Ramblings

Saccharine

2009-09-03T23:27:00.001-07:00

The babbling brooks and the gaggling geese

flounce around while the sun bathes in glory.

Children squeal, their excitement infectious

as the adoring parents burst with pride and overflow with joy.

The baby's dimples and the colours of summer,

declarations of love floating on gentle breezes.

Entwined fingers, kites streaking across the skies,

ice cream dripping, littering sidewalks with happiness.

Sugary sweetness permeates, slowly steadily. Filling

the corners, soldering cynical cracks shut.

I need some coffee to give my senses respite.

Bitter, brewed, addictive realities.

I need the darkness and the aftertaste,

the empty paper cup to discard without care.

I need to be ignored at the coffee shop, I need reason to resent.

I need to pay in small change and watch

as the kid behind the counter grumbles.

Columbian dark roast. No pleasantries, no flirtatious smiles.

"Would you like some syrup in that?" the barista asks.

I chuckle as I walk out.

Discovery

2009-04-02T09:54:00.000-07:00

Along the edges, with arms outstretched,
we're concentrating.
Traversing the concentric walkways of
perfectly peeled rinds,
we're descending into the depths
of his fruity fragrance.
It intoxicates; it controls.
Like blind men on a rope,
we follow him who leads.
And he leads us to the heart
of these tangerine dreams.

We discover this new world,
through orange, tinted glasses.
Everything has layers, and
texture and truth. We reach out
to touch. To feel. To know.
The exploration is punctuated
by moments of cognisance.
Moments when the solid haze we're in
is pierced by a stray word.
But these moments pass, and
the tangerine dream regains control.

We're awoken from this reverie by
the acerbic edge of reality.
The citric acid cuts through it all.
Clean strokes, no mistakes.
We were at the nadir, swimming
in sweetness spiced with tangy passion,
but now, we return. We take careless steps
in the hopes of falling off the edge,
to be immersed in the tangerine dreams
once more.

This one definitely needs a rewrite, but it works as is for the time being. A momentary return to the colour phase...

Second Helpings

2009-02-14T14:07:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentines day, a love story sans the mush. And the love...

She had it all planned.

First, she'd slip him a note in his morning newspaper.

'A surprise awaits you tonight, my darling. Hurry home. Love, A.'

He'd be excited by the prospect of an elaborately planned surprise, and he'd do exactly as the note said. During the day, she'd make herself all pretty- just for him. She'd spend hours in front of the mirror, fixing everything so that it was just the way he liked it. Her hair would be perfect, every strand in place, and it would smell like oranges in winter. He liked oranges.

She'd wear the inky blue dress she'd borrowed from Anna, positioning the slinky straps so that they'd slip off easily when the time came. And then she'd make him the perfect meal. They say oysters are an aphrodisiac...

She'd pack up the food and a bottle of 'Riesling from Alsace' in a dainty wicker basket and make her way over to his place. She'd even take a cab, lest the chilly February winds ruined her perfectly arranged auburn hair. She'd carefully step out of the cab, and then sneak in past the doorman. It didn't take much to distract him.

The elevator would ding, signalling her arrival to anyone who cared enough to listen. She would make her way over to his apartment, letting her heels sink into the plush green carpet. There was the small matter of getting into his apartment, but she'd figure something out in time. There was never a dearth of bobby-pins in her handbag, and they made it look rather easy in all the movies she'd watched with him.

Once she entered the apartment, she'd disconnect the phone. She'd then use her phone to call Anna's office; she knew exactly where she'd find his address book. She knew everything about both him and that Anna...

She'd then proceed to hide all the photographs of Anna and him, pushing them behind the oven and under the couch. She'd put up a picture, of him with her in his arms, on the wall right opposite the front door. She'd set up the dining table and then wait by the window, watching the cars whiz by on the street below.

He'd come home and be utterly shocked. He'd see all that she'd done for him and realise the error of his ways. He'd hate himself for the two years he'd lost out on. And then, he'd find her, waiting for him, and all would be well again.

Yes, he'd come back to her. She had it all planned.

When the Old Lady Bakes...Again

2009-02-14T13:32:00.000-08:00

Revisiting the old lady who seemed to have a fondness for baking young men. Out of context, that sounds incredibly inappropriate; this is just a rewrite of a poem I put up a while ago. The focus has shifted a little and ambiguity has taken up residence in most of the stanzas. Yay.

This Sunday is as good a day
as any,
to whip up a miracle or two.
That's just what she'll do.
Yes, she'll give shape to that wonder-
and then, perhaps, knit a scarf.

Flipping through recipe cards,
cross-referenced and alphabetized,
she chooses her newest InstaCompanion® .
The granite counter-top glistens
in anticipation, while the wooden spoon
gets set for all the action.

A few aseptic techniques
and a pre-heated oven look on,
as the glorious intention is birthed.
In a special bowl,
of appropriate dimensions,
she nurtures the new-born idea.

Pinches of this and dashes of that.
Combat the blandness with a little intelligence.
Fondling the electric beater, she
lets the aroma of new life hang in the air.
Meanwhile, the wit, arrogance, and ideal jaw-line
are marinated in a tangy, hypnotic sauce.

Though she frowns upon superficiality,
appearances do matter.
Add some protein to the batter.
One and a half teaspoons of sincerity.
Then sieve in the charm
and a couple of splashes of inherited wealth.

Eugenics is all the craze these days...

To finish off, mix in an unwavering devotion
to the hand that created him.
And of course, before she forgets,
add good humour- to taste.
She would have garnished him
with her secret ingredient...

But only amateurs can afford to miss
the beginning of Jeopardy.

Happy Piggies

2009-02-08T12:08:00.000-08:00

She named them Binky and Bubbles. It seemed cute at first, but those guinea pigs weren't impressed. I'd done nothing to lessen their embarrassment, so they were out to ruin me, one sleepless night at a time. During the day, when I worked, they were absolute darlings. Uncharacteristically quiet, one wouldn't suspect them of anything. And just when I'd consider taking a nap, they'd recommence the squeaking and the scratching.

I hated them.

My daughter, however, adored them. They were a present from her vengefully sadistic father, and she claimed they were happiest in her room. Normally I'd argue, but not this time. After the divorce, I figured she deserved some leniency, and if that meant I had to let those damn pigs ruin everything, then so be it.

The unhappy mommy was the least of anyone's worries. It was all about the happy child, and ultimately, the happy piggies.

(The title was a complete rip-off of Chittz's GTalk status message. but in my defense, she was being my...muse? :P More microfiction, by the way. This time, I'm down to 149 words. Oh. Yeah.)

Resale

2009-02-03T20:46:00.000-08:00

The cool, bare floor failed to hold its own against the sunlight that streamed in through the open window. She paused momentarily to wipe her forehead before embracing the coarse material.

Her needle went in and out of the fabric, the frequency of its motion in phase with the leaky faucet. Her bare skin was chafed wherever it came in contact with the fabric, but she continued to sew. Her task was not trivial; these two edges were destined to be together. Her stitches had to be resilient, capable of withstanding anything.

She was making the merchant a new home. Every stitch mattered, if only to the grain merchant who lay dead beside her. He sold death in his sacks of produce, and now, she was returning the favour at prices nobody could beat.

She smiled, satisfied, as she knotted the end of the twine she'd been using to sew.

(This piece is exactly 150 words long; I wrote it with the intention of writing 'microfiction'. I realise I've come back to writing about mindless, meaningless murder all over again, but I can't help myself...)

Brothers in Arms

2009-01-20T22:05:00.000-08:00

The title was lifted from the Nicholas Cage starrer 'Lord of War'. I wanted to use the Ukrainian phrase they use in the movie, but not only would that lend additional political implications to the piece, it would also seem fairly out of place in a poem written entirely in English. Anyway, here goes.

Forward we’ll march, and together, wage war.
Brandishing edges that reflect the menacing glow
of pending doom, we’ll avenge every loss. A few more
for good measure, and then
we’ll trudge on further through the sanguine mud;
leached with liquid souvenirs of life,
it births the bloodied memories
of every traitor and every martyr.

Decked in glory and armed with honour, we shall rise-
emerging victorious- imparting wisdom to those
who have been blindfolded by false promises of eternity.
Rescuing ignorant minds that see not the superiority
that coats our ways. Could our intentions be any nobler?
Fear not, oh brothers, for we have Faith. We have Justice.
We have Power on our side.

The Voice guides me as I guide you. Follow
and I will lead you to that battleground.
We are the means, mine brethren,
the ink that shall stain memories-
the colour of every word, thought and reality.
Do not question the Voice; trust is of the essence.
Believe, as I have, in altruism, in the purity of our ideals.
We must kill together, conquer side by side, and whisper
our truths so that they resound, echoing
with force. Enough to shatter the dying lights
those fools follow ignorantly.

Envoys of the true Faith. Purveyors of real justice.
Descendents of the Voice and its Power.
But first, and foremost,
we are brothers in arms. In the name of all
that we know to be right,
forward we shall march,
and together wage war.

2008-12-16T13:01:00.000-08:00

Please vote :)

Planet Beautiful
Brickfish

When the Old Lady Bakes...

2008-12-03T22:55:00.000-08:00

An extremely random urge to write about food morphed into this. It makes me laugh...

This Sunday is as good a day
as any,
to whip up a miracle or two.
That's just what she'll do.
Yes, she'll give shape to that miracle-
and then, perhaps, knit a scarf.

A few aseptic techniques
and a pre-heated oven join her,
as the glorious intention is birthed.
In a special bowl,
of appropriate dimensions,
she commences to nurture the new-born idea.
A dash of wit.
A pinch of arrogance-
and then she folds in the charm.

Eugenics is all the craze these days...

Though she frowns upon superficiality,
appearances do matter.
Add some protein to the batter.
One and a half teaspoons of sincerity.
Then sieve in the intelligence
and a couple of perks.

All it needs now is
an unwavering devotion to the hand
that created him.

And of course, before she forgets,
add good humour- to taste.

Retribution

2008-11-21T22:00:00.000-08:00

I don't like this one too much, but while I'm able to keep up the writing, I thought I might as well update the blog. A poem that was the result of a little bit of anger and a whole lot of inspiration from multiple movies...

I've got a bullet in my pocket.
I've got a story to tell.
I've got my scars to sing me war songs,
I've got spirit you won't quell.

I've been walking past their tomb stones.
I've been wading in their blood.
I've been counting pleas and echoes -
Of sceptres buried in the mud.

I choose to touch, to heal the wounded.
I choose to cry with them all.
I choose to shoulder their last worries,
I choose to hold them as they fall.

I've seen the sorrow and the glory.
I've heard the parting day's knell
I've felt the burning need for vengeance.
I've still got that bullet, and my story
To tell...

