PSLE: A black trash bag at the MRT station

You and your family were at an MRT station waiting for your cousin.

Suddenly, you spotted a suspicious black thrash bag.

It was Father’ Day.   The train platform was swarmed with commuters as the station was bursting at its seams. “Dad, when our cousins come, we are giving you a treat!”  Ethan, my elder brother, exclaimed with excitement bubbling in him. “And we have a present but it is a secret,” I interrupted with a mischevous smirk. Dad laughed heartily.  “Okay, okay.  We will see.”

As we waited impatiently, I turned to observe the surroundings.  Everyone was caught up with their own activities.  All of a sudden, a dark figure bumped into me.  I looked and noticed a black trash bag under the bench. “You forget your bag, sir,”  I called out to him but he gave a menacing glare and hurried off.  Strange. Very strange. All too strange. How could someone not want his own belonging? I rushed to the bag, picked it up and chased after him.  Unfortunately, he had vanished behind the thick crowd.

Tick tick.  There was a strange noise coming from the bag.  It roused my suspicion and I opened it.  What I saw sent a chill down my spine!  It was a bomb and it was going to explode in four minutes and thirty-five seconds. What shall I do?  What shall I do? What shall I do?!?!  This question ricocheted in my mind.  My dad, who noticed that my face was as white as a ghost, scurried towards me.  He saw the bomb too! “Stay calm!  Run with Ethan to the exit now!”  Dad ordered, “and NEVER RUN BACK!  Are you clear?” “Yes.  But what about you?”  we asked in unison. “Don’t worry!  I will be fine.  I promise.” Hot tears splashed down our cheeks as we ran to the exit.  My heart pounded wildly like the African drums.  Would I ever see Dad again?  Would he die?   Then, at a safe place near the station, we waited.

That short five minutes seemed like eternity.  We waited and waited but Dad did not appear.  Sirens blared down the street.  Policemen charged into the station. One minute…thirty seconds...ten seconds. Five, four, three, two, one.  Surprisingly, the bomb did not blow up. Dad soon emerged from the station, unscathed, with my cousins beside him.  We ran towards him and he hugged us so tight that we could hardly breathe.

“Dad, what happen?  How could you have survived?” Ethan asked, in-between tears. “Tell us, Dad.  Please tell us,” I pleaded.  Dad smiled.  A police officer then came and patted him on his shoulder.  “Good job, Sergeant Tan.” Later, Dad explained to us that he was a bomb-detonating expert.  He had notified the police earlier and was instructed to detonate the bomb at once.  That day, we did not celebrate Father’s Day for he had to work.   For the next few days, his photograph was splashed all over the the front pages of all the newspapers. I was immensely proud of him for he was lauded as the national hero.