So then frustrated by the stubborn unattainability of the Gods, Aritra got up from the pyre he had kept burning for these eleven months, and turned back towards the city; the city nestled, far below him, at the foot of the mountains; the city he had left behind almost a year ago; the city sparkling naively superficially; the city blissfully ignorant of higher purposes, sacrifices and life trandescending aims. He looked at all the glitter which he had been so proud and excited to leave behind. He thought of the colours, the people, the spider web of human love and hate, the tastes, the joys, the music, and he thought of Urvashi.
Urvashi, the beautiful. Urvashi the legend. Urvashi, who arrested a man's heart and body on sight, only to set it racing like never before, the next instant, on fire. Urvashi, the great Artist of Love. It was not that her magic had left him unmoved. His blood had raced at her sight, and now at her thought, as much as any other man in the city. But he had been drunk on a greater "high". His mission, his questions, his hunger to know what he had wanted to know, the knowledge of the Gods, the meaning of life, The Secret.
But then, was that really what he had been drunk on? Or was it the "high" of "thinking" he was resisting and the power that wrapt around his self image at the thought?
So in the dark of the night, he climbed down the side of the mountain, slipping the last few steps of the way, and quietly re-entered the town he had left once just before the sun had slipped into the sky. All the while, he cradled his failure in his heart like a treasured first born. Thoughtlessly, he let his feet drift. Just like he had that long ago morning, when he had entered the land at the top of the mountain with the dawn.
And thus it was that he found himself facing Urvashi's door, one hand raised to knock. Then suddenly hesitating, he was about to turn away, when the door opened and she stood there, glorious like the sun at midnight, not saying anything, not smiling, just solemnly waiting for him to come in. Urvashi, who made a Religion out of Love.
--- stuff happens
And then suddenly he awoke, as if from deep daze, a spell cast from outside him. Though in reality, everything that had ever come over him, had been born inside him, in the heart of his mind. In the middle of merging again into her, and into the sea of common humanity that it would represent, he awoke. As if recharged by these few hours of 'sleep', of this break from the relentless Hunger for Something Higher that had driven him - through sleep and wakefulness - for so long now, something like the old zeal slipped into his tired heart again.
At the foot of the hills, he paused one last time and turned back to look at the city. This he had not dared to do the first time he had left it (Though he had told himself he had not cared). Through the darkness he could feel deserted Urvashi at the window, and feel her eyes following his path. And even now, she had no words, no questions. No accusations ever rose in those eyes, because life had never rained enough on that soil to birth expectations. A new sorrow, more sublime, but more lasting, rose in and filled his heart, and he felt this sorrow that he felt for her was like a invisible thread of silver that stretched out in the darkness and tied him to her, a bond stronger than any earthly 'love', whatever that might be. He sighed one last time, and then picked up his burdens and started to climb back up hill.
The dying embers, that he had kicked at in a rage of frustration earlier, looked ghostly in the fake lightening of the sky that comes even before the sun. His heart jumped and wrenched at the sight of it, he did'nt know why. All his hunger, did not come rushing back at once, but ran to the gates of his heart, and stopped there, shy, awaiting his permission to take the last step in. Once more, he felt that whatever his doubts, however high the tuiton, and however heavy the burden of the shame of failure, he would never feel this way for anything in The City. He did not yet know the nature of the feeling, but he knew that the intensity of this feeling, would never rival that other, and that he could never turn his face from it again, and live in peace forever.
For a moment he was caught up with wondering half fearfully, if the Gods had been un-appeasably offended by his anger. Then caught by a glimmer of
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
"Dolly" - Part 4
Dont know where this will fit in - probably after he has run away from home and from his wife and he meets the other woman. He is attracted to her, and he is - in a strange detached way - surprised at himself for being so. He is surprised he can still feel things like this. Dolly is still dead. He can still feel the weight of her little body in his hands. He can still here her screaming 'dadddy'. This is the first time he has felt anything intense outside her grief, however feeltingly, and he is surprised he can. He doesnt feel ashamed, or guilty, thinking of his wife back home, who he ran away from. That too surprises him. Its like he is apart, watching this strange creature called "him". He hasnt told her about anything. This new woman. He doesnt actively pretend or ie, he never does, as much as he just 'forgets to mention' any 'unnecessary details', unless asked for. Some cruel part of him is pleased with the deception. How? Why? And at night he still dreams of his little girl, still feels guilty he let her die. thats kind of context for this part of it. if i could use verse id plug the beast here somewhere. at the end. maybe at home, by a fire after he has drunk a lot and cut his hands by some stupid accident and he cant be bothered to get up and clean or stop it. he just sits there and stares at it and his mind runs on in thoughts. Dunno - might scrap that too
It's not sexual, though it dances on the fringes of passion. It's like a burning need to know. To know something about the other person. But the feverishness of the need makes it almost seem to trandescend the intellectual. I would'nt know how to explain it more efficiently, really. In a world where human thoughts, desires and relationships are stored in strictly methodical filing cabinets, managed by zealous and efficient keepers of society, it is awkwardly out of place. Ofcourse, there is an element of desire, but its more like a tropical summer storm, than the year round british rain. It comes like a fever in the head, and you very well know it will pass.
So you were with me in my thoughts. Having spent the day and night with you like this, by proxy, (and you'd be amazed at the silly-mad things we did) makes me wonder if I am, finally, losing it! And it also makes me wonder what it would have been like if life had placed me in a different context.
Cruel, yes it was. A bit. Laughing, I hand out praise and strokes like crumb to swans gratefully floating. It's not exacty bait. But neither is it something more. It's entertaining to see you react. It's all in the game.
Now I wish you were here. I miss someone, or something, like a kick in the stomach, like me breath being kicked out of my lungs ... but I dont know who ...
Could it be you? Wish I knew. Wish I had the right to miss you. But I dont. Wanting you, now, comes at a huge price. One I know cant afford. Even in installments. So I hold the "missing" in the palm of my hand, gently, like a snowflake (like a begger frozen outside the pastry shop ... will the little princess come out and be kind to me?) And wait for it to melt.
Looking through this emptiness, holding my throbbing pain pressed still in my hand to calm, desperate for distraction, holding on the the last pieces of the corpse I still carry, or struggle to ... because it has grown intwined with my sanity ...
In sudden flashes, looking through the emptiness, desperately seeking distraction, becomes looking for you. Startled, my heart contracts with a frission of fear. Who are you? Master, Slave, Friend, Twin ... Who is that inside you, at the heart of the onion: who is that you carry hid? He looks like me. Can you let him out? Can I take him away. I promise to be bored and done soon - one day. And you can have him back, then. But not before.
It's not sexual, though it dances on the fringes of passion. It's like a burning need to know. To know something about the other person. But the feverishness of the need makes it almost seem to trandescend the intellectual. I would'nt know how to explain it more efficiently, really. In a world where human thoughts, desires and relationships are stored in strictly methodical filing cabinets, managed by zealous and efficient keepers of society, it is awkwardly out of place. Ofcourse, there is an element of desire, but its more like a tropical summer storm, than the year round british rain. It comes like a fever in the head, and you very well know it will pass.
So you were with me in my thoughts. Having spent the day and night with you like this, by proxy, (and you'd be amazed at the silly-mad things we did) makes me wonder if I am, finally, losing it! And it also makes me wonder what it would have been like if life had placed me in a different context.
Cruel, yes it was. A bit. Laughing, I hand out praise and strokes like crumb to swans gratefully floating. It's not exacty bait. But neither is it something more. It's entertaining to see you react. It's all in the game.
Now I wish you were here. I miss someone, or something, like a kick in the stomach, like me breath being kicked out of my lungs ... but I dont know who ...
Could it be you? Wish I knew. Wish I had the right to miss you. But I dont. Wanting you, now, comes at a huge price. One I know cant afford. Even in installments. So I hold the "missing" in the palm of my hand, gently, like a snowflake (like a begger frozen outside the pastry shop ... will the little princess come out and be kind to me?) And wait for it to melt.
Looking through this emptiness, holding my throbbing pain pressed still in my hand to calm, desperate for distraction, holding on the the last pieces of the corpse I still carry, or struggle to ... because it has grown intwined with my sanity ...
In sudden flashes, looking through the emptiness, desperately seeking distraction, becomes looking for you. Startled, my heart contracts with a frission of fear. Who are you? Master, Slave, Friend, Twin ... Who is that inside you, at the heart of the onion: who is that you carry hid? He looks like me. Can you let him out? Can I take him away. I promise to be bored and done soon - one day. And you can have him back, then. But not before.
Dolly (Part 3)
Disclaimer: With the exception of work labelled non-fiction, the characters featured in this site are completely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. No similarity to any person either living or dead is intended or should be inferred.
I have something that is eating me up. I want to say it to someone, but I have noone to say it to. Or to put it better, I have noone I would care to say it to. For miscellaneus (I cant spell that) reasons. Maybe its a good thing, because I would'nt know the first thing about how to phrase it.
Is'nt it the kind of irony that could only happen to me, that today, when I should be so happy, I am so deeply sad. Well, not sad, but ... I dont know how to say even that.
We make our choices in life. We leave the things we have, and come seeking that which we don't. We leave our homes to look for adventure. We come and live in places which can never be home. And we know, we know all the time, that this is what we have chosen, and that noone will ever understand why, or that you will be lonely as a dog: warm, friendly befriended, fed, loved ... but never one of us. And we know what we are leaving behind, though sometimes we kid ourselves about it, for a while.
And you know that those who gave their life blood to make you who you were, who brought you up, and saved you, who found a stray orphan and loved it like their own, against all those million odds, and waited patiently for that one day when it will finish growing up, and be a 'full grown friend', you know that just at that night before harvest, you are stealing the crop they have nurtured for so long,
And you know they sit on the old rocking chair, in the cold and lonely house, where noone comes to visit, looking at the old collapsible gate, and waiting for you to come home ... know by heart the way you put one arm on the 'rock' and haul yourself up, shouting hello to uncle-ji (who they also know you secretly love) and ring the bell in 'your tune' while rattling the gate in 'your beat', which they probably hear in their dreams ... and you know that they will die in the that rocking chair by the time you are done wandering (and racing and rowing and winning cool stamps that you think are entry tickets to self-approval ... racing your shadow to try and satiate your insatiable, lustful, greedy 'self') ... you know they will be dead.