Interlude

2008-11-09T21:47:00.001-08:00

One day, when I can be bothered, I intend to fix this one. Like major redecoration type fix-age.

Inky puddles coalesce.
Fusing, weaving, charging.
Hypnotic swirls rush forth.
Taking aim, they fire-
Piercing the precipitate.
Poking holes in the clouds,
Beams of light draw blood.
A faint pinkish glow leaks through
And stains everything it touches.

The White attempts to rebel-
Puffing and reaching for the corners of the earth.
Smudging, erasing.
Overpowering Colour.
Resisting the onset of Darkness,
It fights.
But brave soldiers must fall.
The minions of darkness will be rewarded.

Colours in one life, they rot away now.
Sacrificing themselves to the Lord.
To nobility.
To the night in dull armor.

Lights

2008-11-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

I've sort of been keeping an eye on IAW over the past few weeks. Admittedly, I haven't made any effort to make my presence felt, but I have kept in touch with those weekly themes that usually force me out of my literary-hibernations. Here's another one of 'those' pieces. The topic was 'Lights'.

It's kind of dark, but nowhere near as dark as I'd like for it to be. The vagues shapes and fuzzy outlines try and tell me all about the world that surrounds us. I don't need to be told though. We're here to learn, to explore with the bristling hairs on our skin. To dance a dance of discovery. Together, in the confines of this room.

Right now, every gesture is illuminated. You don't need vast pools of blinding light to cast accusatory shadows, you know; this resilient little orb of light does the job just as well as anything else would. It forces you to envision things you may not even want to imagine. It creeps into all the empty spaces, and watches you. Judges you. That's just how it is, my love.
We don't need to see each other. Have whispered words lost their charm? What about the goosebumps I get when you approach me, when you touch me? Tripping carelessly, intentionally, in the hopes of being caught? And the wispy strands of your laughter?
Yes, I could just close my eyes and stop complaining. But I want to see nothing. I actually want to see the emptiness, to gently walk through opaque clouds of darkness- with you.

Follow the sound of my breath, my darling. Guide your feet across the soft carpet, and let the curtains dance with you in the cool evening breeze as you make your way over. We'll discover new truths, we'll write stories on the walls. We'll absorb these moments and lock them away so we can look at them together someday. We'll paint landscapes behind our eyelids, and we'll trace pinnacles with our palms.

There's so much to do tonight, my sweet. Let's just start by turning out those lights...

It's All So Hazy...

2008-09-27T16:32:00.000-07:00

It's almost like this is some sort of elaborate game, but I'm the only one who knows that the game is being played. I'm the only one who knows that there are rules; the only one who is conscious of this preplanned reality. The only frikkin' player, while the rest of...well everything is like the obstacle that needs to be conquered to get to the next level. If you 'pass an exam' you get to roll the dice again. But wait, now you've gone and done something stupid, haven't you? Well guess what, you lose a turn and you've got to grow up now. You pushed someone off a building - well we're never going to run out of penalties. This time, you get to accept adult responsibilities and...and file your tax returns. Yes, you have to pay taxes, you moron. You're not a child anymore. That last penalty was supposed to fix your 'misconception', remember?! Last chance. Roll the dice. You know you want to know how the game ends. If it ends, that is. You won't know till you've rolled the goddamn dice. Oh no. A six. The snake pulls you back down to the beginning. You've got to do it all over again, only this time it'll be even harder. No, this is not a do-over. What are you, delusional?! This is how the creators of the game like to teach you the lessons of 'life'. Yeah, life. How the hell should I know what life is? I'm the narrator, I'm your conscience. I'm you. I only know what you know. That omniscient being, the one who's supposed to be guiding you - he doesn't really exist. Or does he? Who knows...You know what? Focus on the bloody game. Keep playing that game, fat boy. Respect the rules of the game. You say you don't know the rules. Who do you think you're fooling? You knew the lies would stop working one day. Perhaps the day has come...perhaps you are destined to relive everything, only this time you don't get to be ignorant. This isn't one of those asinine learning experiences; you don't get to be innocent. Basically, this is the biggest lie ever. The sad part is, this is the only truth you know. The only...well the only piece of information available to you. It's not anyone's responsibility to make it any easier for you. You're expected to tough it out. You're afraid of 'real life'. Fine. Convince yourself you can avoid it. Cling to every last chance, every little thing that gives you the opportunity to deny the existence of that thing we like to call the 'future'. Where's Godot when you need him? Damn you, Samuel Beckett. You and your lies. Estragon could be eating cake right now. But no!

Study, young one. Study. Study till you've got nothing left to live for, and you haven't got the guts to die. Wait, that's the case now, isn't it? Shit. The human mind is full of it. Would things be this aggravating if I was a rock? I can still be a rock if I want to be, can't I? A reclusive rock; no words, no sounds, no acknowledgment of...well...anything. Calvin really is light-years ahead of us all, eh? Where's the damn transmogrification machine when you really, really need it, eh? Nothing is really going to fix this. Fix what, you may ask? And who the hell gave you the permission to say anything, let alone question me? I am me, you are me, I am you. Yup, it's that screwed up.

Welcome to my world! The one where I talk to myself, and annoy the hell out of myself. Amusing, isn't it? Yeah, I bet a couple of sadists might get a laugh out of something like this. Indecision. I hate it. I hate it all! With every fibre of my being. The question that questions the existence of 'my being' still floats around this room. It dances with the dust, and begins to settle, only to be blown away by some lanky guy with a shitty immune system, who just had to sneeze. And then he leaves, taking every last shred of sanity with him. Yup. Nothing ever really made sense, did it? Guess what : it wasn't really supposed to.

2008-06-10T16:09:00.000-07:00

A Silly, Far-Fetched, Rhyming Rant

Out of the frying pan,
And into the fire.
The consequence of a half-baked plan,
Of unrealistic desire.

Making all sorts of claims,
“My tears can heal!”
Now I’ll have to change my name.
I’ll have to change it for real.

They want proof of my powers,
Of my healing tears,
We’ve been waiting for hours
Not a droplet appears.

Damn these womenfolk,
I can’t cry in front of them.
I’ll be the butt of every joke.
Wait. What about phlegm?

I’ll say, “You heard me wrong,
I’m a dude; a phoenix with pride,
I don’t cry, or break into song.”
And then I’ll take them ladies aside.

“It’s actually the phlegm that fixes all,
Every itchy, scratchy wound.
It even stops the worms, mid-crawl,
Especially handy when marooned.”

“The other guys are jealous
‘Cause tears are all they’ve got.”
And then the ladies’ll be all zealous.
I’ll ruffle my feathers, on the spot.

A casual ruffle, mind you,
Nothing unnecessarily fancy.
And I’ll throw in a burning-day demo too-
Just for that redhead, Nancy.

Maybe I’ll wink instead
But aren’t they passé, those winks?
How I wish I were dead!
Wait, I can’t die. Man this stinks!

I’m sure they’ll ask for proof.
And when I can’t cough it up
I’ll become “That good for nothing goof.”
I’ll be worse off than Bob, and he’s a schlup!

Eh! Screw the phlegm, and all the drama.
Screw the glorious undivided attention.
Screw the ladies (I wish!), I’ll be the avian Dalai Lama,
Once I’m done blaming it all on fluid retention…

So, no stupid frying pans.
And definitely no fires today.
No half-baked, bird-brained plans.
I’ll be a good little phoenix. Yay?

1. The topic said 'nonsense poetry'. I took that VERY seriously. Obviously.
2. I have nothing against phoenixes or any such magical creature. I was trying to write something that would work for both competitions...
3. I have nothing against "Bob"s either. Perhaps I was craving a palindromic name...subconsciously, of course.
4. Urban Dictionary.com tells me 'schlup' is actually a word, and not just a rare surname. I've used it to mean 'a lazy burden on society'.

Reservation For Two

2008-06-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

He guided her into the apartment, all the while making sure that the scarf covered her eyes properly. He wanted everything to be absolutely perfect, and he had been looking forward to surprising her all week. As he steered her towards the dining room, she felt around with her hands, smiling inwardly every time she recognised a corner, remembering a moment the two of them had spent together in that particular part of the apartment. This was the night she had been waiting for the past two years.
He carefully untied the scarf, and as she took a moment to readjust her vision, innumerable candles were lit, one by one. She looked around the room slowly, eventually settling her gaze on his face. It was calm. He looked content.
“I’ll go grab us a couple of glasses and then we can get the evening started,” he said, as he walked towards the kitchen.
“A little drinking, a little conversation and then we’ve got reservations at that French place you love,” he continued.
The sound of cupboard doors being opened and closed was punctuated only by the clinking of expensive crockery. She was still staring off into the distance, with a smile fixed on her face. The vibrating buzz of his phone woke her out of her reverie. She decided to check if it was important, and absent-mindedly picked the instrument up. One look at the screen brought it all back.
He returned from the kitchen, with two wine glasses balanced delicately between his fingers. He started to make a joke when he noticed how white her face had suddenly become.
“You lied to me.”
“What are you talking about Marissa?”
He carefully kept the glasses on the table.
“I trusted you when you told me you’d stopped seeing her, and you decided that meant it was okay to lie to me. How could you David? I trusted you…”
“It’s not how it looks. I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s a patient. I can’t ignore her because you think we had some sort of fling. Now don’t let this ruin our evening. Please.”
He sounded exasperated, as if this conversation were something he’d had to deal with every single day of his life.
“So you think I’m overreacting. You think I’m making this entire thing up? Obviously she wouldn’t overreact right? It’s always been her. What was this evening, David? You giving me one good night before you left me for her?”
She was crying hysterically now, her voice becoming more hoarse with every word she screamed at him.
“Don’t do this sweetheart. You know I love you. You have to trust me when I say there is absolutely nothing going on between me and Anne. She’s just a patient. Come on now. Calm down. Please,” he said, “just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t ever tell me to calm down. You and I both know that she was the first woman in your life. I was the rebound girl, wasn’t I? And now you’ve realised she’s the one for you…”
She didn’t know what to do with her hands; she started alternating between running them through her short brown hair and tracing the curves of the crystal vase that sat on the table closest to her.
“Marissa, honey, you know I love you more than anything else in the world. Why are you doing this?”
“Shut up, David. Just shut the hell up.” She threw the vase at him as she screamed this. He managed to duck in time, and the vase crashed against the wall.
She looked around for a moment before chucking more expensive crystal-ware at him. He avoided her ever improving aim deftly.
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
“What do you want me to say, Marissa? Do you want me to admit I’ve been sleeping with her? I’ll admit it if that’s what you want. I slept with her. Are you happy now?”
He leaned against the window, rubbing his eyes methodically.
She walked up to him, slowly, steadily. Her approach had purpose, and she had regained her composure.
“You lied to me.” Her voice was monotonous. Her face betrayed no emotion any longer.
“I can’t trust you ever again.”
That half hour ended with a final crash. And then all was silent.

