Her swiveling arm deposits a sock on the floor…

Her swiveling arm deposits a sock on the floor.

Distance covered: Approx. 6ft.
Accuracy: Poor. She missed my face.

She sits on the bed with her legs crossed in front of her, the smooth skin from her knees downards shining pink in the light of the glowing tube in front of her, from behind me. Her toes, nails each painted a different colour, point towards me; the big toe of her left foot flicks the toe next to it repeatedly.

The sock on the floor is blue. I like blue. I always have. The nail of the little toe on her left foot is painted blue. The jeans I hold in my hand are blue. My sneakers are blue. That makes it three blue things that I’ve thought of. Four, if you include my mood. But then I’ve only just thought of it.

Her big toe keeps flicking, up and down. Again. And again. And again. And again; beautiful in its abruptness and repititiveness.

“So you liked the socks, didn’t you?”

I look up from the toes, my eyes travelling along her legs with her arms across them, to her glowing face, that rests just above her knee caps.

When in doubt, fib.

Fib. Fib. Fib. What should I say? What should I say? Should I fib? Should I flee? I can’t lie.

Her cold blue eyes cloak the flames of a thousand burning embers. Her lips curl upwards like a tight chicane that I can’t travese without slipping. Why is one so melodramatic when one is tense? I gotta get away. God, I gotta get away.

Should I end it?

“You know,” I say quietly, sternly, “as well as I do, that they were a prop. The socks were a prop.”

“A prop?”

“A prop.”

I can tell from her face that she’s thinking; “The Unexpected Statement That Launched A Million Moments of Self-Introspection” would be the headline in her personal newspaper, tomorrow. This is my chance to flee.

“For what?”

Not quite.

“For me. For anyone. For everyone.”

“They’re not.”

“What about your toenails?” I point towards them.

“That’s me. I do them differently because that’s what I do. I don’t do things like everyone else.”

“Do people notice them?”

“Yes. So?”

“They’re a prop.”

There ain’t no easy way out

She looks away at the wall, thinking. About to sob. No, please. Please don’t sob. I think I see a tear forming, but I’m wrong. She looks back towards me with renewed fierceness, her hands squeezing her kneecaps tightly.

“So everything about me is a prop?”

“What do you think?” In all honesty, I want to tell her that I didn’t mean that. I can’t lie and say yes, but I can’t tell her no either.

“My toenails,” she says, glancing at them, and raising them upwards, “are a prop. My socks are a prop. My clothes, probably are a prop. So is my hairstyle. And my coloured hair.”

She pauses and looks right through me.

“What about you, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t I a prop for you?”

Like I said – there ain’t no easy way out.

(Wrote this a couple of months ago. T’was experimental and I intended to explore the style further. Didn’t think it possible, but my propensity to write – even blog- has waned further. Reading, however, is on the up, largely forced by the impending literature exams. I’m sure this will spill over into writing. Soon. Oh and, I’d appreciate some comments, even if they’re not complimentary.)

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babblefish

This is crappy, Shreya. I gave it up. Anyway, this is what I tried-

did you know you were building a prison? piece by piece, surrounding yourself with things that own you, trying protect yourself from the unfamiliar wind bellows through. piling up someone elses creations in careful, decided patterns

just
like
everyone
else

praying and willing them together,
hoping that hope will bind them together.
until it all comes crumbling down, crushing you beneath it.

*

this light you speak of, the one you say guides you. did you know that it also blinds you? where there is light, there is fire, where there is fire, there is a smoke screen.

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Writing a story at KMC

The SF writing thing at KMC was a ‘writing competition’. I’d woken up just an hour before that, and as has been the case on all mornings this last month – I had the sniffles, a sore throat and every word I uttered was burpy, and hurt the throat. Very high Esonophil (sp?) count, I’m told. No time to think, and I didn’t feel like going. Still went, though.

Walked in expecting a seminar, and food for thought, and was informed that I’ll get one hour from the moment I take the sheet of paper. Still groggy, it didn’t register. It was when someone said ‘writing competition’ that I understood. The idea plain was parched for once, so I used two basic, and previously used premisses to rehash an old story:

1. Death is the only complete freedom
2. Not everyone wants freedom.

The last premiss is debatable. It was in Gone with the wind (ugh) that I had come across the idea that there were some “African Americans” who didn’t want freedom from slavery, and were quite comfortable as they were: comfortable with familiarity and vary of losing the class distinction that they enjoyed. How about a situation where a race is so accustomed to slavery that they just can’t live in freedom. They don’t know what it means to be free and are afraid of making their own decisions because just don’t know how to do anything. Where herd mentality is a part of the races psyche. I changed a lot of things, added a little more masala, reduced the dramatics and the dialogues. Changed the names and the setting, and the characteristics of the new planet. Of course, the basic premisses remained the same.

Time to think of new ideas, now. As Rhymebawd put it, I didn’t seem to be having fun while writing ‘The Haircut’. I didn’t. I don’t think one gets ideas by just starting writing – beliefs are important, and they define the story. I have been accused once of using stories as just platforms for voicing opinions, but thats the way it sometimes is.

Writing on paper, hurriedly, was an interesting experience. I started coming up with new, and suprising ideas; have mostly relied on word processors (okay, computers) for the last three years. I might switch to paper now. Anything to make me write…and I guess I need to have fun writing.

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