And the fruits of their labour, will be free to go back to the maker ... the cuckoo will fly back to its nest.
But still we do it. And we know, somewhere, while making our choices, the payments we are agreeing to, in regular installments, for all of time to come. And when the check arrives in the mail, we are expecting it, we have made our peace, had our joy. Won our races. Buried our dead.
But yet sometimes, it seems hard. And you just feel like you can't take it, like you've been paying all your life, for something or the other, that your tired of always paying for everything you wanted. why cant life be free.
But then it passes. Just like a toothache. It passes. You laugh at yourself. Blow your nose. make a coffee. Light up. And go stand by the window. And fondly think of how silly your 'little-child-self'gets once in a while, and smile. (And in a secret part of your heart hope it has truly passed ... and watch yourself a little skeptically, a little extra careful for a while ... just to be sure).
And so it is with love. Or atleast, with mine. I made my choices. I always knew it was out of reach. I always knew this would get very deep. From the first second I knew. It took me a while to reaise it, and then some more to come to terms with, and believe it, but from the first minute I knew.
And I always knew I could never, ever, ever reach out and touch the stars, or even ask the stars to come down. because thats NOT the WAY I want it. And i wouldnt be satisfied. Not with a gift. Or charity. Or compromise. Or agreement. I've been there too. I know ...
My logical side (is that my thalamus {supposed seat of consciousness}?) has made its peace with that. Its like loving a snowflake. You love it. You want it. But you know its so delicate, if you reach out and touch it, it will melt. You just cant have it. You can just watch it dancing from a distance: dancing, twirling, spinning, falling ...
But there are times when my younger side takes over (old brain?). there are times when I cant bear it, just for that moment, just to reach out and touch my little snowflake.
And to know that I wont. That I cant. That I just wouldnt allow myself, couldnt, wouldnt, shouldnt ... and all of that 'jiving around'.
And that I will just watch it float past my face. Free. Like it was meant to be. And I will let it go. I always knew that. But sometimes, it just seems awfully hard. And I wonder how I will do that.
But still, I'm glad. All my (other) dreams have come true. My life is blessed. I have friends, after a fashion. And now I even have somewhere to go (for what thats worth).
And knowing my little snowflake ... it would have turned out to be a bloody nightmare, had that one come true. Like they say, be careful what you wish for. And sometimes not getting what you wanted, is the best thing that could happen to you.
What does come with age is a (just) little bit more patience. And acceptance. a few years ago I would have gone to town on this. Now I sit and wait for it to pass - knowing for sure that it will. Before, I would have gone out of my way to keep out of people's way, now I know there will be time enough for that, when the time comes, and it will be soon enough. There was a time when I would have been angry or dissapointed in myself for being either so out of control, or so silly, or not brave enough to just do what it takes - get off the fence, this way or the other - but with time I have learnt to accept myself and loosen my ambitions about who I wanted to be.
So I just brace myself and prepare to try my best to let you go without a scene, without giving away anymore than I must. I dont care if I can't have you, but face ... I must save face. And I build up my scrap book of memories, for later, for the rest of the way. My box of rain. I collect every scrap of time and affection that falls of your careless ways. A pebble that you threw at me, a half sucked candy that you stuck in my hair, a strand of your hair ... but how do you collect the little formless things? A tone of voice, a carefree song, a look, a fleeting touch ... guess that too must be let go, huh?
PS - Please wont you NOT leave a silly comment? I have turned wiser, calmer, much much PC-er and polite-r, with my three decades old wisdom ... but inside, silly still pisses the fuck out of me. Just kidding. ;)
I know this does'nt weave in, in any way shape or form with the other two parts of 'dolly' (as they didnt with each other) but in my head they all fit in with the master-plot and one day they will be woven together, trust me ;)
Saw Away from her, I think it was the most impressive movie I have seen in a while ... or its the movie that moved me most (ever since cinema paradiso).
I have something that is eating me up. I want to say it to someone, but I have noone to say it to. Or to put it better, I have noone I would care to say it to. For miscellaneus (I cant spell that) reasons. Maybe its a good thing, because I would'nt know the first thing about how to phrase it.
Is'nt it the kind of irony that could only happen to me, that today, when I should be so happy, I am so deeply sad. Well, not sad, but ... I dont know how to say even that.
We make our choices in life. We leave the things we have, and come seeking that which we don't. We leave our homes to look for adventure. We come and live in places which can never be home. And we know, we know all the time, that this is what we have chosen, and that noone will ever understand why, or that you will be lonely as a dog: warm, friendly befriended, fed, loved ... but never one of us. And we know what we are leaving behind, though sometimes we kid ourselves about it, for a while.
And you know that those who gave their life blood to make you who you were, who brought you up, and saved you, who found a stray orphan and loved it like their own, against all those million odds, and waited patiently for that one day when it will finish growing up, and be a 'full grown friend', you know that just at that night before harvest, you are stealing the crop they have nurtured for so long,
And you know they sit on the old rocking chair, in the cold and lonely house, where noone comes to visit, looking at the old collapsible gate, and waiting for you to come home ... know by heart the way you put one arm on the 'rock' and haul yourself up, shouting hello to uncle-ji (who they also know you secretly love) and ring the bell in 'your tune' while rattling the gate in 'your beat', which they probably hear in their dreams ... and you know that they will die in the that rocking chair by the time you are done wandering (and racing and rowing and winning cool stamps that you think are entry tickets to self-approval ... racing your shadow to try and satiate your insatiable, lustful, greedy 'self') ... you know they will be dead.
And the fruits of their labour, will be free to go back to the maker ... the cuckoo will fly back to its nest.
But still we do it. And we know, somewhere, while making our choices, the payments we are agreeing to, in regular installments, for all of time to come. And when the check arrives in the mail, we are expecting it, we have made our peace, had our joy. Won our races. Buried our dead.
But yet sometimes, it seems hard. And you just feel like you can't take it, like you've been paying all your life, for something or the other, that your tired of always paying for everything you wanted. why cant life be free.
But then it passes. Just like a toothache. It passes. You laugh at yourself. Blow your nose. make a coffee. Light up. And go stand by the window. And fondly think of how silly your 'little-child-self'gets once in a while, and smile. (And in a secret part of your heart hope it has truly passed ... and watch yourself a little skeptically, a little extra careful for a while ... just to be sure).
And so it is with love. Or atleast, with mine. I made my choices. I always knew it was out of reach. I always knew this would get very deep. From the first second I knew. It took me a while to reaise it, and then some more to come to terms with, and believe it, but from the first minute I knew.
And I always knew I could never, ever, ever reach out and touch the stars, or even ask the stars to come down. because thats NOT the WAY I want it. And i wouldnt be satisfied. Not with a gift. Or charity. Or compromise. Or agreement. I've been there too. I know ...
My logical side (is that my thalamus {supposed seat of consciousness}?) has made its peace with that. Its like loving a snowflake. You love it. You want it. But you know its so delicate, if you reach out and touch it, it will melt. You just cant have it. You can just watch it dancing from a distance: dancing, twirling, spinning, falling ...
But there are times when my younger side takes over (old brain?). there are times when I cant bear it, just for that moment, just to reach out and touch my little snowflake.
And to know that I wont. That I cant. That I just wouldnt allow myself, couldnt, wouldnt, shouldnt ... and all of that 'jiving around'.
And that I will just watch it float past my face. Free. Like it was meant to be. And I will let it go. I always knew that. But sometimes, it just seems awfully hard. And I wonder how I will do that.
But still, I'm glad. All my (other) dreams have come true. My life is blessed. I have friends, after a fashion. And now I even have somewhere to go (for what thats worth).
And knowing my little snowflake ... it would have turned out to be a bloody nightmare, had that one come true. Like they say, be careful what you wish for. And sometimes not getting what you wanted, is the best thing that could happen to you.
What does come with age is a (just) little bit more patience. And acceptance. a few years ago I would have gone to town on this. Now I sit and wait for it to pass - knowing for sure that it will. Before, I would have gone out of my way to keep out of people's way, now I know there will be time enough for that, when the time comes, and it will be soon enough. There was a time when I would have been angry or dissapointed in myself for being either so out of control, or so silly, or not brave enough to just do what it takes - get off the fence, this way or the other - but with time I have learnt to accept myself and loosen my ambitions about who I wanted to be.
So I just brace myself and prepare to try my best to let you go without a scene, without giving away anymore than I must. I dont care if I can't have you, but face ... I must save face. And I build up my scrap book of memories, for later, for the rest of the way. My box of rain. I collect every scrap of time and affection that falls of your careless ways. A pebble that you threw at me, a half sucked candy that you stuck in my hair, a strand of your hair ... but how do you collect the little formless things? A tone of voice, a carefree song, a look, a fleeting touch ... guess that too must be let go, huh?
PS - Please wont you NOT leave a silly comment? I have turned wiser, calmer, much much PC-er and polite-r, with my three decades old wisdom ... but inside, silly still pisses the fuck out of me. Just kidding. ;)
I know this does'nt weave in, in any way shape or form with the other two parts of 'dolly' (as they didnt with each other) but in my head they all fit in with the master-plot and one day they will be woven together, trust me ;)
Saw Away from her, I think it was the most impressive movie I have seen in a while ... or its the movie that moved me most (ever since cinema paradiso).
what are these things called love?
excuse me! could you just move over please? you're sitting on my heart. and then she burst into a smothered fit of giggling. thats the first thing you noticed about her. she was almost always laughing. even when she was alone, sometimes random funny thoughts like that flit through her head and she wanted to laugh. she always had trouble explaining what was so funny. after a while, he gave up asking.
the first thing most people noticed about him was his bouyancy. the first thing she noticed about him was him! like a textbook case of fascination, from the very first instant she met him, she had been mesmerised by him. and now, all these years later, she still had not figured out what to do about it.
Today they were sitting together in the crowded bus, more from lack of choice than any other reason; when suddenly, she giggled
Her giggle brought him back from a reverie. He was thinking about how they had met for the first time near a trail where he was hiking. He had seen a sparkle in her deep blue eyes which he noticed more than her giggle. They crossed paths not before he strained his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of her.
But he sighed! It has been so many years and probably she wouldn't even be remembering that moment which changed his life. She always smiled and radiated a glow which he would have basked in. But he was not sure then. He asked himself, was he sure now after so many years?