* * *

She started wiping down every exposed surface she could spot. While vacuuming the dining room, she started thinking about what she’d do next. Cleaning always helped her sort out her thoughts. Once she was satisfied with the way everything looked, she walked into the bedroom and got dressed. That lovely red dress David bought her for her last birthday would finally be worn today. She even had the pearls to match.
She walked out of the apartment building, smiling at the doorman. Philip had always been a helpful old man, and even today, he offered to hail a cab for her.
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the vehicle and found herself staring at the French restaurant David had brought her to for their first date. She’d always loved this restaurant.
While she waited at the bar to be seated, she started thinking about how she’d deal with Anne. A stern warning perhaps. No. That wouldn’t be necessary; not anymore. Just as she was trying to recall where David kept his patient files, the hostess called out for her.
“Maxwell. Reservation for two?”
She got up and walked towards the dining area with the perfect smile on her face. As she walked past the hostess, she quietly muttered, “I’ll be dining alone this evening.”

Best Laid Plans

2008-05-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Written for the weekly theme contest on IAW. This week's theme was 'Architecture'.

The last stretch of my journey began at the carved archway. An archway that boasted of exquisite craftsmanship, of trained artists, of glistening marble, and of ornate myths I was told to believe in. It was the last opportunity for me to reconsider my decision. It was the last physical landmark that separated my imprisonment from my freedom.

I walked on the cobblestone pathway that took me through that carved archway, through elaborately designed landscapes with grassy hosts waiting at exact intervals. I walked on the muddy trail that led me through towering greenhouses flaunting exotic flora, through pre-planned forests where everything dutifully did as it was told. I walked on gravel roads that guided me as I crossed perfectly quaint bridges, as I parted chlorinated pond water so pure one could drink it. I walked slowly, but steadily towards the beautiful mansion that would soon be my new home.

The mansion itself was, perhaps, the most magnificent sight of them all. Extending beyond anything the naked eye could mark as an edge or boundary, it had forced everything around it to bow down in submission. Every stone exuded a sense of control. Every gilded window invited you to peer in, but if you were brave enough to take up the offer, it seemed as if the window itself was judging you for falling prey to its enticements. These uncountable windows served to highlight the fact that there was only one door. One door that opened into the house, and then closed with a resounding finality, thereby making you the mansion’s next adornment.

I remember the days when I took sunlight, and fresh air for granted. I remember the days when I wished I had a roof over my head, and three meals a day. I remember the day I chose to serve this Lord over the one I truly believed in. I remember the day I chose luxury over freedom- the day I succumbed to the allure of this man-made hell.

Order

2008-05-15T18:07:00.000-07:00

Another piece I was unable to submit, due to blasted time zones, and laziness. Oh well, this is why we have blogs. I haven't done any research, or reading, so this character and his habits are completely fictitious. I'm experimenting with sentence fragments, so if you do comment, mention if they work. Thanks.

No. Stop. Halt. We must restart. We must begin from the beginning. We must recommence. First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Blinking is important. We must blink if we want to do this properly. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. Not eight, not ten. Nine steps. Note to self, we must sterilize the washroom. In fact, we must do it now. And then we must restart. And then we must begin from the beginning again. And then we must recommence.
The washroom is clean. It is sparkling. And clean. No germs. None whatsoever. We are pleased. We must return to the bedroom quickly. Now, back to what we were doing. Back to what we were doing, in that exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Exact, ritualistic and ordered manner - exactly 33 characters including the comma. We are pleased yet again. 33 is a good number. 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27, 30, 33, 36, 39, 42, and 45 are also all good numbers. There are other good numbers, but these are the first 15. 15 is a good number. We would list more, but then it will no longer be 9:15 pm, and we will have to wait till it is 9:18 pm to restart. To begin from the beginning. To recommence.
First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
We can see everything. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the clean washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the sterile bathroom in nine steps. We must remove the toothbrush from the shelf. We must remove the toothbrush swiftly. We must take care not to infect the toothbrush. We must then proceed to disinfect the toothbrush. Disinfect. 9 letters. 9 is a good number.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. 3 minutes on the left. 3 minutes on the right. 3 minutes on the molars in the upper jaw. 3 minutes on the molars in the lower jaw. 9:27 pm.
We must replace the toothbrush. The toothbrush must be positioned on the shelf. The toothbrush must be in its place. Everything in its place, just the way it should be. Order is good. Everything in its own place.
Nine steps to the bedroom. Those same nine steps. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. It's like a mesmerizing pattern. Mesmerizing pattern. 18 letters. 18 is a good number. The bed calls to me. No creases. No wrinkles. No crinkles. No wreases? No. We cannot just make up words. We cannot invent them. We must use words that exist. What if everyone started to invent and make up things? No. We cannot have that.
The yellow sheets. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly yellow. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. 3 steps to the bed. It is almost time. 9:29 pm. We must wait a minute. We must not rush things, or else we may have to restart. Everything has to be done in an exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Yes, we agree. We must be patient. 9:30 pm.
We must climb onto the bed, carefully. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. We must tuck the blanket underneath us. No corners poking out. A perfect cocoon. We must find the light switch now. Ah. There it is. Right where we left it. Right where we told it to be. Right where it is supposed to be. The light switch must come to us. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. One more darkness, and one more light. Then an extended period of darkness. Then sleep. Then tomorrow, and all the opportunities for perfection that tomorrow brings. Extended period of darkness. 24 letters. 24 is a good number. Perfect.
We must time this well. Both eyelids must collapse simultaneously, in synch. Synchronization. 15 letters. Left eye- ready. Right eye- ready. May the collapsing commence. Countdown. 30. 27. 24. 21. 18. 15. 12. 9. 6. 3. Now. Wonderful. Synchronization achieved. We are pleased. We are very pleased. We must now say goodnight to everyone. To the people who visit us everyday. To the people who don't visit us everyday. To the tables that keep us company. To the perfect yellow sheets. We must say goodnight to everyone. Goodnight everyone. We will meet you in the light. In the light of the morning. In the light that shoos away the darkness. Shoos. 5 letters. 5 isn't a good number. In the light that drives away the darkness. Drives. 6 letters. 6 is a good number. Perfect.
Before we forget, we must wish each other goodnight. Where's the civility when we don't wish each other goodnight. We're all we have.
Goodnight, Shadow.
Goodnight, Sir.

Promise

2008-05-07T05:09:00.000-07:00

A promise that promises to be mine forever more
A promise that promises to remain unfulfilled...

The secrecy, the silence, the soothing symphony
Embraces of compliance, a humble soliloquy
In the folds of curtains, placating promises will dwell
Acutely uncertain of the assurances you sell
From the depths of the still air, your false odes still resounding
As you whispered that you cared, sincerity astounding
In my pillow's feathers, I search for your consolations
Against my will I'm tethered, I hide from these sensations
Kindling my blind faith in you, I cling to all that you were
Unaware of what you'll do- every promise now a blur.
I falter, I trip, I stumble; finding answers unknown,
Meaning hidden in mumbles. I know nothing's set in stone,
Yet I take comfort in your promises. Though lies they may be,
To me they mean that you bother trying; they mean you're with me.

Silhouetted, She Stands

2008-05-06T13:35:00.000-07:00

Based on my interpretation of the Ezra Pound poem I have posted on here before.

In a crowded metro station, during the evening rush hour, the flickering tubelights illuminate all that is wrong with the public transportation system. Waves of passengers make their way around me. Women in suits and scarves, walk by briskly, avoiding my gaze. The men wear hats that leave the exact contours of their faces to the imagination of the beholder. That is all it is now, a crowded metro station.

I stand there, unable to move. Eventually, crowds become individuals, I hear footsteps that stand out from the collective clacking of expensive high heeled footwear. Faces are no longer incomplete sketches; the artist has finally managed to fill in the details and paint in the colours. He's probably all out of black paint. It feels like the world has passed me by in that moment. And yet, I stand there, unable to move.

My eyes wander aimlessly. An efficient and trained voice informs me of my train's arrival. The masses freeze; they're prepared to make a run for it. She is a sudden apparition of gold in the endless sea of black, in those faces, in those footsteps. A golden yellow glow, offset by her auburn hair. As I stare at her, the individuals coalesce again, into one crowd. She stands silhouetted against the dark masses. I blink and she's gone. The metro station is empty now, with no signs of the moments that have passed. My wait is extended. My eyes continue to wander aimlessly, searching for that apparition, for that silhouette.

Moonlight Sonata

2008-04-20T23:02:00.000-07:00

(I have been listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata for the past half hour, and I don't think I've ever felt this serene. Anyways, I was expressing what I thought the music meant to Petra on MSN...and then that kind of morphed into this. It's so far from perfect that perfect isn't even a dot in the distance, but it is definitely heartfelt. For those of you who haven't yet heard the beauty that is this song...here's a youtube link...)

The air is cold and dry, devoid of the comforting whispers one usually associates with it. Not even the ocean dares to disturb the song of silence. The crashing waves are muted; their invitations to the sand remain unheard. The moonbeams filter through our defenses, an innocuous spotlight. But the clouds object to this act, and promptly protect our solitude from the unwanted illumination. We are truly alone now, just you and me. No audience, no company. Just the refreshing loneliness.
We walk on the dark and desolate beach, and contemplate the meaning of life, reliving all the memories we cherish, remembering every smile, hug, kiss and love...
And we sigh because of how beautiful these thoughts are, and how they complete us in more ways than one. We wonder where the years have gone. We wonder how we let it all slip away from us. We wonder why the last farewell wasn't good enough. And then we remember the faces, we remember the touch. We walk slower, dragging our feet through the sand. We tighten our grip on each other and make quiet promises. And then the horizon seems to come closer. It is no longer unattainable. The end has neared, and departure is imminent. We come to a standstill. Eyelashes protest as real sights are exchanged for images of the mind. A solitary note is heard, piercing the emptiness momentarily. That one brave tear escapes the confines that bind my emotions. And I feel it all leave me. We turn to face each other. And we have nothing to say.
We leave the beach with wet feet, wishing the walk could have lasted a while longer...

