to notice it. Toddler Cosmo watched quietly from his horse, seeing everything that spun around the carousel. He saw everything with his little eyes, he saw everything including the cloaked figure.

    With one swift movement he struck. Before Toddler Cosmo had a chance to cry out his soul left his body. In the second that followed the two kids next to him were down onto the floor. Crimson liquid created a puddle around the carousel in the minutes that followed. It stained the ground, a forever warning of what happened during that dreadful day. But toddler Cosmo didn’t truly die, its soul wavered on as a sign of justice against the dreaded figure in the cloak. It waited for an worthy person to bring back justice.

    Reply
  26. Allen Wang

    “The Photograph”
    Present Day
    He finds it on a quiet afternoon.
    the kind of afternoon that hums softly in the rafters.
    A photograph, thin and curled at the edges,
    hidden beneath an old blanket in the attic trunk.
    He dusts off the dirt.
    The air smells of cedar and age.
    The man in the picture looks straight ahead—
    steady eyes, pressed jacket, a faint and patient smile.
    The boy stares.
    His breath catches.
    He knows that face.
    He’s seen it on the mantle,
    I heard it in the low tones of his mother’s voice.
    whenever she says your grandfather would’ve loved you.
    He holds the photograph closer to the window.
    Light spills through like a held breath.
    Paper glows warm, almost alive.
    And then, something shifts—
    the air thickens,
    the sound of the present folds in on itself.

    October, 1926
    The day is bright, cool, smelling faintly of rain.
    He stands in the yard behind the house,
    the hands smoothing the front of his best jacket
    “Just look at me,” the photographer says.
    He nods once.
    He thinks of the letter that he has just sent that morning,
    the one to his wife about the baby on the way.
    He thinks of his future, wide and uncertain.
    He attempts to look steady, like a man who trusts time.
    The shutter lifts.
    He blinks.
    A wind passes, tugging the leaves from the tree behind him.
    He laughs softly—
    not for the camera, but for himself—
    and in that moment, the world holds its breath.
    The shutter clicks.
    Forever, he thinks, though he doesn’t mean to.
    The light catches his face, fixes him there.

    In silver, in paper, in time.
    Present Day
    The attic creaks.
    The boy exhales,
    realizing he’s been holding his breath too.
    He runs a thumb over the man’s face,
    over the small crease that cuts through the photograph.
    Outside, a wind stirs the trees –
    and for a heartbeat,
    the century between them folds away.
    “Hello, Grandpa,” he says in a whisper. And the light in the room seems to listen.

    Reply

Contact us for program options and current deals.

Chat on Whatsapp