I am not going to complete this now, and probably not ever ... if you want to have a go at writing the next paragraphs, lines or even words ... leave it in the comments. If you want to change something in the existing text to fit your contribution, let me know too. lets spin some yarn ;0)
Contributing spinners so far:PreRicercar, Amit, Pilgrim
the first thing most people noticed about him was his bouyancy. the first thing she noticed about him was him! like a textbook case of fascination, from the very first instant she met him, she had been mesmerised by him. and now, all these years later, she still had not figured out what to do about it.
Today they were sitting together in the crowded bus, more from lack of choice than any other reason; when suddenly, she giggled
Her giggle brought him back from a reverie. He was thinking about how they had met for the first time near a trail where he was hiking. He had seen a sparkle in her deep blue eyes which he noticed more than her giggle. They crossed paths not before he strained his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of her.
But he sighed! It has been so many years and probably she wouldn't even be remembering that moment which changed his life. She always smiled and radiated a glow which he would have basked in. But he was not sure then. He asked himself, was he sure now after so many years?
I am not going to complete this now, and probably not ever ... if you want to have a go at writing the next paragraphs, lines or even words ... leave it in the comments. If you want to change something in the existing text to fit your contribution, let me know too. lets spin some yarn ;0)
Contributing spinners so far:
gypsy boy
walking in the evening
i met a gypsy boy
he looked dreaming, happy
he looked kind of sad
so i smiled at him and he smiled back
and i asked him where he was at
this is what he said to me
as he smiled and answered back
he said, i'm standing at a point
where i have never been before
seen either side of the road
but never trappen in the middle before
and from this place and moment
i wouldnt know where to go
if this road goes nowhere
i dont know where i'll go
so i asked him if he'll come with me
come out from the cold
he shaked his head and smiled again
and he said he'd never leave
in progress
ruthless fingers dig into putrid, rotting, tortured flesh. the maggots, sly, smiling, suspicious and disgruntled, crawl out one by one. healing can give so much pain
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
he
it was about 3 AM; the last frontiers of the night. it was still dark, no moon tonight. In the darkness, everything had turned grey all around.
He sat on steps, and he could feel the cold from the bare steps below him, creeping up his body like cold fingers. He just stared into the darkness; and with frayed fingernails, he scratched out pieces of his soul.
the bird, or whatever it was, came out of iron fence, in front of him. He just looked down for a minute, and next minute, as he looked up, it was swooping straight at him. for a moment he thought it was a big piece of black cloth in the wind, but as it got closer he could see its eyes. They were like stone, with a glimmer that seemed to capture the last dregs of the flourescent light that lay around. Before he could finish the thought, it was in his face, and then gone, like it had hit bang into a wall and dissapeared.
he
http://www.youngpersons-railcard.co.uk/downloads/YP06W.pdf
Originally Posted at Prerona.
He sat on steps, and he could feel the cold from the bare steps below him, creeping up his body like cold fingers. He just stared into the darkness; and with frayed fingernails, he scratched out pieces of his soul.
the bird, or whatever it was, came out of iron fence, in front of him. He just looked down for a minute, and next minute, as he looked up, it was swooping straight at him. for a moment he thought it was a big piece of black cloth in the wind, but as it got closer he could see its eyes. They were like stone, with a glimmer that seemed to capture the last dregs of the flourescent light that lay around. Before he could finish the thought, it was in his face, and then gone, like it had hit bang into a wall and dissapeared.
he
http://www.youngpersons-railcard.co.uk/downloads/YP06W.pdf
Originally Posted at Prerona.
In Anger with the World
Image029
Originally uploaded by prerona.
sitting here, head on knees
staring into the dark,
amongst the litter of could-have-beens
that never went too far
the minutes and hours slip by heedless,
time: always running out too fast
and yet, days & years dont budge
the moment doesnt pass.
the world's shrunk to a room,
the light from between the bars,
the gates swing open, regular times,
the thoughts that never stray too far.
saturday finally comes round;
the day long weeks mark time towards.
so much hope invested,
careless, it comes and goes.
the prison becomes the home, the womb
helpless hands caress keys
too broken to lift to lock
to weak for release
starved stomach, mind and heart
relief's shock. freedom's fear
when finally the doors unlocked,
he was too broken to go near.
many decades have come and gone
countless taunted through window. countless rising suns
come in when tired, he's fallen to sleep
and marked another day on the wall
This started out as an idea - a picture of a man who is being released after months and years of imprisonment. he is too tired to feel anything. somewhere the thread got lost so it shall be shelved with the rest of the imcomplete stories at the story blog. Before dying, it gave birth to this, however :)
OST: The Master of Puppets
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Jasmine on the Night
The coffee was rich: very dark and just barely sweet. Almost cold and just barely warm; just the way he liked. From somewhere, the heady smell of jasmine floated to him. He leaned his head against the window frame of his old pickup, and let his mind zoom free.
It was dark. Here and there, little lights twinkled and glowed; like fairy lights. Small sounds floated on the night air: a child's cry as he finally settled in, a woman's voice raised in mock irritation, a man somewhere quietly laughed. Something about the blanket of darkness and quiet, thrown on by the night, made even the most mundane, more magical.
It was almost always night, when he arrived at a new town. That was how the tours were planned. Everytime he arrived at a new town, under the magic-cloak of the darkness, glitterring with the little lights, sounds blurred and softened by the evenings lull, she seemed breathtakingly beautiful. everytime, he fell in love. and everytime felt like the first time.
When he came into town, in the night, it was easy for him to make believe, that he was alone. He walked around her perimeter, getting to know her; Keeping his distance, but slowly getting drawn closer. In the pristine night, she looked so clean: like noone else but him lived in within her, owned her, belonged to her.
Then as the night slipped away, and morning came: first quietly, gently, then roaring in, like a wave on the beach. Slowly, the little sounds, of the little people, were picked up by the air, and he could not ignore their existence any longer. It came and hit him like a kick in the groin, hard, quick and cruel: the consciousness of all these other people sharing his living space for the night, his new found place of magic and calm.
He was a claustrophobic loner; part hermit, part beast. He didnt like people, and they didnt like that much either. That was the main reason he worked this job. The long solitary nights on the road, the constant moving, from place to place, shifting again each time, the minute dust begins to settle in his wake, everything about the job that drove all but the most desperate people away, were the reasons he loved his job. It kept him 'sane'.
He was probably half mad. Maybe. We'll never really know. He had a need to possess or stay away. And It was hard, because himself, he was like the wind.
He couldnt be owned. Every relationship, was a barter. All he had to give was this fierce longing, his hunger, his quicksilver madness; His music, that had grown on him like a second skin, on his long lonely nights on the road; His books, that kept him sane on the stops; His words, and dreams, and hours; and reflections and echoes of years of living; lots of living; and a crazy Swirl that was a souffle of laughter and bitterness and tears. He was like the wind, as big & universal, as gentle & as harsh, as cruel & as unholdable.
He had such fierce possesiveness, and such a helpless un-possessibility. He had to have completely, or he couldnt have at all. He had to win, or he wouldnt play. But he was quite happy not playing, not winning, ot having, not owning.
It was dark. Here and there, little lights twinkled and glowed; like fairy lights. Small sounds floated on the night air: a child's cry as he finally settled in, a woman's voice raised in mock irritation, a man somewhere quietly laughed. Something about the blanket of darkness and quiet, thrown on by the night, made even the most mundane, more magical.
It was almost always night, when he arrived at a new town. That was how the tours were planned. Everytime he arrived at a new town, under the magic-cloak of the darkness, glitterring with the little lights, sounds blurred and softened by the evenings lull, she seemed breathtakingly beautiful. everytime, he fell in love. and everytime felt like the first time.
When he came into town, in the night, it was easy for him to make believe, that he was alone. He walked around her perimeter, getting to know her; Keeping his distance, but slowly getting drawn closer. In the pristine night, she looked so clean: like noone else but him lived in within her, owned her, belonged to her.
Then as the night slipped away, and morning came: first quietly, gently, then roaring in, like a wave on the beach. Slowly, the little sounds, of the little people, were picked up by the air, and he could not ignore their existence any longer. It came and hit him like a kick in the groin, hard, quick and cruel: the consciousness of all these other people sharing his living space for the night, his new found place of magic and calm.
He was a claustrophobic loner; part hermit, part beast. He didnt like people, and they didnt like that much either. That was the main reason he worked this job. The long solitary nights on the road, the constant moving, from place to place, shifting again each time, the minute dust begins to settle in his wake, everything about the job that drove all but the most desperate people away, were the reasons he loved his job. It kept him 'sane'.
He was probably half mad. Maybe. We'll never really know. He had a need to possess or stay away. And It was hard, because himself, he was like the wind.
He couldnt be owned. Every relationship, was a barter. All he had to give was this fierce longing, his hunger, his quicksilver madness; His music, that had grown on him like a second skin, on his long lonely nights on the road; His books, that kept him sane on the stops; His words, and dreams, and hours; and reflections and echoes of years of living; lots of living; and a crazy Swirl that was a souffle of laughter and bitterness and tears. He was like the wind, as big & universal, as gentle & as harsh, as cruel & as unholdable.
He had such fierce possesiveness, and such a helpless un-possessibility. He had to have completely, or he couldnt have at all. He had to win, or he wouldnt play. But he was quite happy not playing, not winning, ot having, not owning.
Goodbye, Hello
As the big yellow taxi hurtled down the road, Rebecca tried to make up her mind in the few seconds left. For most of the things, they would never get any better than this. In fact, lot of of things would get worse, starting soon. She could have to go on like this for years and years, only it would get harder and more painful every year. Wrinkles, tooth decay, falling hair, osteoporisis, diabetes, heart problems, asthma, joint pains. Looking in the mirror would be a blow to her vanity, which she had had so much off, in a naiive way. Every movement would make itself felt in her bones. Her skin would grow thinner. And she would be as alone as she was today. Friends, relatives, loved ones: both the beloved and the loving, would keep their lukewarm, impotent, distant way, neither releasing her, nor embracing, in effect.
And ofcourse, the old fear. She was not one of them. They would discover and since they didnt believe in witches and stakes anymore, they would label her mad and lock her up. She couldnt bear that. She had had nightmares about it all her life. Discussing it with her sister, who was amongst the few she had trusted. Pressing her into fervent promises to hide her away somewhere in the house, if it happened. not to let them take her away and lock her up. She had frantically read tomes on madness and searched for the signs in the mirror. She had looked at other famous people who had had the fear. And she had fallen in love with Woolf.