Untitled...as of now

2008-04-17T22:51:00.000-07:00

A sea of black. We all sit together- to remember, to cherish, to comfort and to mourn. The specious totality of the cathedral is intimidating. Yet we sit, unaffected. The silent melodies float through the dry winter air, punctuated by the occasional scuffling of feet. A tear or two is shed for show, a comforting glance is exchanged. The service comes to an end.
Slowly the crowds pour out through the double doors. Then emptiness. The cathedral watches as silence and emptiness waltz down the aisle, eventually settling into the corners. The doors reopen; shoes click-clack their way in. Rhythmically they approach the altar. Halt. The polished coffin still rests, undisturbed, unloved. She gazes. She searches. She wonders. She cries. From the folds of her dress, she pulls out a rose. A rose as red as the memories that haunt her.
Emptiness reigns again. The dust has settled, and the coffin has been removed. All that remains is the aftermath- the delicate petals crushed mercilessly, the bare stem- stripped of its thorns. Its mangled remains adorn the cold floor, the only memory of that coffin, of that final encounter.

The Exchange

2008-04-10T19:50:00.000-07:00

amyj: So, do you accept defeat? You realise there's no point in arguing right?
thomas26: You wish Amy. You wish...I never accept defeat- because I never lose. Mwahaha. So yeah. You owe me something...;)
amyj: The deal was that the loser would give the WINNER whatever the WINNER asked for. We both know you couldn't possibly be the winner...which leaves me. So I think it is you who owe me something.
thomas26: Don't make me hurt you! Not in front of the boss. Give it to me! NOW!!!
amyj: But you lost the bet. :P
thomas26: What if I told you I had something to offer you? Kind of like a compromise...
amyj: I'm listening. Type oh sore loser! I give thee permission.
thomas26: Hey! I am being nice here. So no mean-ness.
amyj: Yeah, whatever. Now spill. What is this offer? *acts intrigued*:P
thomas26: I'll give you half of mine in exchange for half of yours. Sound fair?
amyj: I'm going to have to get back to you on that one. Right after I cleverly trick that idiot Jenkins into thinking that I really am working on the report. Gimme a minute.

amyj appears to be offline.

thomas26: This is not fair. You can't just leave me like this. I thought we'd be slackers together- and you kill all my hopes and dreams by pretending to work! *tear*
thomas26: Amy! Come on. My offer was practically irresistible...you know you want it ;)
thomas26: Amy?!
thomas26: :(

amyj has just signed in.

amyj: You're desperate Tommy boy. DESPERATE. Remember, we're in this together. We promised ourselves that yesterday's stash would be our last purchase of the week.
thomas26: I know...but it's only Thursday! :(
amyj: We can do this Thomas. I am pretty sure we can go three days without buying any more of the 'cursed' stuff :P And I'm covered. I mean you're giving me your's too, because of how I won and all.:P
thomas26: Hey! Did you not read the bit about my super-intelligent compromise type plan?
amyj: What plan? Are you trying to get out of giving me what is rightfully mine? You crook!
thomas26: Shut up. And listen/read. I propose we conduct an exchange. I give you half of mine, you give me half of yours. Fair?
amyj: well...I suppose this could be tolerable. But I don't like the green ones. What if my half has only the green ones?
thomas26: Fine. You can pick your half! So do we have a deal?
amyj: I know I am going to regret this Tommy, but....deal! Let me remind you- this is only because I'm stuck being your friend for as long as I can avoid getting fired from this place. And you are forever indebted to me, obviously. Are we clear?
thomas26: Yeah. Whatever. Now get your butt over here. I need my share before you decide to change your mind.
amyj: On second thought, I think I am going to change my mind....;)
thomas26: NO! I'm coming over there. Don't you dare leave me all the horrid blue ones.
amyj: *evil grin*
thomas26: Don't even think about it....

thomas26 appears to be offline

thomas 26 has just signed in

thomas26: You know who we need to pray to? The guys who created Smarties. I mean, seriously. The chocolatey goodness! And the fun of picking out all the pretty colours.
amyj: You know you scare me sometimes. But other times, I am inclined to agree with you. The guy who created gummy bears needs a monument too.
amyj: Hey! I thought we said I wouldn't get any of the green ones. You lied to me!
thomas26: *evil grin* It's all part of the plan Amy. I mean if we want to stick to this 'we-will-only-buy-candy/chocolate-once-a-week' regime, you're going to have to learn to live without the goodness of gummy bears...and that would be the equivalent of sticking a bag of green gummy bears under your nose :D
amyj: I don't think I like you anymore. *tear* It's so green.
thomas26: You lied to me too!!!! There's a blue smarty in here. A blue one! It's so luridly blue....eurgh! How could you?
amyj: This is what is called a fair exchange Tommy boy. And I think I like you again. ;)

In Colour

2008-04-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

A remnant of the 'colour' phase that I went through recently. This time, however, I've tried to use the colours to tell a story, rather then tell a story about the colour...
This is unedited as of now because I can't be bothered...I will get down to rereading it in due time. Till then, here goes...

Green is the colour of the pine needles littering the dull beige carpet. Green is the sound of the Christmas carols playing on the radio in the kitchen. Green is the sheen of the torn scraps of wrapping paper, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the room. Green is the curtain adorning the ornate windows- thick, soft and impenetrable. Green are the eyes that gaze into the distance, searching for answers. Green is the smooth silky dress, covering the dead woman who lies spread eagled on the floor.
Red are the scars across her flawless skin. Red is the blood that trickles down the left side of her face, in a tiny rivulet that travels a well worn path. Red is the hair that hangs awkwardly limp, unused to being disturbed. Red is the lipstick smeared across her face, dragged ruthlessly by an untrained hand. Red is the nail varnish on her toes, that isn't yet dry. Red is the ache in his heart, as he watches her die a slow death.
Golden are the shattered ornaments that tell the tale of a struggle. Golden are the expensive jewels that have fallen off the thread that held them together. Golden are the specks in her eyes that no longer twinkle. Golden is the helpless puppy that whines to no avail. Golden is the single strand of hair that escaped the hair-stylist's trained eye, the one that is now covered in the blood that flows from her skull. Golden is the watch that she clutches in a hand that is now experiencing rigor mortis.
Purple are the bruises, well concealed by make up. Purple is the sky that signals the arrival of dusk. Purple is the shirt that is stained with her blood. Purple is the bottle of perfume, sitting on the table, untouched and innocent. Purple is the tablecloth now draped over her body. Purple are the flowers growing in the back garden...
Silver is the shovel that digs a hole. Silver is the knife that lies casually on the beige carpet, unabashedly flaunting the remnants of her blood. Silver is the moon that brings light to the burial site. Silver is the mist in the cold night air. Silver is the sound of a man scared out of his mind.
Black is the colour of her new home. Black is the garbage bag that contains the crime scene. Black are the embers of the now dead fire. Black is the sound of an empty house, the sound of silence. Black is the pain she can no longer be plagued by. Black is the death that nobody will ever know about. Black is the hope that she no longer has. Black is the betrayal he tried to punish. Black is the jealousy that invades his mind. Black is the guilt he hasn't yet had the pleasure of meeting. Black is the ultimate test of faith. Black is the end. Black is one of many beginnings...

I finally have a favourite poem...

2008-04-04T18:16:00.000-07:00

So I'm in a regular first year English course, and we do what any other first year English student would- we analyse poetry. Two days ago, I came across a poem that honestly had me spellbound. I mean, it makes so much sense while at the same time being so abstract. Thought I'd post it on here.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.

-Ezra Pound

And now I am going to try and cite this properly :P
Pound, Ezra. "In a Station of the Metro." The Broadview Anthology of Poetry. Ed. Herbert Rosengarten and Amanda Goldrick-Jones. Ontario: Broadview Press Ltd., 1993.

Through the keyhole

2008-04-02T15:30:00.000-07:00

He looks agitated. He's pacing. He doesn't know what else to do. His fists are clenched. He occasionally runs his fingers through his unkempt hair. He comes to a standstill. He slowly turns to face her. His hands are now at his waist. He lets out a sigh.
She doesn't realise he's looking at her. She continues to sob quietly. Her face is buried in her palms. Her back is almost arched as she sits on the edge of the bed. She looks up at the photograph on the wall. She runs out of tears. She turns to face him.
Nothing is said. They stare in silence, their gazes unable to bridge the distances between them. The decision has been made. Through this minuscule keyhole shaped window, I watch. I watch as my mother pushes back the stray strands of hair decisively. I watch as my father methodically wipes his spectacles. I watch as they give each other one last look. I watch my life change, a mute spectator on this side of the keyhole.

I Cry

2008-03-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

An attempt to get over something; an attempt to vent without giving too much away. This has absolutely no poetic merit, but it helps me reorganise my thoughts. Sometimes you just get really lonely, and you wish things were different. You wish you'd said somethings, you wish you'd kept somethings to yourself. Sometimes, however, you wish you weren't so dependent- you wish you didn't need that crutch, that support. On the surface you may think you're fiercely independent, but the fact that you need someone to talk to all the time- does that make you weak? I wonder...

Anyways.

The tears
They don't stop flowing
The sorrows
They don't go away
I'm broken
The pain is growing
And I am tired
I have nothing to say
So I just cry
Into this emptiness
I just cry
Where I won't be heard

The memories
They don't stop fading
The dreams
Come crashing down
There's nothing left to love
There's nothing worth hating
As I sit searching
For something to call my own
So I just cry
Mourn the solitude
I just cry
Wishing there were more

Those last words
They don't stop echoing
The anger
Refuses to subside
But it isn't easy
To forget and move on
There's nowhere to go
There are no feelings left to hide
So I just cry
Failing to bridge the distance
I just cry
All alone.

Home

2008-03-23T14:31:00.000-07:00

This week's theme on IAW is Home. I, by chance, happened to find this poem/collection of thoughts, and realised it would fit perfectly. But to be fair, I won't submit this seeing as how I have already won once. So onto my blog it goes!

The melodious music in the voices I know

The caressing embrace of all that surrounds me

A pleasant aroma of familiarity in the air

In the solid but friendly walls

A vivid sense of security resides

Away from the sun scorched world

In the privacy of my own little nest

Where concern hangs in every word

Where my sister's twitter brightens all

Where anger too is accepted, and understood

Where being honest is as easy as it should be

Where love adorns life

And where a twinkling smile

Can always be seen, always be sensed

Where each moment is dancing with joy

Neither cover nor mask is necessary

No costumes, no need to pretend

For here you can be yourself

And still be truly accepted

The cradling feathers of my pillow

The carpets that welcome me with whispers

My mother's reassuring touch

And my father's elusive smile.

Echoing the happy laughs

Each brick is a part of my home

And my home is the best part of me

In the Shadows of the Evening

2008-03-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

An attempt to write a sonnet- which, I think, is an unbelievably difficult thing to write by the way. I've sort of got a volta somewhere in there, and hopefully the attempts at adhering to technicalities are passable.