Now her sister was grown up and caught up with her own life. They loved eachother still, but that sense of claim was no longer. Not there, nor anywhere. Maybe it was unnatural and unjust, the thing she wanted, really. No. She made up her mind and stopped.
In the last few conscious moments left, she noticed the look of shock and dismay on the drivers face. She hope he wouldnt get into trouble. Like a fly in an ancient slab of Topaz, the thought froze in her mind as it stopped.
The train was at eight. He couldnt afford to miss it, thought Phillip. So much depended on it. He glanced at the meter, and said a little prayer. He tried to avoid cabs, but this was an emergency, he supposed.
Liz was already too angry with him to bear thinking about. If he met her at the station now, and somehow made it up to her, she might still forgive him. He could move back into their house. He liked waking up to the children, even though, as Liz rightly said, he never did a thing for them once their nappy stages had passed. It was nice having them in the house: the lively buzz of their voices, the homely feel of the house, and Eizabeth.
Liz was no longer the startling pretty brunette that he had fallen pasionately in love with. Her hair was almost all grey now and she wore it in a strange stern style, which she claimed was more practical. Women! He would never understand them. However, it was still nice to have her in the house. He still loved her, though not in the same way as before; but that was to be expected, wasnt it?
Why was she not Happy? Why was she so discontent. Seething with a quiet supressed resentment, almost. Spoiling for a fight. It was almost as though she felt she had been cheated. She had won: she had thought when she got married to Phillip; Triumphed; Been proved superior; but now, it was almost like she was, for the first time, seeing and questioning, what she had won
She was being too dramatic. She must stop whenever she caught herself thinking this way: it would only get her more mixed up inside her head. Frowning, she looked down into her lap. Funny, she thought, how often she found herself unconsciously twisting the pale silver band on her finger. Like an abandoned dog straining at its leash, she thought. She sighed and looked out of the train's window, at the blurred country flying past her and thought of the children. Abraham would be at school. Probably playing happily with his little mates. Oh, to be young and carefree like that. To not feel things, not care.
Abraham scowled and looked down, as he settled into the blue corner. Margeret, his teacher, sighed and went away. He had become a frequent visitor. Once he used to hold so much promise, she had thought. Now he was either illtempered and even abusive or just vacantly quiet. He hardly ever participated, except in fights.
As the Taxi screeched suddenly, Phil sat forward in his seat, alarmed; jolted out of his thoughts. There was a woman, a lady, in the middle of the road. It looked she had been crossing and either she had not seen the car coming or mis-judged its speed. The vehicle slowed and swerved as the driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. A sickening thud went through it. Phil felt it like he were one with the car, and its guilt. They both jumped out together and ran to the front of the car. The woman lay there in a heap of red and black. Her red jacket glistened in the sun. It took him a while to realise it was blood.
Already they could hear the sirens of the ambulance and the police. As he watched the bloody pulp, a part of his mind, detached, wondered who how they always seemed to know instantly, like magic. And another detached part of his mind thought, Damn! I'll never make it to the station in time now. Unless, he turned and ran. They were at the George Street crossing and the station was only a little while away. Could he do that? Was there time? Would they need him for the formalities?
As the train rolled in to a halt, elegently slow, Liz looked out to see if she could spot Phil. She half expected him not to turn up. How typical. He was nowhere insight. He would no doubt have some very colourful excuse when he did turn up. He was always brilliant with excuses. Something he seemed to have passed on to Abraham.
Slowly the whirring feeling of dizziness stopped. The pain had been sharp, instant but it had passed soon. It was cold: clammy, wet and cold. Perhaps it was the blood. She must have bled. And a panic of fear at the very last minute. Why had she done this? She wanted to live!
But it passed. And there was just a feeling of all encompassing peace. And cold. In a way, it reminded her of Amsterdam. That feeling contentment. Of destination of having reached. She shivered. Then all at once, Rebecca became aware of something very strange. It was as though her whole body was numb. It was almost like a feeling of paralyses. Like those intense moments between sleep and waking. When you are conscious, but not yet in command of your body. You have the feeling of wanting to move but not being able to rouse your body to movement. You feel that you are outside, impatient, hovering just above and around. Then all at once you snapped awake and it had just been a dream.
It was late in the evening. Liz was home and settled in with Abraham and Lilly gathered around her, telling her about how they had spent the last few days, and she in her turn telling them about her trip. Phil hadnt made an appearance yet. Underneath the briskly normal appearance she kept up for the children, she seethed with anger. How typical of him. How had she changed so much from the man she had once married. Or had he? Maybe it was she who had not seen him well enough through the rose coloured lenses of those early romantic days. How young she had been.
She had been a secretary in a firm of Accountants. Small but reasonably well known. She had had an ordered life, and a satisfying job, which she did with pride and efficiency. She had lived alone, near town, an easy run from work. Her parents lived in the village and she went down to see them often on holidays and some weekends. She had been well satisfied with her life. Ordered. Predictable. Sensible. If a little boring, but she hadnt minded that. Somewhere there was a dream tucked away however that it would all change one day and her 'future' her 'life' would really begin. She didnt think about how. She didnt think about it much. But it was there somewhere at the back of her mind. And then she had met Phil and everything had changed in way she could never have dreamed off, even if she had been the dreaming type.
She came back to the present sharply as little Lilly spilled her tea on the carpet. The child instantly realised she had done something 'catastrophic' and looked her Mommy with a sharp intake of breath, her baby blue eyes huge and round with fear. The instant spike of anger died in Liz like a drop of water in a desert as looked into her baby's eyes. She laughed and rushed to soothe her, staining carpet forgotten for the moment.
Can anyone explain motherhood? That one moment that made the whole of life grow meaningful. To make life. The exquisite torture, the unbearable joy. The little ball of flesh and blood that had moved and floated inside her. Like the food she digested. Like another organ in her body. By what magic had it become a real, living, breathing human being? Can any mother forget the moment when that magical transformation takes place? Can anyone forget? Can anyone explain in words, to those who have not lived it? Can life ever be the same without it? It made everything worthwhile. A new life is born. She didnt make it, she knew that. But she had let it pass through her. She had been a part of the magic. The eternal magic. Who created it, she wondered. This life. For she knew she was just a vessel. Where did it come from. It had to have come from somewhere? In that dark, wet, cold moment when the world falls away and it is just the mother, the child and that something: what was it?
Slowly the cold decreased. Or maybe she just got used to it. She still felt strange. Where was she, Rebecca wondered. She felt a little like those moments, after the helpless paralysed dream, when one wakes up and regains control of hands, legs, eyes and slowly comes to - she felt like that. A slowly regaining sense of freedom. Slowly, she could move. A little at a time. Easy. For a brief second, she felt giddy with relief. When suddenly she realised it wasnt her arms and legs she was moving. Rather, she was moving, but her 'body' wasnt. It was still there crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor. Everything else was just the same. But surely, thought Rebecca, it couldnt have been that long. She felt like she had been going through this slow coming awake process for ages now. Surely they would have moved the body by now. Then as she expanded her field of perception, and she saw the men gathered around, she realised that only fleeting seconds had passed. That was it then. She was dead. She had passed on, whatever that meant. No. This was what it meant. She knew now and she would keep finding out more and more. It was just a matter of time. Time. It seemed that it pass slowly in this dimension. She smiled a little to herself and wondered where she had picked up that word from. She had always been so skeptical about that kind of literature. No one really knows. They all talk. Know I will know, she thought
And ofcourse, the old fear. She was not one of them. They would discover and since they didnt believe in witches and stakes anymore, they would label her mad and lock her up. She couldnt bear that. She had had nightmares about it all her life. Discussing it with her sister, who was amongst the few she had trusted. Pressing her into fervent promises to hide her away somewhere in the house, if it happened. not to let them take her away and lock her up. She had frantically read tomes on madness and searched for the signs in the mirror. She had looked at other famous people who had had the fear. And she had fallen in love with Woolf.
Now her sister was grown up and caught up with her own life. They loved eachother still, but that sense of claim was no longer. Not there, nor anywhere. Maybe it was unnatural and unjust, the thing she wanted, really. No. She made up her mind and stopped.
In the last few conscious moments left, she noticed the look of shock and dismay on the drivers face. She hope he wouldnt get into trouble. Like a fly in an ancient slab of Topaz, the thought froze in her mind as it stopped.
The train was at eight. He couldnt afford to miss it, thought Phillip. So much depended on it. He glanced at the meter, and said a little prayer. He tried to avoid cabs, but this was an emergency, he supposed.
Liz was already too angry with him to bear thinking about. If he met her at the station now, and somehow made it up to her, she might still forgive him. He could move back into their house. He liked waking up to the children, even though, as Liz rightly said, he never did a thing for them once their nappy stages had passed. It was nice having them in the house: the lively buzz of their voices, the homely feel of the house, and Eizabeth.
Liz was no longer the startling pretty brunette that he had fallen pasionately in love with. Her hair was almost all grey now and she wore it in a strange stern style, which she claimed was more practical. Women! He would never understand them. However, it was still nice to have her in the house. He still loved her, though not in the same way as before; but that was to be expected, wasnt it?
Why was she not Happy? Why was she so discontent. Seething with a quiet supressed resentment, almost. Spoiling for a fight. It was almost as though she felt she had been cheated. She had won: she had thought when she got married to Phillip; Triumphed; Been proved superior; but now, it was almost like she was, for the first time, seeing and questioning, what she had won
She was being too dramatic. She must stop whenever she caught herself thinking this way: it would only get her more mixed up inside her head. Frowning, she looked down into her lap. Funny, she thought, how often she found herself unconsciously twisting the pale silver band on her finger. Like an abandoned dog straining at its leash, she thought. She sighed and looked out of the train's window, at the blurred country flying past her and thought of the children. Abraham would be at school. Probably playing happily with his little mates. Oh, to be young and carefree like that. To not feel things, not care.
Abraham scowled and looked down, as he settled into the blue corner. Margeret, his teacher, sighed and went away. He had become a frequent visitor. Once he used to hold so much promise, she had thought. Now he was either illtempered and even abusive or just vacantly quiet. He hardly ever participated, except in fights.
As the Taxi screeched suddenly, Phil sat forward in his seat, alarmed; jolted out of his thoughts. There was a woman, a lady, in the middle of the road. It looked she had been crossing and either she had not seen the car coming or mis-judged its speed. The vehicle slowed and swerved as the driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. A sickening thud went through it. Phil felt it like he were one with the car, and its guilt. They both jumped out together and ran to the front of the car. The woman lay there in a heap of red and black. Her red jacket glistened in the sun. It took him a while to realise it was blood.
Already they could hear the sirens of the ambulance and the police. As he watched the bloody pulp, a part of his mind, detached, wondered who how they always seemed to know instantly, like magic. And another detached part of his mind thought, Damn! I'll never make it to the station in time now. Unless, he turned and ran. They were at the George Street crossing and the station was only a little while away. Could he do that? Was there time? Would they need him for the formalities?
As the train rolled in to a halt, elegently slow, Liz looked out to see if she could spot Phil. She half expected him not to turn up. How typical. He was nowhere insight. He would no doubt have some very colourful excuse when he did turn up. He was always brilliant with excuses. Something he seemed to have passed on to Abraham.
Slowly the whirring feeling of dizziness stopped. The pain had been sharp, instant but it had passed soon. It was cold: clammy, wet and cold. Perhaps it was the blood. She must have bled. And a panic of fear at the very last minute. Why had she done this? She wanted to live!
But it passed. And there was just a feeling of all encompassing peace. And cold. In a way, it reminded her of Amsterdam. That feeling contentment. Of destination of having reached. She shivered. Then all at once, Rebecca became aware of something very strange. It was as though her whole body was numb. It was almost like a feeling of paralyses. Like those intense moments between sleep and waking. When you are conscious, but not yet in command of your body. You have the feeling of wanting to move but not being able to rouse your body to movement. You feel that you are outside, impatient, hovering just above and around. Then all at once you snapped awake and it had just been a dream.
It was late in the evening. Liz was home and settled in with Abraham and Lilly gathered around her, telling her about how they had spent the last few days, and she in her turn telling them about her trip. Phil hadnt made an appearance yet. Underneath the briskly normal appearance she kept up for the children, she seethed with anger. How typical of him. How had she changed so much from the man she had once married. Or had he? Maybe it was she who had not seen him well enough through the rose coloured lenses of those early romantic days. How young she had been.
She had been a secretary in a firm of Accountants. Small but reasonably well known. She had had an ordered life, and a satisfying job, which she did with pride and efficiency. She had lived alone, near town, an easy run from work. Her parents lived in the village and she went down to see them often on holidays and some weekends. She had been well satisfied with her life. Ordered. Predictable. Sensible. If a little boring, but she hadnt minded that. Somewhere there was a dream tucked away however that it would all change one day and her 'future' her 'life' would really begin. She didnt think about how. She didnt think about it much. But it was there somewhere at the back of her mind. And then she had met Phil and everything had changed in way she could never have dreamed off, even if she had been the dreaming type.
She came back to the present sharply as little Lilly spilled her tea on the carpet. The child instantly realised she had done something 'catastrophic' and looked her Mommy with a sharp intake of breath, her baby blue eyes huge and round with fear. The instant spike of anger died in Liz like a drop of water in a desert as looked into her baby's eyes. She laughed and rushed to soothe her, staining carpet forgotten for the moment.
Can anyone explain motherhood? That one moment that made the whole of life grow meaningful. To make life. The exquisite torture, the unbearable joy. The little ball of flesh and blood that had moved and floated inside her. Like the food she digested. Like another organ in her body. By what magic had it become a real, living, breathing human being? Can any mother forget the moment when that magical transformation takes place? Can anyone forget? Can anyone explain in words, to those who have not lived it? Can life ever be the same without it? It made everything worthwhile. A new life is born. She didnt make it, she knew that. But she had let it pass through her. She had been a part of the magic. The eternal magic. Who created it, she wondered. This life. For she knew she was just a vessel. Where did it come from. It had to have come from somewhere? In that dark, wet, cold moment when the world falls away and it is just the mother, the child and that something: what was it?
Slowly the cold decreased. Or maybe she just got used to it. She still felt strange. Where was she, Rebecca wondered. She felt a little like those moments, after the helpless paralysed dream, when one wakes up and regains control of hands, legs, eyes and slowly comes to - she felt like that. A slowly regaining sense of freedom. Slowly, she could move. A little at a time. Easy. For a brief second, she felt giddy with relief. When suddenly she realised it wasnt her arms and legs she was moving. Rather, she was moving, but her 'body' wasnt. It was still there crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor. Everything else was just the same. But surely, thought Rebecca, it couldnt have been that long. She felt like she had been going through this slow coming awake process for ages now. Surely they would have moved the body by now. Then as she expanded her field of perception, and she saw the men gathered around, she realised that only fleeting seconds had passed. That was it then. She was dead. She had passed on, whatever that meant. No. This was what it meant. She knew now and she would keep finding out more and more. It was just a matter of time. Time. It seemed that it pass slowly in this dimension. She smiled a little to herself and wondered where she had picked up that word from. She had always been so skeptical about that kind of literature. No one really knows. They all talk. Know I will know, she thought
The Red Sunrise
the black, stone* ground* shone and blinked with frost*. it was still dark. the street lights cast an orange glow. infrequently, a freak car whooshed across the deserted roads. in the corners, yellow, brown, orange and red leaves lay literred, frosted* a sparkling white by the nights frost*.
it was cold. when the alarm rang out, i was already awake, waiting. i shot out in the dark and turned it off before it woke anyone else. pulling on my warm flannel jacket, i padded over quietly to the window and looked out.
in a few mins she came into sight. she was regular, like the days. come rain, come snow, or an ordinary boring day, she was there. at a few minutes past five, every morning, she walked up the deserted street-corner, outside my window. i had seen her by accident, a first. Then curious about why someone was out so early, in the cold, i kept looking. Fascinated, I kept looking on. She went through her stretches. i couldnt see her face from where I stood, but she had an elusive grace about her. an air of a love song, in her every movement. Or so it seemed to me; i was half asleep.
we fell into a routine. every morning, i set the alarm and waited for her. every morning, i watched her in the dark. at first, she fascinated me. then, it became an obsession. i wanted her. after a few weeks, i felt that the time had come to go after her.
she gave the impression of a lonely song bird. existing, as if in a world of her own. a creature of the early morning darkness. to fade before the sun rose and shone. there was a halo of sadness and tragedy about her. i could feel it. she was someone who wa born to die; beautifully; poignantly; dramatically. she was seeking a grand end. i was born to give it to her.
i had everything ready. it was all in my pocket. the rope; the nails; the blade. sharp, shining, pure. it would be a glorious. a sypmphone in red. A Red Sunrise.
It was still dark. The orange lights, from the faithful street lamps, collected in tired pools at intervals; their glow making the paved streets, slick with dew, glow in shiny black.
It was very cold. Winter had begun earlier than usual, this year, and the cold had sprung up, almost overnight, with precocious vengence.
Somedays, it was really eerie. Some mornings, it was a pain, to get out of a warm, snug bed, and throw herself into the cold morning air. Usually, however, it was just exhilariting. It was the best part of the day. It felt like the world and she were sharing a few quite moments, before the hum of another busy day began. She was alive. She was thinking clearly. Her best ideas came to her at moments like this.
A sharp wind rose, clean, fresh, new. It stirred the dried leaves in the street corners in little dancing balletts, swirling and flying like playful children. Brown, Orange, Yellow, Russet; a symphony in Red.
The whole world seemed breathtaking sweet, and life, infinitely beautiful. At moments like this, she wanted to live forever.
She had finished her run and come back to her starting point. Checking her watch, she smiled; she had done good time. She pulled out the nozzle from the water carrier on her back and drank as she slowed to a walk.
The shortening days meant that it wasnt fully light yet, though it was past six o'clock. She felt a little nervous about going into the heavily wooded Water of Leith walk-way, but it was a shortcut and it was pretty walking through, with the river gurgling next to her as she walked, swollen with a nights rain.
The carpet of wet autumn leaves below wupid out any footsteps. The tree's joined overhead to block out any light there was in the sky. There were no steet lights in this stretch.
She was always felt a little uneasy crossing this stretch, today, for some reason it was hightened. Was she being intuitive or just silly. Probably the latter. She tried to shrug off the feeling, but walked faster all the same.
Halfway down the path, she had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there, nearby. She turned and looked. Atfirst, she didnt see anything, but then she could make out an outline. There was a figure in what looked like a hooded jacket with the cap on, some distance behind her.
She told herself that it was just another jogger. She tried to calm the voice in her head which had a distinct urge to panic. But there was no helping it, she was really, however illogically, scared!
She walked faster, trying to reach one of the exits, but the nearest one was still several minutes away. She looked back again, and this time, the figure was a lot closer, just behind her. She forced herself to be calm and slowed her walk, so that the other walker would overtake her, and she could tell herself "look, you were making a fuss out of nothing!".
As the hooded figure approached her, she had a strange, surreal feeling. There was a sense of fatality in the moment. She could feel her hair on the back of her neck standing up.
She turned, one last time, when she felt the figure right behind her, about to pass her. As she saw the other joggers face, a wave of relief washed over her: it was just another woman! There was an added brightness in the smile she threw over her shoulder, as she silently greeted the lady, because she was smiling at herself and how 'sure' she had been that something was dreadfully wrong. The other woman smiled back at her.
Still smiling, she kept on walking. She had been so silly. It was just the atmosphere of the place and her imagination, playing tricks on her, after all. Like a trick of light.
Suddenly, she felt the other girl close in on her. Before she even realised what was happening, she had been pushed into the greens on the side of the path. It was so cold, it took her a few seconds to feel the blade slice through. It felt wet. And warm.