Upon the horizon, the sun has set,
Yet the sheltering night wanders astray.
The candles sit waiting, lest you forget;
Though hidden, the darkness is on its way.
Sensing the interlude, prey rushes home,
While in preparation, hunters emerge.
Bathed in the twilight, and tinted in chrome,
The ripples and heavens begin to merge.
The sights and sounds, all mysteries galore.
Guarded secrets and treasures, free at last,
Only to vanish with dusk, sans furore.
Another chance gone- a thing of the past.
But the true wonder lies in ignorance, not knowing;
In waiting, and watching, in fascinations growing.

Surgery

2008-03-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

Just a random short story, don't even remember why I started to write it. Anyways...

"Don't you have faith in me?", she asked with a sigh.
"Of course I do honey. It's just that...I mean you're sure you can do this right?" His voice sounded unsure, almost as if he were afraid of how she'd react.
"Are you serious? You think this is rocket science? For god's sake, I know what I'm doing. Now hold still." She walked up to him slowly and deliberately, avoiding his worried gaze.
"Come on Rob. Relax. I've told you before and I'm telling you again. I know exactly what I am doing. So, do you want the thing that looks like a knife, the pinchy thingy or this bright shiny needle?", she asked in a childlike voice. He could tell she was mocking him on purpose, and her voice did nothing to mask the sudden twinkle in her eyes.
He thought for a moment before answering.
"I don't care. Just make it quick."
"Alright. You can stop shivering now." She clenched her fists in frustration as she saw him close his eyes, as if he were preparing to go to war.
"You're acting completely immature Rob. Now come on, let me get this out."
"Hey! I resent that. I am not acting immature. I'm in a lot of pain here okay. You have no idea what I'm going through."
"My apologies. I realise this must be phenomenally hard for you."
He avoided her gaze; he knew she was probably rolling her eyes the way she usually did. After a moment's silence she quietly whispered in his ear, "You, good sir, are pathetic."
He frowned at her, as she barely managed to suppress a giggle.
"Get it over with will you!"
"Okay then. Here goes." She positioned the forceps, and finished the job with one clean stroke of her wrist.
"See, that wasn't so bad now, was it?", she cooed in her sweetest voice.
"Well it did hurt a bit, but nothing I couldn't handle." His voice regained its usual smug quality.
"Yeah sure, because men don't feel pain right?" Her sarcasm wasn't in the least bit subtle.
"Exactly. Glad you agree.", he responded teasingly, while flexing his relatively flaccid biceps.
"So now that we've established how manly you are, how would you like to meet the cause of all the pain that you handled ever so bravely?"
His smile vanished instantaneously, only to be replaced by a blank stare.
"That's not funny."
She pulled his hand towards herself and placed a thin splinter on his palm.
"Of course it isn't funny. I never said it was. It's just really manly isn't it?", she chuckled.

Waking up to White

2008-03-03T21:53:00.000-08:00

Another colour based piece. Turns out these are a lot of fun to write...Slightly more morbid...

I open my eyes- slowly, cautiously. I take in the surroundings, I breathe in the white air, I feel the white sheets, I smell the white room, I hear the white tears.
I sense them staring at me. I feel their hesitant attempts to hold me, to come near me, to be with me. The white hurts my eyes. I close them- slowly cautiously.

I hear the incessant beeps- one loud one not so loud, then loud again. The window appears to be open. The comfortingly cold air tiptoes into the room. It carefully makes its way towards me, taking care not to disturb the sterile room and its sterile inmates. It tickles my chin, it plays with my fingers, it fills my lungs, it dances on my tummy, it welcomes me. The snowflakes outside the window slow their descent. They shout their greetings through the open window. The white rituals begin. The white existence commences.

I look around my new home. Walls daubed in the brightest of colours. Not a white patch to be seen. Yellow sunshine, blue clouds, green grass, red poppies, orange ice cream, purple dresses, magenta swings, ochre sand, teal petals. All the white has been painted over. White has been overpowered. I couldn't be more separate from my new home.

The empty corners, the empty back yard, the one student classrooms, the house with no neighbours. White gave them shame. White gave me solitude. White silently wields its sword. White wages war with all the colours and brightness, the most tainted and twisted form of purity ever encountered. White is the darkest of them all.

Every overprotective gesture, every engulfing embrace, every peck on the cheek, every declaration of love, every wave goodbye while I wait to be rescued. Every white memory haunts me now. Every horrid remark, every desperate attempt to hide disgust and disbelief, every understanding nod at the sound of the word albino. Every white memory haunts me now...

Getting to Know Green

2008-03-03T00:25:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this was written in response to the one word topic 'Green'...I don't claim to be sure if this relates to the topic, or if it makes any sense. But I was kind of trying to talk about the regular stuff associated with green in a relatively irregular way...Here goes...

A haze. A confusing illusion. The colour is thick, dense; it's almost solid. I try to brush it aside. I try to make my way through it. I try to pierce the darkness- the green darkness. But it fights back, stands strong, gloats victoriously. It graciously calls me a loser.
The haze diffuses farther, reaching every corner of the infinite room. The illusion becomes hypnotic; it verges on becoming hallucinogenic. The victory is not enough. It must destroy, it must overpower, it must shred every last emotion till its talons are dripping with the spoils of war. Only I never realise it is war. I wait, I wonder; I pray for it to end, while it decides to take everything to a new level.
I try to resist, it wants me to succumb. I refuse to be passive. If this is war, I will not hesitate to fight. I will invade the mists, the haze, and the illusions. My thoughts will slice, cut, and kill every minion. I will wield my optimism- the only weapon I have. I will not let green reign over me. I will not let green reign over hope. I will not let green reign over memories. I will not let green reign over novelty. I will not let green reign over serenity. I will not let green reign over humility. I will not let green reign over all that is life.
It will be forced to obey, forced to accept defeat, forced to accede. It will become one with all that it wished to overthrow, all that it tried to crush. It will be redefined.
I command thee oh green darkness to come into the light. I command thee to make thine senses vulnerable, to feel all there is to feel. I command thee to choose thine penance. Whether it be a submissive retreat, or an attempt to redeem thine honour, I command thee to be honest to thy own self.
No longer a haze. The illusions make sense. The colour is true, deep, strong; it's almost ethereal. It transcends petty ambitions. It looks to a higher power. It is everywhere; it pervades the mind, the heart, the soul and every thought. It seeps through the deep seas. It bends beneath the morning dew. It glistens in the peacock's feathers. It sags under the Christmas ornaments. It holds together the rest of the rainbow. And in doing so, it holds a power far greater than any tyrant could. Green has fought its own demons, and has finally emerged victorious in the truest sense of the word. Green is no longer the enemy. Green is now the harbinger of life.

Perpetual Limbo

2008-03-02T16:32:00.000-08:00

The edges are hazy.
Definitions undefined,
The decisions are lazy,
Meaning left behind.
Nothing is exact,
Not everything is grey.
Neither fiction nor fact,
So much to say.
The mind is clouded;
Heart all aflutter.
Memories are crowded-
Lost in the clutter.
Emotions deceiving,
Experiences surreal,
Blindly believing,
Not knowing what to feel.
On a quest for clarity,
Lost behind the scenes.
Battling similarity
Stuck in between.

Identity

2008-02-22T16:42:00.000-08:00

What if I am just a shadow?
An image on the wall,
Of what someone else is doing
With my body and my life
Am I actually just a void?
Darkness in light
Fulfilling my duty
I cannot choose what I want
I get what she wants
I do what she wants
I go where she goes
I am just a shadow
I am a mere reflection
Her reflection
No color in my life
No feeling or emotion of my own
For I am just an image, a perception
And my life is just a dream
Dreamt by her in her free time
What more could a shadow want…

Something I wrote during one of my 'moods'...

So Near Yet So Far...

2008-02-21T14:42:00.000-08:00

I have a tendency to think of an end and then work towards it...This would be one of those cases...I remember starting this off as a personal imaginative piece for my seventh grade English class...Somehow when I look at this today, I remember how desperately I wanted to build up to that end. Don't think I managed to...in fact it just ends rather lamely- sort of incomplete if you will...
Oh well...here goes...

* * *

“Freedom and justice for all! Our own homeland!”

“Tyranny will fall, evil will die and the truth will rise above all!” screamed Raghavan to the eagerly listening crowd.

“We have as much right as they do”, he continued, “so then why are we considered inferiors? Why aren’t our demands met?”

His audience responded with cheers and shouts, their voices turning more hoarse with each cry.

A resistance meeting was in progress and their leader, Raghavan, was inspiring his fellow revolutionaries to stand up for their cause. In hope of recruiting as many new members as possible, these meetings were held regularly in clandestine locations to avoid arrest by the army.

In the dark and foul smelling basement of an abandoned factory were assembled fifty youths, hanging onto Raghavan’s every word as if God himself were speaking. He stood on a makeshift platform, with his beloved Shyama by his side, both of them holding hands and drawing energy from the crowd’s enthusiasm. The single light bulb that hung from the ceiling struggled to stay alight, providing the only illumination the resistance members dared to use.

“Are you willing to devote yourself to our cause?” asked Shyama, screaming as loud as she could.

Though the question wasn’t posed to anyone in particular, the response was immediate and unanimous. A handsome smile crossed Vasan’s face, as he sat and polished their ammunition in a corner of the warehouse. He was proud to be a part of this experience and the fact that there were so many others like him who were willing to work hard for their homeland, pleased him. The only person who wasn’t thrilled with the support they were getting was Dilipan, one of the four founders of this resistance group. As he stood guard at the gates of the factory, the only thoughts that crossed his mind were those of Shyama. He had never wanted to be a part of this whole thing, and it was only on her insistence that he had finally consented. He loved her more then he loved anything else in the world and was willing to do anything to make her feel the same way about him. However, he had realized early on that she had place in her heart for none other then Raghavan, and this infuriated him. He often asked himself what Raghavan had that he didn’t have, and the only answer he could think of was Shyama. So here he was, playing the part of a security guard, while Raghavan got both the girl and the power. How he wished he could get revenge for the way he had been insulted by them all.

At that precise moment a bullet whizzed past his arm, grazing it. Unable to scream or react he fell to the ground, his eyes closing against his will. Luckily, his silence was what saved the rest of the group from arrest and death. After what felt like an eternity to him, he finally managed to overcome the pain and open his eyes. He felt cool water being splashed on his face and couldn’t help but savor the attention he was getting from Shyama due to his injury.

She let out a sigh of relief when she saw that her friend had regained consciousness, and called out to Raghavan and Vasan. The meeting had been adjourned in a hurry after the shot and now the four friends were at their small home in the middle of the forest, tending to their injured comrade. On hearing that all was well with Dilipan, the other two men rushed to his side. Their appearance disappointed Dilipan, and he wished he were unconscious again so that he could be alone with Shyama again. Both Raghavan and Vasan helped prop him up against a tree trunk as they prepared to go over their plan for the next attack one last time. Shyama quietly got up and went to Raghavan’s side, away from a fuming Dilipan. He had a plan of his own to go over, and he knew he had to convince Vasan to join him if it was to be a success.