TO BE CONTINUED ... (and edited - the stars need replacing) :)
it was cold. when the alarm rang out, i was already awake, waiting. i shot out in the dark and turned it off before it woke anyone else. pulling on my warm flannel jacket, i padded over quietly to the window and looked out.
in a few mins she came into sight. she was regular, like the days. come rain, come snow, or an ordinary boring day, she was there. at a few minutes past five, every morning, she walked up the deserted street-corner, outside my window. i had seen her by accident, a first. Then curious about why someone was out so early, in the cold, i kept looking. Fascinated, I kept looking on. She went through her stretches. i couldnt see her face from where I stood, but she had an elusive grace about her. an air of a love song, in her every movement. Or so it seemed to me; i was half asleep.
we fell into a routine. every morning, i set the alarm and waited for her. every morning, i watched her in the dark. at first, she fascinated me. then, it became an obsession. i wanted her. after a few weeks, i felt that the time had come to go after her.
she gave the impression of a lonely song bird. existing, as if in a world of her own. a creature of the early morning darkness. to fade before the sun rose and shone. there was a halo of sadness and tragedy about her. i could feel it. she was someone who wa born to die; beautifully; poignantly; dramatically. she was seeking a grand end. i was born to give it to her.
i had everything ready. it was all in my pocket. the rope; the nails; the blade. sharp, shining, pure. it would be a glorious. a sypmphone in red. A Red Sunrise.
It was still dark. The orange lights, from the faithful street lamps, collected in tired pools at intervals; their glow making the paved streets, slick with dew, glow in shiny black.
It was very cold. Winter had begun earlier than usual, this year, and the cold had sprung up, almost overnight, with precocious vengence.
Somedays, it was really eerie. Some mornings, it was a pain, to get out of a warm, snug bed, and throw herself into the cold morning air. Usually, however, it was just exhilariting. It was the best part of the day. It felt like the world and she were sharing a few quite moments, before the hum of another busy day began. She was alive. She was thinking clearly. Her best ideas came to her at moments like this.
A sharp wind rose, clean, fresh, new. It stirred the dried leaves in the street corners in little dancing balletts, swirling and flying like playful children. Brown, Orange, Yellow, Russet; a symphony in Red.
The whole world seemed breathtaking sweet, and life, infinitely beautiful. At moments like this, she wanted to live forever.
She had finished her run and come back to her starting point. Checking her watch, she smiled; she had done good time. She pulled out the nozzle from the water carrier on her back and drank as she slowed to a walk.
The shortening days meant that it wasnt fully light yet, though it was past six o'clock. She felt a little nervous about going into the heavily wooded Water of Leith walk-way, but it was a shortcut and it was pretty walking through, with the river gurgling next to her as she walked, swollen with a nights rain.
The carpet of wet autumn leaves below wupid out any footsteps. The tree's joined overhead to block out any light there was in the sky. There were no steet lights in this stretch.
She was always felt a little uneasy crossing this stretch, today, for some reason it was hightened. Was she being intuitive or just silly. Probably the latter. She tried to shrug off the feeling, but walked faster all the same.
Halfway down the path, she had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there, nearby. She turned and looked. Atfirst, she didnt see anything, but then she could make out an outline. There was a figure in what looked like a hooded jacket with the cap on, some distance behind her.
She told herself that it was just another jogger. She tried to calm the voice in her head which had a distinct urge to panic. But there was no helping it, she was really, however illogically, scared!
She walked faster, trying to reach one of the exits, but the nearest one was still several minutes away. She looked back again, and this time, the figure was a lot closer, just behind her. She forced herself to be calm and slowed her walk, so that the other walker would overtake her, and she could tell herself "look, you were making a fuss out of nothing!".
As the hooded figure approached her, she had a strange, surreal feeling. There was a sense of fatality in the moment. She could feel her hair on the back of her neck standing up.
She turned, one last time, when she felt the figure right behind her, about to pass her. As she saw the other joggers face, a wave of relief washed over her: it was just another woman! There was an added brightness in the smile she threw over her shoulder, as she silently greeted the lady, because she was smiling at herself and how 'sure' she had been that something was dreadfully wrong. The other woman smiled back at her.
Still smiling, she kept on walking. She had been so silly. It was just the atmosphere of the place and her imagination, playing tricks on her, after all. Like a trick of light.
Suddenly, she felt the other girl close in on her. Before she even realised what was happening, she had been pushed into the greens on the side of the path. It was so cold, it took her a few seconds to feel the blade slice through. It felt wet. And warm.
TO BE CONTINUED ... (and edited - the stars need replacing) :)
Something smells of Happiness
I was tagged by Teleute. Its a blog-story started by Rohan. Heres the story, with my bit added in bold, at the end: The blog story. I'm tagging Peg, bcz she said she had fun doing the other one I tagged her into :)
My limit was supposed to be one line, but I overran it. Could'nt help it, as usual! Why do all my transgressions find me holding up this little balloon above my head? It's either this one, or "I didnt realise".
It's a nasty blue-black-purple day. Like the mean reds with a little less of the anger and little more of the w-t-f-does-it-matter-anyway thrown in. I was excited this morning, after I came back from my run. Its my birthday on the 10th and I dont belive I'll be 30!!! I feel like I'll just wake up and be grown up, come Thursday!
There must have been a leak somewhere, though, cz all the pink air was gone by noon, leaving me deflated and defeated. Its reading the papers, I think, that does it. Someone still hasnt come back to work. Ill! Eloped? Evil.
How does it matter anyway? I'm out of words. Or rather, I am out of things to say. Or rather rather, I'm out of PC things to say.
Sometimes, I get so angry with the world and everyone in it. Why cant people just let people be. Just bcz they are different? Anyway, whats the point? It will all go up in smoke. 40,000 people! And you are classifying and justifying. Is someones pain any easier to watch bcz he deserved it? 40,000 people. I dont blv its not even causing a stir! And now this! They are showing endless programs and documentaries on them on BBC. Will it help? I dunno. Please god let it help. Please god, let something help. Anyway, I dont want to talk abt this.
I'm on a Byron trip again. The first thing I learnt about Stockbridge, when I moved in was that, he was born here. The God of Brooding Verse. I'm reading his letters to Shelley. Incidentally, I could never get over the fact that he wrote that silly poem (she walks) as well. I have nothing against the poem, but its just, 'did he who make the tiger make thee'? I can never decide which part of Childe I like best, but this comes close:
Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'er-wrought,
A whirling gulf of fantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!
Yet am I chang'd; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
Sometimes when I read his writing, I feel like I could never write again. (And if that one word were ... but its not)
The song in my head: Teach your children well. To someone who made me feel she was there, love you, sweetie. Thank you for being a friend. I'm missing a certain someone so much today, that I've been chirping like madness. The best friend, that I've ever had (The Queen)
I finally put up a post at the Calcutta blog! Someone there reminded me of this post and I hunted it out again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
My limit was supposed to be one line, but I overran it. Could'nt help it, as usual! Why do all my transgressions find me holding up this little balloon above my head? It's either this one, or "I didnt realise".
It's a nasty blue-black-purple day. Like the mean reds with a little less of the anger and little more of the w-t-f-does-it-matter-anyway thrown in. I was excited this morning, after I came back from my run. Its my birthday on the 10th and I dont belive I'll be 30!!! I feel like I'll just wake up and be grown up, come Thursday!
There must have been a leak somewhere, though, cz all the pink air was gone by noon, leaving me deflated and defeated. Its reading the papers, I think, that does it. Someone still hasnt come back to work. Ill! Eloped? Evil.
How does it matter anyway? I'm out of words. Or rather, I am out of things to say. Or rather rather, I'm out of PC things to say.
Sometimes, I get so angry with the world and everyone in it. Why cant people just let people be. Just bcz they are different? Anyway, whats the point? It will all go up in smoke. 40,000 people! And you are classifying and justifying. Is someones pain any easier to watch bcz he deserved it? 40,000 people. I dont blv its not even causing a stir! And now this! They are showing endless programs and documentaries on them on BBC. Will it help? I dunno. Please god let it help. Please god, let something help. Anyway, I dont want to talk abt this.
I'm on a Byron trip again. The first thing I learnt about Stockbridge, when I moved in was that, he was born here. The God of Brooding Verse. I'm reading his letters to Shelley. Incidentally, I could never get over the fact that he wrote that silly poem (she walks) as well. I have nothing against the poem, but its just, 'did he who make the tiger make thee'? I can never decide which part of Childe I like best, but this comes close:
Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'er-wrought,
A whirling gulf of fantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!
Yet am I chang'd; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
Sometimes when I read his writing, I feel like I could never write again. (And if that one word were ... but its not)
The song in my head: Teach your children well. To someone who made me feel she was there, love you, sweetie. Thank you for being a friend. I'm missing a certain someone so much today, that I've been chirping like madness. The best friend, that I've ever had (The Queen)
I finally put up a post at the Calcutta blog! Someone there reminded me of this post and I hunted it out again.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
The Journey
He thought it would be an ordinary journey. Standing behind the pillar he watched the train snort arrogantly into the station. With each snort he was reminded of his grandfather's words "You will fail in the city and return penniless"; with every heavenward whistle, he heard his cousin, "Don't worry. Come here and I will get you a job at the construction site." Now he had a 34-hour journey to prove one of them wrong, and he expected the excitement at the end of the journey. He looked at his ticket once again: compartment S9 berth 23.
Pushing his luggage under the seat, he sat close to the window. "Papa, when will you be back?" - his four year old daughter Munni asked innocently. He stared into those soft brown eyes of the motherless kid. He held her frail palms in his, through the window. "Munni, Papa will get you a nice gudiya from the city..Say tata," his sister spoke to the kid, to avoid an emotional outburst. In a minute, the train pulled forward, and Munni's little fingers parted from between his. "I need to go..", he thought, "I have to, at least for Munni's sake.."
The humid summer breeze and the rattling train coaxed him into an uncomfortable state of drowsy consciousness. He dreamt that Munni ran away, the closer he ran to her, the farther she was, like a mirage. He woke up with a start and squinted at his watch."What is the time please?"A smallish woman, a meek voice as if she was scared that her existence would annoy someone. Her only noticeable feature was her rather large, expressive eyes."4.30"Something made him look at the woman again. He had stopped noticing women long back. Ever since Meenakshi passed away...
Four long years. His daughter’s birth. His wife’s death. Joy and sorrow in an instant. A heady cocktail. He had hardly recovered from it. He barely had a chance to. You can’t be a poor farmer in Andhra Pradesh and have time for emotional upheavals.Life betrayed him once with the death of his wife. Life betrayed him again, three years in a row, with the failure of his crops. Every year, the debt increased and it felt like a noose tighten around him. Tightened till he could not breathe. He shivered with the memory of the night, where he took a bottle of poison in his hand …
He threw the bottle away when he heard the small voice behind him, “Papa, whats beyond the big well? Sanju says that’s where the world ends.”His then-preoccupied answer had satisfied Munnis innocent curiosity, “No, beta…That’s the railroad to the city…There’s a lot of world beyond the big well.”He had repeated the answer to himself, “No, it’s not the end of the world”.Maybe some of that same innocence in this woman’s voice or eyes made him rephrase the answer to her question. “What is the time, please?”In a crystal-clear flash of certainty he realized…“It was time.”