That night, after the others had gone to sleep, Dilipan walked across to Vasan’s tent, prodding him gently to wake him up. And in that sleepy state, Vasan was easily convinced by Dilipan, of Raghavan’s supposed intentions. Together they slipped away, walking as fast as they could, in hope of reaching the army base before sunrise.

The next morning, Raghavan and Shyama didn’t bother to wait for the other two, and they drove off to the city to make final arrangements for their attack. On the way they stopped to meet with the other members so they could all make an early start. However, they were unable to find anyone at home. All the houses looked ransacked. As they drove on towards the next member’s house, Shyama spotted a jeep full of soldiers outside it. She alerted Raghavan, and he drove off in the opposite direction, coming to a halt only when he was sure they could not be seen by anyone on the jeep. Both of them watched in horror as the soldiers entered the house. However, two people remained on the jeep. After a moment of thought, Raghavan realized that it was Vasan and Dilipan on the jeep. Tears came to Shyama’s eyes as she too realized that they had been betrayed by two of their own. They knew that the jeep would come searching for them too, and so they looked for somewhere to hide.

There was a gurgling sound nearby and upon close investigation they found an uncovered manhole. Carefully lowering himself into it, Raghavan then helped Shyama down. As quietly as possible they crept further into the sewage system of the city. After a long time, when Raghavan was sure they were safe, they came to a rest and sat on a small stone ledge protruding from the wall. Shyama placed her head on his shoulder and declared with new found enthusiasm that they would find a way to resume their fight, despite the betrayal. She had quickly replaced her feelings of camaraderie towards Vasan and Dilipan, with hatred.

At that moment the two of them heard familiar voices above them. Dilipan was complaining to Vasan. He was hoping for Raghavan and Shyama to get arrested too, and the fact that they had managed to escape irritated him. He knew for sure that the army would be displeased with their information for the leader was still running around free. Dilipan had realized too late that he had put himself at risk too by leaking inside information.

“We have to find them Vasan, or the soldiers are bound to kill us too. They will accuse us of giving them false information.”

Vasan wasn’t listening to him.

“I get the feeling that they are somewhere really close, and we just have to look in the right direction to spot them”, Vasan said, in what seemed to be a loud whisper.

And then they heard it, a faint but unmistakable giggle, which sounded frustratingly familiar.

A grinning Raghavan quickly covered Shyama’s mouth, telling her to keep quiet.

She looked at him with a smile that reached her eyes.

"They're going to get exactly what they deserve Raghavan."

"Yes Shyama, the end was near, but it escaped us. Now the same feeling haunts them. If only Vasan knew. If only he knew how far away we really were from them at this very moment."

He couldn't help himself. The two of them burst out laughing.

Both Vasan and Dilipan turned to face each other.

"I am telling you Dilipan. They're somewhere nearby...somewhere really close."

I don't claim to be up to date with current affairs, so if any of this seems factually wrong- my apologies....like I said I was working towards an end...

Eternity...

2008-02-15T08:35:00.000-08:00

I desperately want to post a short story on here- I suppose I just feel a greater sense of accomplishment when I finish off a story...

But I don't have any stories that I like enough to display in public. I am working on one, so hopefully I'll like this one...

So till that happens, I guess I could fill up the spaces and hours with some more poetry...
This one is aptly titled Eternity (the aptness might not be so evident, but it makes sense to me)

There are things that we cherish,
Things we hope will last forever.
Moments we wish to treasure,
Hold on to as long as we can.
In our lives there are people
Whom we hope never to part with,
Together till the end
Procrastinating, avoiding farewells.
Eternity, a time frame some may long for,
An option some may wish to escape.
Extending life and its facets.
Pulling till the string breaks.
Till the delicate pearls scatter,
Lose their luster and appeal.
Why not explore the options,
Dedication for today, optimism for tomorrow.
Making the most of ‘the givens’
Making every moment the ‘everafter’ we seek
Must eternity be defined?
As long as there is contentment
Devoid of handicapped emotions
That need the crutches of reassurance,
Proof of the day that looms ahead.
As long as I know what I want
I choose what perpetual means to me
Whether it is a moment, a day or a decade.
I decide to hold on to those things.
Those moments.
Those people.
I choose my eternity

The Fortune Teller

2008-02-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

Not an oh-so mushy, I-will-explain-to-you-the-deeper-meaning-of-life, my-life-is-so-tragic type poem. You know how you have still life paintings in art. Well I like to think of this poem as a literary equivalent- just an observational piece if you will. Anyhow, here goes...

Each bead round her neck has a companion
To accidentally collide into
A musical instrument of sorts
Glinting ornaments, clicking
As she sits picking,
The fortune that shall be yours today.

Carefully rustled silks
Adorning her every regularity
Reflecting the innumerable flames
And the glowing red tips of incenses
As she commences, to give you
The fortune that shall be yours today.

A solitary curl on her forehead
Smooth skin occasionally interrupted
By the wrinkles where her worries reside
Hollow whispers, with foreboding innate
As she begins to dictate
The fortune that shall be yours today.

With her gift, her talents, her skill
She searches and seeks until
Her eyes gleam and she displays
The fortune that shall be yours today.

Looking off into the Distance

2008-02-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

Wreck Beach, Vancouver
A memorable evening, a lonely beach, mountains in the distance, and a lovely umbrella...
(and some photoshopping...)

Acceptance

2008-02-02T20:29:00.000-08:00

He looked, he saw, he wondered.
His gaze piercing the night sky,
As clouds collected, wept and thundered,
The raindrops learning to fly.

He touched, he sensed, he felt.
The fragments of sky on his skin.
Eyes shut, he wept as he knelt,
With the moonbeams seeping in.

He prayed, he begged, he pleaded.
His tears and the sky's now one.
His pride and him, defeated,
All for the sake of one.

Plagued by an undying love,
He caressed, kissed and embraced her.
He looked to the skies above,
Then quietly, solemnly faced her

He wished, he hoped, he longed.
For her memories to be etched in the sky,
Back where she truly belonged,
As the raindrops learned to fly.

Untitled...

2008-01-23T19:19:00.000-08:00

Nothing hardcore, nothing that needs criticising, just a couple of thoughts that I decided to phrase as follows.....

Sometimes you put a halt to everything
Pause for a moment
And just look around
Quietly. Wondering, contemplating
Searching for answers
Not meant to be found
Reasons not meant to be known
Nonetheless, the search is necessary
You question your existence
Your life
Your purpose, your meaning
You question it all.
Wondering, contemplating.
It doesn't come easy.
Nothing at all.
What if they forget?
What if you forget?
Sometimes.....

3-Sentence Story Challenge

2008-01-09T07:15:00.000-08:00

She looked up to the ceiling momentarily, thought of a few choice expletives, and then closed her eyes in preparation for the ordeal that was about to follow. The moment that followed held great significance, despite the fact that this wasn't the first one of its kind. It was a moment of unimaginable pain, a moment of unequalled hope, a moment of immense joy, a moment of regret and reflection- one of the many moments experienced by a woman in labour.

Living with the Disappointments

2007-12-13T10:34:00.000-08:00

From the quagmire of desire
The choices that face us
We emerge changed
For better or for worse
The decision is ours to make
What the consequences will be
In the hopes of achieving
Of reaching pinnacles
We must surpass the precipices
Obstacles in our paths
We emerge victorious
Made stronger
Our resilience multiplied
And the seed of hope planted
An ever growing sapling
Impossible to scythe
Whenever we are faced with adversity
Hope presents itself
Rears its ugly head?
Sets the stage for disappointment?
We emerge broken
Spirits shattered by failure
Failure we never learned to accept
Failure overshadowed by the hope to succeed
Failure- the less inviting path
But the decision is ours to make
From the quagmire of desire
The choices that face us
We emerge changed
For better or for worse
The verdict will be passed.

Reflections

2007-11-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

A little hurt,
A little broken,
My only wish-
To leave it unspoken.

Let the silence
Fill in the blanks,
Let the white noise
Be my thanks-

For all the memories,
All the realities,
All the kisses,
And all the pain.

For all the nightmares
And all of the dreams.
This exile is more
Crowded than it seems.

A little tired,
A little torn,
All by myself
Abandoned, forlorn.

Let the solitude
Heal the injuries,
Let the tears
Mask the misery-

Of all the memories,
All the realities,
All the kisses,
And all the pain.

Of every moment,
And every token.
A little hurt,
A little broken.