It was time to put the scattered pieces of his life together. Just like the marbles he picked up as a boy. That he won and collected one by one from the ground, his pockets laden and bulging with his precious treasure. He had to play the game of life again. He looked at the large expressive kohl-rimmed eyes once more. Shy and downcast at times, hesitantly observant at others as she gazed out at the rushing landscape beyond the rusted iron rods of the second class carriage window. He suddenly heard himself asking, "Are you going to the city?"
She shook her head, and looked away, out of the window. She looked tense. Almost a little scared. Balbir wanted to ask "whats wrong", but hesitated. He'd been too friendly. He turned away and looked out of the window.
The train slowed. Radhapur Junction. Dusty. Near-empty. Interchangeable with so many rural stops. Just one man got on board. He wore the bright, colourful pagri of the region above his sunburned face. He had a happy face and no luggage. As he walked the corridor his eyes scanned the berths. He reached their compartment and stopped in front of the woman.
--------------------------------------------------
Rules:
Everything below the dashed line above should be copied and pasted with every accepted tag)This is a Story Tree and is best nurtured as follows:
1. A blogger can add only 90-100 words (not more or less) at a time
2. All previous snippets of 90-100 words need to be copied before the new set of 90-100 words are appended.
3. Each entire snippet should be linked to the respective author (and not just the first sentence or so)
4. Characters, scenes, etc. can be introduced by an author
5. Bizarre twists, sci-fi, fantasy sequences are best avoided.
6. A tag must be accepted within 7 days else the branch is a dead branch
7. After appending 90-100, the Story Tree can be passed on to at most 3 bloggers.
8. If more than 1 branch leads to a blogger, s/he is free to choose any one of them but cannot mix the snippets of the individual branches.
9. The Story Tree is best left to grow than concluded
10. Please attach the image of the Story Tree below with each accepted tag (the link address can be copied and used)
Pushing his luggage under the seat, he sat close to the window. "Papa, when will you be back?" - his four year old daughter Munni asked innocently. He stared into those soft brown eyes of the motherless kid. He held her frail palms in his, through the window. "Munni, Papa will get you a nice gudiya from the city..Say tata," his sister spoke to the kid, to avoid an emotional outburst. In a minute, the train pulled forward, and Munni's little fingers parted from between his. "I need to go..", he thought, "I have to, at least for Munni's sake.."
The humid summer breeze and the rattling train coaxed him into an uncomfortable state of drowsy consciousness. He dreamt that Munni ran away, the closer he ran to her, the farther she was, like a mirage. He woke up with a start and squinted at his watch."What is the time please?"A smallish woman, a meek voice as if she was scared that her existence would annoy someone. Her only noticeable feature was her rather large, expressive eyes."4.30"Something made him look at the woman again. He had stopped noticing women long back. Ever since Meenakshi passed away...
Four long years. His daughter’s birth. His wife’s death. Joy and sorrow in an instant. A heady cocktail. He had hardly recovered from it. He barely had a chance to. You can’t be a poor farmer in Andhra Pradesh and have time for emotional upheavals.Life betrayed him once with the death of his wife. Life betrayed him again, three years in a row, with the failure of his crops. Every year, the debt increased and it felt like a noose tighten around him. Tightened till he could not breathe. He shivered with the memory of the night, where he took a bottle of poison in his hand …
He threw the bottle away when he heard the small voice behind him, “Papa, whats beyond the big well? Sanju says that’s where the world ends.”His then-preoccupied answer had satisfied Munnis innocent curiosity, “No, beta…That’s the railroad to the city…There’s a lot of world beyond the big well.”He had repeated the answer to himself, “No, it’s not the end of the world”.Maybe some of that same innocence in this woman’s voice or eyes made him rephrase the answer to her question. “What is the time, please?”In a crystal-clear flash of certainty he realized…“It was time.”
It was time to put the scattered pieces of his life together. Just like the marbles he picked up as a boy. That he won and collected one by one from the ground, his pockets laden and bulging with his precious treasure. He had to play the game of life again. He looked at the large expressive kohl-rimmed eyes once more. Shy and downcast at times, hesitantly observant at others as she gazed out at the rushing landscape beyond the rusted iron rods of the second class carriage window. He suddenly heard himself asking, "Are you going to the city?"
She shook her head, and looked away, out of the window. She looked tense. Almost a little scared. Balbir wanted to ask "whats wrong", but hesitated. He'd been too friendly. He turned away and looked out of the window.
The train slowed. Radhapur Junction. Dusty. Near-empty. Interchangeable with so many rural stops. Just one man got on board. He wore the bright, colourful pagri of the region above his sunburned face. He had a happy face and no luggage. As he walked the corridor his eyes scanned the berths. He reached their compartment and stopped in front of the woman.
--------------------------------------------------
Rules:
Everything below the dashed line above should be copied and pasted with every accepted tag)This is a Story Tree and is best nurtured as follows:
1. A blogger can add only 90-100 words (not more or less) at a time
2. All previous snippets of 90-100 words need to be copied before the new set of 90-100 words are appended.
3. Each entire snippet should be linked to the respective author (and not just the first sentence or so)
4. Characters, scenes, etc. can be introduced by an author
5. Bizarre twists, sci-fi, fantasy sequences are best avoided.
6. A tag must be accepted within 7 days else the branch is a dead branch
7. After appending 90-100, the Story Tree can be passed on to at most 3 bloggers.
8. If more than 1 branch leads to a blogger, s/he is free to choose any one of them but cannot mix the snippets of the individual branches.
9. The Story Tree is best left to grow than concluded
10. Please attach the image of the Story Tree below with each accepted tag (the link address can be copied and used)
For mercy's sake
He had always known that silence spoke volumes, unfortunately it was in a language he failed to decipher on most occasions. A long pause. He stared for what seemed liked ages. It made little sense. May be it wasn't meant to be. He shrugged and looked at his friend. The pregnant silence was ruptured by his friends intermittent sobbing. Today was Diwali, it was supposed to be the "Festival of Lights", but things were different tonight. "Lights out", yelled the Jailor. The lights went out and the virgin night was silent and dark again. But, then was he reminded of his lover whose murder brought him here. All of a sudden, the summer heat in the cell, felt dreadfully cold, when, every moment of his past life flashed in front of his eyes as he stared at the writings on the wall. It was scribbled all over, by previous inmates of the cell. Murderers, as they called them. But maybe there were not murderers, he thought, just like him. Maybe they were just misunderstood. After all, he had to kill her, so he could be sure, that she would never feel pain again.
He had loved her from the moment he gazed into those blue green eyes, he had loved her when those very eyes had looked at him beseechingly for the last time and he had loved her for every passing second in between. But all this was lost on the anti euthanasia lobby who had vehemently screamed murder as his case had hit the headlines.
It all began on a silent winter morning. The cold had crept in without its whistling army of winds. The small town slept. Wrinkled in cold, as glowing fireplaces let out splinters of warmth. Unexpectedly silent.
But he was awake. He was always awake. Sleep and he had parted ways three summers back. Since then every time his eyes closed, the mind played stage to that dramatic night.
It had been there, too... the silence. Agonising. All-pervasive. Alive with things unsaid. He had known that the she was in pain. Excruciating pain. He had called in A long sequence of doctors. Unable to believe 'the verdict', he kept taking 'another opinion', desperately seeking someone, somewhere, who would say something different from what they were all saying. Desperately seeking one doctor who would give him some hope. Desperately seeking a straw to clutch at, as he felt himself inexorably drowning deeper. There was no hope. There was just a time limit.
He had loved her from the moment he gazed into those blue green eyes, he had loved her when those very eyes had looked at him beseechingly for the last time and he had loved her for every passing second in between. But all this was lost on the anti euthanasia lobby who had vehemently screamed murder as his case had hit the headlines.
It all began on a silent winter morning. The cold had crept in without its whistling army of winds. The small town slept. Wrinkled in cold, as glowing fireplaces let out splinters of warmth. Unexpectedly silent.
But he was awake. He was always awake. Sleep and he had parted ways three summers back. Since then every time his eyes closed, the mind played stage to that dramatic night.
It had been there, too... the silence. Agonising. All-pervasive. Alive with things unsaid. He had known that the she was in pain. Excruciating pain. He had called in A long sequence of doctors. Unable to believe 'the verdict', he kept taking 'another opinion', desperately seeking someone, somewhere, who would say something different from what they were all saying. Desperately seeking one doctor who would give him some hope. Desperately seeking a straw to clutch at, as he felt himself inexorably drowning deeper. There was no hope. There was just a time limit.
Dream Tree
I was tagged into this by Aparna. Thanks, it was great fun!
Would like to tag "anyone who would like to give it a shot". I'd love to see where Sriramana, Parna, Hyde, Stark, Belzeebub, Maddie, Austere, Peg, English August, Jaded, Teleute, GreatBong, JAP take it. I'm a bit scared of tagging these days as some people get quite violently offended. Please dont get mad if I have tagged you and you dont want to do it ... just ignore me :)
Here's my attempt at the Dream Tree
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Would like to tag "anyone who would like to give it a shot". I'd love to see where Sriramana, Parna, Hyde, Stark, Belzeebub, Maddie, Austere, Peg, English August, Jaded, Teleute, GreatBong, JAP take it. I'm a bit scared of tagging these days as some people get quite violently offended. Please dont get mad if I have tagged you and you dont want to do it ... just ignore me :)
Here's my attempt at the Dream Tree
Originally Posted at Prerona.
Mesmerised: Dazed and Confused
He had a way of talking, that made you think of the words stuck-up or fearsome or empyreal. the picture you draw depends as much on where you are looking from as well as, where you are looking towards.
He sat at a corner table and looked at his shoes, frowing, drowned in thought. flooded in thought.
I had spoken to him. His words, on paper, sounded smooth and glossy, with a patina of many centuries. Dark, like wood stained by years of having lived there, years after being felled and cut into shape.
[To be completed]
He sat at a corner table and looked at his shoes, frowing, drowned in thought. flooded in thought.