Wrinkled Butterfly

2007-11-16T18:09:00.000-08:00

I had waited seven months for my baby and I was not going to let money come between us. My baby was putting up a fight and I was going to see to it that he had my support. He had been in the incubator for over a week, while doctors gave me weak assurances that they would be able to save my prematurely born child. But I didn’t need a doctor’s half hearted hope; I knew my baby would live.
My marriage had been a bumpy one, with its ups and downs. Both I and my husband thought on two very different wavelengths and the only reason we stayed together for these ten years is the small part of our hearts that still houses love for one another. The doctor had told us that we had a very minute chance of having a child. But I wanted a baby and seven months earlier my wish had been fulfilled.
I had dreams and ambitions for this child and my husband’s hesitancy to pay was not going to shatter them. Nothing, not money, not my husband, not the society, not the doctors, not even God could lessen my love for my baby. And nothing could stop me from doing everything humanly possible to save that precious gift- the gift that I had patiently and painstakingly waited for.
There wasn’t an hour in the next few days when I didn’t pray for my child. My prayers were not feeble hopeless pleadings asking God to show His mercy on my child. Instead they were confident and loving requests that asked for nothing more than a guiding hand that would make recovery less painful for my baby. My prayers were reassurances to God Himself that once my child made it through this difficulty, his life would be a pleasant one, where his mother would be there at all times to protect him from all harm.
Like I had anticipated, my prayer was answered as my baby made it. He lived when the world said he wouldn’t, in fact that he couldn’t. The doctors used the word miracle to cover up their mistake, for they had been proved wrong by my baby. He was perfect, with beautiful brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. His little fingers clasped mine, as we sat together in that hospital ready to embark on our journey together.
My husband started warming up to the idea of a baby in our house and he even started carrying our son around in his arms. We spent many an afternoon, sitting near the window as the sunlight streamed in, with our baby nestled between us. This child brought us closer, closer than we had ever been. My baby was bringing my broken family together.
But I should have known that a moment as memorable as that one was never meant to last. It’s like God shows us the good times so that we don’t lose faith in Him but then takes everything away so that we don’t forget Him. He must get pleasure from the tears we shed in front of Him, from the need we place in Him. In his eighth month, we rushed our baby to hospital in the dead of the night. He wasn’t responding to anything, not to pain, not to tickling. He was just laying there. We were worried he was ill. But the diagnosis we got left us traumatized.
All the love that my baby created was shattered. My husband drew further and further away from our world. He would leave earlier for work, come home later. It was almost as if he was trying to avoid something. What did I know, that this very thought would change everything. When I confronted him, he plainly answered my questions with one sentence. All he said was that our son was retarded and that he couldn’t live with a lunatic for a son. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I mean I knew that our child was autistic, but the spite that I could see in my husband’s eyes for my son was unbearable. I chucked a lamp at him and walked out. For the next few days there was no conversation in the house.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and months turned into years. My husband hated our son with every fibre of his being. He couldn’t stand abnormality. I tried many times, but couldn’t make him see that our child was not abnormal. He was just different. He just didn’t think like everyone else. My son was growing up and very soon he would start asking why his father avoided him. What would I say to him? But my husband saw no sense in these words and continued to despise our son….my son.
Like I had anticipated, just a few months after my son began going to school, his thoughts began to wander towards his father's indifference and his own abnormality. We couldn’t afford to send him to a special school and the kids in his class made it very clear to him that he did not belong with them. He was always an outcast, but now he was aware of it. My husband’s presence in the house was a rare occasion. But I managed. I answered all of my son’s questions reassuring him every step of the way that his father loved him. I don’t know if it was wrong on my part to give my child false hope but it was this false hope that kept him going. It was the love he thought he got from his father that kept him from collapsing under the burden of cruel words that the world had loaded on him. I couldn’t watch my son breakdown so I kept up my continuous flow of comforting lies.
It was a chilly morning and it was one of those rare days when all the members of our family were sitting at the same table, eating a meal together. As I sipped on my coffee, my son asked to be excused and he walked off to the bathroom. It was then that I saw my husband close his eyes for a few moments and then open them again as if he had just made the most important decision of our lives. And he had.
I screamed, shouted then finally broke down into tears but the door was still open and the footsteps in the snow were still leading to the gate. My husband was gone, to a new family, where everyone was normal…After a long time, I went back and sat on the table. I was no longer crying; the tears had just dried up. My mind raced through its archives to come up with a lie to deal with this incident. I wanted to save my son, just like I had promised God.
The silence in the room seemed impenetrable. I had to accept defeat, for I didn’t have any words left to console my child. The coffee mug had tipped and the drops of coffee were staining my floor. But for once in my life I didn’t care. I didn’t care what the neighbour would say about my house. I didn’t care if people found out that my family was not perfect. I didn’t care if my husband never came back through the door that was now inviting the cold morning air into the house. I just didn’t care. All that mattered to me now was the safety of my boy. He had to know that he had me, that I would always be there for him. I had to make him feel that his disability was not something he should be hated for. I had to give my child the love that his father was never able to give him.
As I sat on my chair, immersed in my own thoughts, I heard a familiar creak. Someone had just climbed up the stairs. I turned around to find my son rushing into his room. He had seen everything. He had found out what I had tried to hide from him for all these years. I am sure he always knew how his father felt, but after what happened today, it was going to be the first time I would not be able to explain to him why things are the way they are.
I followed him up to his room and found the door left ajar, as if he were waiting for me to come to him. I entered and found him crouched on the floor, with his back to the wall and his face buried in his arms. He was rocking back and forth, like he usually does when he feels things aren’t right. I sat beside him, stroking his hair and it felt like an eternity had passed. He lifted his head and looked at me, but I didn’t have the courage to face him. I just continued looking out of the window, still stroking his hair.
“Momma,” he whispered gently, “I am sorry”
A hot tear rolled down my cheek but I still gazed out of the window.
He reached under his pillow and brought out a drawing he had made. A drawing of a perfect family; a drawing of our family. The little boy in the picture had a beautiful smile, and the parents beside him loved him. Even the father, who looked so much like my husband that even I found it hard to look at the picture as just that- a picture.
He laid his head on my shoulder. I could feel his chest rising and falling as he slept calmly. And then suddenly the soothing rhythm stopped. My heart started beating faster as I took him in my arms and put him on his bed. As I started to run towards the phone, I remembered what my little boy had said. I collapsed on the floor and cried, feeling guilt seep into my body. I had not lost my boy; I had driven him to his death.
Now that I look back on it, I can’t help but feel that he had been saved that day. His kind soul had been saved from a world that was not worth his kindness. He had always been a different child, one who thought with his heart rather than his mind. I have realised that he was never abnormal. It was us who were abnormal to disrespect an innocent child, it was me who was selfish enough to use him to comfort myself, and it was us who were stupid to think he was disabled in any way.
My child was perfectly normal. In fact he was the most intelligent boy I ever will know. I still remember him, but I know that whenever I feel sad or alone, he will be there for his momma…

Just Like That

2007-09-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

“And she fell to the floor.”
As soon as I told her this, the journalist looked up from her notes, slightly shocked. I continued.
“The wall behind her was splattered with her blood.”
This time her gaze lingered on my hands. I confirmed her doubts.
“Yes, I did it with my own hands.”
Without a sound, she continued scribbling on the small notepad she had with her. At that moment precisely, the warden opened the cell door and slid a plate of the same old rotten food I had been eating for the past few years. The journalist told me that we would end here for the day, and that she would come back tomorrow to continue from where we had stopped today.
I still don’t understand why anybody wants to know about me. But I like her company. I haven’t been allowed to talk to anyone since the day I came here. I don’t like this place. It’s so unusually bright for a cell. The window is always open and they don’t listen to me when I ask for a curtain. They tell me to keep quiet. They say I act as if I live in a five star hotel. I wonder what a five star hotel is like. They probably give you curtains and a knife and fork to eat with. I have to eat with my hands here. They say they don’t trust me with sharp objects.
She called herself Anna and said she worked for a women’s magazine, and that this month’s issue was a special on the minds of women who have committed crimes. I don’t understand what she means. I never knew what the word committed means. Mom used it a lot. She was always telling dad he wasn’t committed to his family. It’s a pretty long word if you ask me. Anyway, the journalist had come in one day and asked me to tell her about my life- everything that had ever happened to me. I have been asked to tell people about myself so many times. I had it rehearsed now. So I started at the beginning.
I was six. Mom and dad had another one of their fights over dinner. Dad walked away as usual and mom started throwing the food all over the place. Even mine and I wasn’t finished yet. I got up slowly and picked up a piece of meat lying on the floor. I brought it to my mouth. And then there was a shrill sound, like a scream, like my mother’s scream. I dropped what I had in my hand and went to see what had happened. My mom was lying on the floor, blood flowing out of her neck. There was a knife beside her. It was a beautiful red. I like red. Just then dad burst out of the bathroom. He was dressed. I asked him where he was going. He told me he loved me, and then he grabbed his suitcase and rushed out of the house. I just sat beside my mom and gave her my teddy bear. Maybe she would get up.
Just a few moments later, there was another loud sound. Then all these big men broke down the door and took my mom away on a stretcher. They told me it was called a stretcher when I asked them. When they were taking her out of the door, my teddy bear fell to the floor. I picked it up and ran after them. But they drove away in a big white van. It had a shiny light on top. The funny sound started again. But one of the big men stayed behind. He picked me up and told me that there was nothing to worry about, even though I wasn’t really worried. He took me to a big white building. There was a beautiful bright red cross on the door. I waited there with the man for a very long time. Then a pretty lady wearing white told me that mommy wasn’t feeling so well so God had taken her with Him to make her feel better. They were taking mom on a moving bed. I prayed to God to make her feel better fast so we could play.
The big man took me to Auntie Martha’s house. I didn’t like going there. She was a mean lady. Uncle Fred wasn’t nice either. Mom and I used to go there sometimes. Mom didn’t like him, she told me so. He always looked at her so strangely. He drank something brown every night. He called it “good ol’ whiskey”. Whiskey made him act funny. Whenever he came to say goodnight to me, he would hug me so tight. I didn’t like it. One day he and mom got into a fight and he beat her up with his belt. She had bruises all over her back. We never went there after that.
When Aunt Martha saw me at her doorstep, she didn’t look too happy. The big man told me to wait outside while he went in to talk to my aunt. When they were finished talking, Aunt Martha came outside and dragged me into the house. She gave me some stale bread and cheese to eat. I refused to eat it. It reeked. She slapped me hard across my face, and sent me to bed. The bed was hard and I couldn’t sleep all night because of the mosquitoes.
I woke up in the morning and the room was dark. I thought it was still late in the night. But then I heard Aunt Martha screaming from downstairs. She called me Angelina. Nobody called me that. My name was Angie. I went downstairs slowly and quietly. When I reached the kitchen, she pulled my arm so hard I felt she was ripping it off. She told me to get changed and get started with my chores. I asked her what chores were and she started insulting my parents. She said they hadn’t taught me anything and that a girl my age should be able to do all the work around the house. That made me angry. My parents had taught me a lot of things. My teacher always told my mom that I was one of the brightest children in the class. When my mom old me this, I refused to accept that I was like a light bulb. She just laughed and said it meant I was clever. I liked being clever. I told my aunt this. She shoved a broom into my hand and told me to clean the house.
After I finally managed to clean the messy place the best I could, she told me to hang out the laundry and to go and buy the grocery. Finally, in the evening I was allowed to sit in my room alone without my aunt telling me to work. I liked the room now. It was nice, dark and quiet. The shadows whispered comforting words.
I felt very lonely at night. Every morning I would wake up and rush to the door to see if either mom or dad had come to take me home. I went through the same routine everyday, for eight years. Uncle Fred still insisted on hugging me, even though I tried to avoid him. I felt very uncomfortable. He smelled funny.
One day, when I woke up in the morning, I heard Uncle Fred coughing very loudly. I went downstairs quietly. The bathroom door was ajar. I peeked to see what was happening. He was still coughing very loudly. But every time he coughed, he bent over the sink and spat out a lot of blood. Bright red blood. That day, the white van with the shiny light came again. They took him away on a stretcher. Aunt Martha said he was dead. I felt unusually happy. I didn’t like him either. He beat me up just like he did my mom. He deserved to die. Both him and Aunt Martha.
Life was still the same after he left. Aunt Martha filled in for him. She beat me up for the strangest reasons. One day I forgot to buy the eggs. I wasn’t allowed to eat that day. She used uncle’s belt and hit me every opportunity she got. I hated her. I prayed to God every night. The wish I made was always the same. Let her die. I asked Him to give me my mom back and take Aunt Martha instead. But I would still hear her voice first thing every morning, shouting at me to wake up.
If God didn’t punish her soon, I decided I would.
I was cutting the vegetables one day. I hurt myself with the knife. I saw blood oozing out of my finger. If the knife could do this to my finger, I wondered what it could do if I accidentally cut Aunt Martha’s neck. That’s where my mother’s blood was pouring out of when she died. At that time the thought seemed pleasant. But I never actually had the courage to do it. What if she didn’t die? She would hit me till the belt in her hand broke. It hurt when she hit me with that belt.
A whole year passed by. Every night I dreamed of life without her. In each and every one of my dreams, I saw myself walking up to her and slitting her throat open. Each night the death got more and more gruesome. She was getting meaner. If I made a mistake, she threatened to kill me. Once she even took out a gun from the kitchen drawer. That was when I realized that I had been given an opportunity.
That very night, after I was sure she was sleeping, I crept down to the kitchen. The drawer, that’s where she kept it. She screamed when she saw me holding her gun. She tried to reason with me. I shot her in the head. She reached out for my hand. I shot her again. This time she stopped moving; I pushed her off the bed. And she fell to the floor. The wall behind her was splattered with her blood.
The journalist came again. She gave me a teddy bear. It looked just like the bear I gave my mom. She asked me how I was feeling. I didn’t answer. The room was silent for some time. Then she started asking me more about my life. I continued from where I had left off the last time Anna had come.
“I was proud of myself”, I told her.
“I finally did it. I killed that excuse for a human being. I looked at my hands. They too were covered in blood. Bright red blood. It was like the shiny sticker my teacher would give me for good work. At that moment, I heard that strange sound again. I knew the big man would come and take me to someone else’s house. I didn’t want to go. So I ran away.
I ran for a long time. The sun was coming up. I saw many trees in front of me. I had reached the woods. They wouldn’t find me here. I lay down on the soft ground and fell asleep; all that running had made me tired. I had a dream that I was sleeping on my mother’s lap. She was singing me a lullaby, the same one she used to sing to me at our house. And then I heard the scream. I woke up, startled. I knew that sound was not a part of my dream, it didn’t fit in. I hid behind a tree. Somebody knew I was hidden in the woods. Somebody had followed me in. Somebody wanted to take me away in that horrible white van. Just then I heard footsteps. When I looked around, nobody was there.
I had been in the woods for a whole week. I had the same dream every night, each time interrupted by the sounds of feet crushing dry leaves into a powder. I never actually managed to find the person. I promised myself I would. And when I did, he would die the same way Aunt Martha did. I had taken the gun with me when I ran away. I would shoot him in the head, I told myself. Right in between his two eyebrows. But first I would make him beg and plead for his life, the way Aunt Martha had. Did he really think he could get away with stalking me? He had to be punished.
I actually liked the position that I was in. I had the power to decide that stalker’s fate. I had the power to punish him, just because I had that gun with me. I had the same power and control when I had the gun pointed at Aunt Martha. I had come this far, safe and sound, just because of that tiny object. I don’t understand why people get so scared of it. It is quite pathetic actually. It is useless unless it has someone holding on to it. Gun is such a short word. It doesn’t even sound dangerous does it? But with that very pathetic object, I was about to end a man’s life, whether he liked it or not.
The next night was a full moon. I couldn’t sleep. I had a strange feeling, as if I was going to get caught or something. But I was unusually happy at that moment. I knew that today was the day I would use that gun again. I liked pulling the trigger. The feeling you get when you hear it click against the handle, followed immediately by a sharp whizzing noise is quite satisfying. I haven’t accomplished much in life, but I think I deserve to go down in history as the person who had the courage to take her revenge at such a young age.
I finished eating the few wild berries I had picked the previous day. I was getting up to go to a nearby pond to get a drink of water, when I heard those footsteps again. This time they sounded peculiarly real. Not only could I hear them, but I could also feel the sole of the shoes crushing my skin. I felt a pain in my arm. I couldn’t stand it. I knew where he was and I had to put an end to it. I turned around and shot at something in the trees. I didn’t hear the scream I was expecting. I shot again. Still there was no sign of agony. I shot and yet again the bullet had nothing to hurt. I couldn’t see very well and I didn’t know what to do. The stalker had the upper hand. That useless pathetic gun had given me power for the past few days, but had taken away that power in just a fraction of a second.
I saw a wooden stake on the ground beside me. I picked it up and walked towards the trees. I heard someone panting. The darkness blinded me. I had to let my ears guide me to him. I heard a scream, the same scream. For a second, I saw him. He screamed. And then it was completely silent. The night was still, even the wind seemed to be waiting for me continue with my journey so it could continue with its own. I could hear the blood pumping inside me. I wasn’t scared. I was just excited. I wanted to admire my work in person. I bent over his body. The clouds made way for the moon, and the whole place lit up. His face was blank and expressionless. His clothes were damp with his blood. The same beautiful bright red blood.
I ran as fast as I could, out of the woods. I saw a wooden building in the distance. I ran in, the stake still in my hand. There was a lady at the desk in the front. She had the same expression the dead man had on his face. She didn’t say anything for quite some time. Then she picked up the telephone and dialled. I sat on a chair near the door. I heard that strange sound again. The big men arrived and asked me where he was. I told them. I didn’t mind being taken away this time. I was tired of running. And I have been in this cell ever since."
The journalist finished scribbling something and looked up at me. She said in a low whisper,
“That man you killed that day. He was a teacher at the local school. He was in the woods camping with his family. Why would you think that he was stalking you?”
I just told her I killed him. Whoever he was, how did that matter now? He was dead and I was the one who did it. After a long pause she put down her pen and notepad, and asked me to tell her how I had had the heart to do it. She sounded genuinely shocked, almost as if she were judging me.
I picked up her pen and with one violent stab I pierced her heart. Her brown eyes stared at me with that painful look dead people have. Well she was the one who asked. And now she knows.
Just like that.