I had spoken to him. His words, on paper, sounded smooth and glossy, with a patina of many centuries. Dark, like wood stained by years of having lived there, years after being felled and cut into shape.
[To be completed]
Explain it to a two year old
I'm working on something, but as usual, I dont have the energy to finish it. One day. In the meanwhile if u like it u can have it. Its a story about a little boy who dies and goes to heaven, in the earthquake, but once there, they discover it was a mistake. they have to send him back, but there's a technical problem. i'm not sure what that is, as yet, but basically the need to explain to the kid that there was a mistake, apologise and get a ok from the kid. kind of like a customer-complaint-fixed-sign-off. in the meanwhile ths mistake is causing (i know the details as to why - but no energy to explain) random natural disaster on below on earth. u see, they arent allowed to make mistakes. there's no handler for that exception. so, its all scrwsville and the whole sw-hw-mw unit has just short ckt'd and is blowing up. They are working on a fix urgently and this (the apology stuff) is what production support came up with. They are not sure it will work but its all they have to try. Major ego hassles. Big man doesnt wanna apologise, but finally he see's theres no other way. So he comes to talk to the boy. He is in the meantime waiting in their equivalent of the maharaja lounge, being entertained and distracted by everyone available (read hr). This is all background. The main stuff starts when the boy asks for an explanation, for the earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, wars, the world and they cant give him any and its abt the argument between them. Rational explanations, Blame share, Cause and Effect all against a small boy saying, why?
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Explain it to a two year old
I'm working on something, but as usual, I dont have the energy to finish it. One day. In the meanwhile if u like it u can have it. Its a story about a little boy who dies and goes to heaven, in the earthquake, but once there, they discover it was a mistake. they have to send him back, but there's a technical problem. i'm not sure what that is, as yet, but basically the need to explain to the kid that there was a mistake, apologise and get a ok from the kid. kind of like a customer-complaint-fixed-sign-off. in the meanwhile ths mistake is causing (i know the details as to why - but no energy to explain) random natural disaster on below on earth. u see, they arent allowed to make mistakes. there's no handler for that exception. so, its all scrwsville and the whole sw-hw-mw unit has just short ckt'd and is blowing up. They are working on a fix urgently and this (the apology stuff) is what production support came up with. They are not sure it will work but its all they have to try. Major ego hassles. Big man doesnt wanna apologise, but finally he see's theres no other way. So he comes to talk to the boy. He is in the meantime waiting in their equivalent of the maharaja lounge, being entertained and distracted by everyone available (read hr). This is all background. The main stuff starts when the boy asks for an explanation, for the earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, wars, the world and they cant give him any and its abt the argument between them. Rational explanations, Blame share, Cause and Effect all against a small boy saying, why?
the little gypsy boy at another new school
the mind keeps mumbling out its stream of logic, but somewhere, the words are lost before the reach the heart, the eyes. it keeps shuddering and it keeps raining. somewhere along the way u get so tired, of keeping up pretences, being polite, civilised, smile ... just smile ... takes such a huge effort.
the commonest of common denominators ... death. a handful of mustard seeds. how did it help her? it doesnt help me.
today is the 6th day of the Pujo. Once the world used to stop. My world. Now my world has shrunk to a pinhead, inside my heart, dried and shrunken heart.
I prayed a few nights back, before I closed my eyes, as the tears ran salty, sweet ... let me be alive again, please god, let me feel alive again.
always She smiles, sarcastic. to feel alive is to feel the pain again. to be alive is to face the truth again. to remember, to hurt, to expect, to smile and then cry. hiccups, shuddering breaths, crumpled bodies, on the floor, in the corner, behind the doors, on the tiles, lying face down in a pool of ur own bile and tears ... thats alive. or the only kind on offer for you for today.
bits and pieces of old friends, good times long, long ago, movies well loved, books once cherised, footprints left behind in the cement of memory, random memories shoved into an all receiving, all holding desk - from which (like "her") you can pull out long forgotten old loves for a smile and a tear ... diamonds and rust ... a mix and mangle of "remember when"s and "the first time i"s
from some dark and dusty corner, a cloud, a memory floats up ... a frozen pool, sorrounded by snow, a man huddled in the snow, in front of him a fire and eyes ... such eyes. is that really Your true face? are You really so jealous? must be, seeing the way life went.
why does it hurt? i didnt expect any of you to be my friends. to comprehend. to know how tightly we must hold the lid above our cages, we who have boiling demons inside, and cold snakes inside. i kept my distance, so that u wouldnt discern my masks. i wore my masks, bcz i was scared of you. down the ages, in different days and different ways, ur type has burnt my type at the stake. i have so much to hide, bcz i have so much inside ... and my deepest hate springs from my deepest love. i stay away wary, dancing my little dance ... bcz though i want to be your friend and come and play with you, i'm scared u'll notice: i have raw edges, here and there and festering bleeding wounds. they cant be healed. i've made my peace, with the stink and pain. u'll try to make it better and i'm so scared to ur symapthetic look. u thought me cold? a hypocrite. the pretender. i guess i am. then why, am i so sad?
Originally Posted at Prerona.
the commonest of common denominators ... death. a handful of mustard seeds. how did it help her? it doesnt help me.
today is the 6th day of the Pujo. Once the world used to stop. My world. Now my world has shrunk to a pinhead, inside my heart, dried and shrunken heart.
I prayed a few nights back, before I closed my eyes, as the tears ran salty, sweet ... let me be alive again, please god, let me feel alive again.
always She smiles, sarcastic. to feel alive is to feel the pain again. to be alive is to face the truth again. to remember, to hurt, to expect, to smile and then cry. hiccups, shuddering breaths, crumpled bodies, on the floor, in the corner, behind the doors, on the tiles, lying face down in a pool of ur own bile and tears ... thats alive. or the only kind on offer for you for today.
bits and pieces of old friends, good times long, long ago, movies well loved, books once cherised, footprints left behind in the cement of memory, random memories shoved into an all receiving, all holding desk - from which (like "her") you can pull out long forgotten old loves for a smile and a tear ... diamonds and rust ... a mix and mangle of "remember when"s and "the first time i"s
from some dark and dusty corner, a cloud, a memory floats up ... a frozen pool, sorrounded by snow, a man huddled in the snow, in front of him a fire and eyes ... such eyes. is that really Your true face? are You really so jealous? must be, seeing the way life went.
why does it hurt? i didnt expect any of you to be my friends. to comprehend. to know how tightly we must hold the lid above our cages, we who have boiling demons inside, and cold snakes inside. i kept my distance, so that u wouldnt discern my masks. i wore my masks, bcz i was scared of you. down the ages, in different days and different ways, ur type has burnt my type at the stake. i have so much to hide, bcz i have so much inside ... and my deepest hate springs from my deepest love. i stay away wary, dancing my little dance ... bcz though i want to be your friend and come and play with you, i'm scared u'll notice: i have raw edges, here and there and festering bleeding wounds. they cant be healed. i've made my peace, with the stink and pain. u'll try to make it better and i'm so scared to ur symapthetic look. u thought me cold? a hypocrite. the pretender. i guess i am. then why, am i so sad?
Originally Posted at Prerona.
55 Words (Disclaimer: Tagged)
Dying to be free
She looked down at her family and smiled. Childlike, gathered around the sofa, by the window. Some cried. Some stared. Some kept repeating: "i don't understand".
Only the body on the sofa stared straight up at her. in an unblinking, toneless gaze. like a tuneless song. she felt sad, guilty, but most of all: liberated.
Was tagged by Aparna. Will need to put a little thought into who I tag this time round. Since this was my second go, I really wanted to do something 'happy', but found it very hard. Will try again after a bit. These days my online time is really restricted.
Only the body on the sofa stared straight up at her. in an unblinking, toneless gaze. like a tuneless song. she felt sad, guilty, but most of all: liberated.
Was tagged by Aparna. Will need to put a little thought into who I tag this time round. Since this was my second go, I really wanted to do something 'happy', but found it very hard. Will try again after a bit. These days my online time is really restricted.
Was tagged into this by Parna, so here goes, in my bungling (55) words:
"He was excited: this was a break-through in his field. He'd be a national hero. The phone-calls started coming: newspapers, journals. A loud ringing sounded. A man in grey approached and put a peremptory hand on his shoulder. He frowned at the gaurd; then sighing, followed. Inmates of the assylum werent allowed outside after dark."
"The child kept crying; could she sense that her doting Papa would never return? She rocked it gently and thought: her love, would never come home again. Far away, the man sighed as the black mask was pulled on. His lawyer had fought hard, but they still gave the death penalty for child rape."
She glowed with excitement. She was going to meet him! She had to be careful: if someone from her family saw her, there might be trouble. She had waited a long time, believing there was someone, somewhere made just for her, and now she had found him. She met him on her birthday: her 60th.
"Unlike her home, this place had everything she might need. A smiling face bent down: her new Mummy. She swallowed her fears and smiled back. She missed her Ma's soft wrinkly face. She had to forget Her and love these people now. Ma had explained everything carefully after the accident they had both died in."
Now i have tag a couple of people ... dont kill me: looking forward to reading what u will come up with (not to mention, would like to spread the pain ;@))
Vie
Austere
Anumita
Belzeebub
Peg
Ash
Maddie
"He was excited: this was a break-through in his field. He'd be a national hero. The phone-calls started coming: newspapers, journals. A loud ringing sounded. A man in grey approached and put a peremptory hand on his shoulder. He frowned at the gaurd; then sighing, followed. Inmates of the assylum werent allowed outside after dark."
"The child kept crying; could she sense that her doting Papa would never return? She rocked it gently and thought: her love, would never come home again. Far away, the man sighed as the black mask was pulled on. His lawyer had fought hard, but they still gave the death penalty for child rape."
She glowed with excitement. She was going to meet him! She had to be careful: if someone from her family saw her, there might be trouble. She had waited a long time, believing there was someone, somewhere made just for her, and now she had found him. She met him on her birthday: her 60th.
"Unlike her home, this place had everything she might need. A smiling face bent down: her new Mummy. She swallowed her fears and smiled back. She missed her Ma's soft wrinkly face. She had to forget Her and love these people now. Ma had explained everything carefully after the accident they had both died in."
Now i have tag a couple of people ... dont kill me: looking forward to reading what u will come up with (not to mention, would like to spread the pain ;@))
Vie
Austere
Anumita
Belzeebub
Peg
Ash
Maddie