Absolution

2007-08-20T06:55:00.001-07:00

They said Roger was gone. Forever.
I refused to believe that he was really gone. I kept insisting that he’d walk in through the hospital entrance any minute. With each argument I made in favor of him I believed it myself more and more. By the time the nurses finally gave up on trying to convince me, I was willing to bet anything in the world that Roger was on his way to come and get me. He was hurrying to reach me and our baby; he was hurrying to reach his family. When he did come, I would embrace him and calmly reassure him that there was nothing wrong with me or our baby. And so I waited anxiously for the first sight of my beloved.

I didn’t know how to respond when the nurses said they had something to show me. I didn’t notice how they were taking me to see ‘something’ and not ‘someone’. Why hadn’t Roger come yet? A part of me started to doubt my own conviction. Had they been telling the truth? Was Roger really gone? Of course not, I told myself. The thought itself was preposterous. So I followed the nurses with nothing more then a childlike curiosity. Maybe they had a surprise for me.

As I think about that day now, I can’t help but notice how right I had been. I was definitely in for a surprise. All, but one of the nurses escorting me, were acting hesitant. They averted their eyes and hung their heads, leaving me alone with the unsympathetic nurse upon our arrival at the doors leading to a dark corridor. Each footstep in that corridor had an echo that lingered, making our passage sound like raindrops on a windowpane.

We finally approached a door, after what felt like hours. Struggling to keep the heavy door open, the nurse motioned for me to enter with a faint movement of her head. The stench the room was emanating made me apprehensive but the weight of a baby inside me quickly expelled my hesitancy. I walked inside and immediately collapsed into a chair. Meanwhile, the nurse rolled a gurney towards me. I was observing how sterilized and white everything was, when she whipped off the cloth covering the gurney. I saw that the body’s face was turned towards me. Through tears that blurred my vision, I looked into Roger’s deep brown eyes for the last time.

As hard as I tried to keep my memories close to my heart, it seemed as impossible as trying to clench water in ones fist. In this world that seemed alien without him, I had nobody to call my own. I was surrounded by the unfamiliar. I started spending my time in the local library, frequently accessing the internet. It was the only place I could hope to turn to for a vague feeling of belonging.

I read a childless woman’s web log online one day. I understood how comforting it could be to share one’s problems with complete strangers. So I wrote to the woman, doing my best to sound sympathizing. In the weeks of communication that ensued, she asked many questions about me and I told her everything. In her last message to me, she very cautiously asked if I would be willing to let her adopt my baby. And I readily agreed, for I knew that this baby would only remind me of Roger. I remember very clearly the days when I sat with him under the clear blue sky, planning our future together. Each of these plans involved this baby and it was evident that this baby was what he wanted more than anything else in the world. I couldn’t raise this child by myself and face alone that which we were meant to experience together. The woman would probably give my baby a much better home.

I saw him only once, before she took him away with her. My baby boy was where he belonged, with his ‘mother’. Though I felt guilty about giving him away, I consoled myself using his well being as an excuse. I now know that I gave him up to save myself the trauma of seeing anything that reminded me of Roger, but that is not what I told myself then. I left the delivery room that day, with nine months of my life erased from my memory. Or so I thought.

If a decision you have made is right, should you need to convince yourself of its being right everyday? As hard as I tried to move on, images of what could have been plagued my mind. I began to see the whole situation differently. Had I just broken my only connection to Roger and his memory? Without actually getting the opportunity to be a mother, had I made a name for myself as the worst kind of mother? Doubt led to guilt, guilt led to grief, grief led to loneliness, and it is this loneliness that led me to the desire to meet my son again.

I no longer had any means of contacting the woman, and so I embarked upon a fruitless search. After hours spent contacting every woman I could find with the same first name as hers, I decided to give up. I went out for a walk, with the intention of jumping off the first bridge I came to. And there I saw her, laughing as she walked with her husband. Afraid of approaching her after having willingly given her my own child, I made a decision to follow them home. This trip to the other side of the city became an integral part of my daily routine after that night. I would observe her as she brought my four year old home from day care. I tried to avoid being seen, so I only managed to catch glimpses of my son. He had Roger’s brown hair. Everyday he rushed to be enveloped in a hug that could have been mine. And everyday I wished it were.

I dared to approach him one day, when she was late. Seeing him up close for the first time filled me with anticipation. Sitting so close to my own flesh and blood, and comforting him gave me more joy then I could ever have imagined. His resemblance to his father drew me to him. My baby was listening to me as I spoke soft words of consolation. I felt like I had always been the mother he hugged. Just as I reached out to fulfill my one wish, he got up and rushed to the woman he knew to be his mother, leaving me alone on the bench wishing for his company. But somewhere within me I understood that my son was probably where he belonged. In making the biggest mistake of my life, I had also given him the home he had now come to love. I walked away slowly, realizing that in some sense I was a good mother too, for I had found a way of surrounding my child with more love then any other child I knew.

I heard him tell her about me, the nice woman who waited with him. I returned to my world that day, without a son, but with the biggest smile I had ever worn on my face. My little Roger had liked me.