Thursday, 31 October 2013

Despair For Delivery

I am almost always working. Though in this line of work, most days are not predictable. All except Valentine’s Day. I had just starting working for a florist because according to my mother, ‘summer must not be wasted’. And the job wasn’t really that deplorable. My boss was a good enough man, Mr Roberts, aging man with a strange affinity for yellow roses and purple orchids.

It was the night before V-Day and we were setting up plans on how to get things right. On that day especially, men wanted their things done right and in time, and women expected them to pay up and surprise. And we were the sneaky middlemen– passing off the flowers to wives, girlfriends, and to both for some eccentric fellows. We had received a landslide of orders, almost all for blood-red roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Mr Roberts loved this day more than anyone else. He got a great commission, and a chance to make his wife happy too from a business she always belittled.

We laid out the receipts on the table and sorted according to addresses, so that we could do the deliveries on time. I got a rather tough lot, but I wasn’t complaining. It might sound sad and pathetic, but I was working on V-Day, with a girl possibly lurking in the shadows, or a cat.

The next day started early and we were jumping from the moment it all  started. I drove my mother’s car, (because I didn’t have one) and also because Mr Roberts had only one truck that the other guys were using. And also, since I was the little guy around, I probably had no chance of winning an argument.

A very short story about a delivery boy, and the emotions of Valentine's Day. 

To Mary Undelivered

There was too much pink for one place at one time. Dress, ribbons, even handkerchief– all were laden with a fluorescent shade of rose. And if you could notice close enough, it was even a shade of it for the synesthetics.

Life in here could be called as some sort of a challenge, because between here and the playground, all that mattered was lasting in here. Without being influenced. By them.

I was sitting exactly three chairs down from where she was. Mary McShane. She was playing with the tower, with what I wanted to play with. Her hair was one high ponytail, and all her friends were sitting next to her, admiring her. I winced at the thought of being close to her. I mean, not that I thought what it could be like or anything. But it’s just that she is a girl, and well, girls are… girls.

I didn’t understand how people could be close to girls and stuff. They always nagged and cried and wanted things. They cried shrilly, stomped their feet and how my father always said, “Son, never get married.” They wanted the same things, over and over again, much like my mother when described by my father. And oh my mother! What could you say about her? She was very much like a girl– dressing up and always in front of the mirror. Ugh, make-up. How women could spend literally hours putting it on, was way beyond what I could understand.

Another for the Love Letter Contest. 
This is one of the funny ones. About a young boy battling his feelings for a 'girl'. It is hard for him, because he thinks it is 'beneath' him to fall for a girl. Well, does he confess?

Springtime

Springtime always reminded me of lost opportunities and sad woeful times. The new leaves birthing onto the branches, the birds finding their voices again, and the scent of new beginnings were overwhelming. And it was only by coincidence that the letter should have arrived that day.
I was going out for a walk when I saw the postman closing in. I thought of letting him leave the letters at the door, like always, but something in me wanted me to take those letters and read them– rather than let them sit collecting dust by the door.

“Hello,” I said to him.

The postman smiled and handed me the letter, something very different about him.

“Have a good day, ma’am,” he said and jogged away.

The letters were of the usual– magazine subscriptions, charity, old age homes and discount coupons. But at the end of the sundry pile was an unrecognizable letter. It was stamped and the address on it was handwritten– quite different from the recent computer-generated stickers. And I felt quite happy seeing that. Almost as if someone was trying to keep the love in letters alive with splattered ink.

And then I noticed the way the ‘A’s were written– slightly curved as they began– bringing to mind something I’d thought I’d put away forever.

Dear you,

I know I must now be a speck of dust in your mindful of memories, but please hear me out. It must be coming to you, hopefully, not as a surprise. From the bottom of my heart, I hope I was still alive in you.

I realize I must sound absolutely pathetic when I tell you that it has been exactly two thousand eight hundred and seventy five days, about four hundred and eleven weeks since you left. Pitiful me, I know. I myself cannot understand why I kept counting the days– maybe because the sun seemed to shine a little less and a little of me began to die since then. But that’s only two ways of putting it.

An entry for the Love Letter Contest at yourstoryclub. 
Writing love letters was never my forte, the only good one coming out was In Letters. Well anyway, one for the contest. 

A story of unrequited love. 

Read here: Springtime

Perfect Bubble

The dishes on the counter that day were not that dirty, nor were the clothes that many to put out the dry and the weather that day was very pleasing.

It was a pleasant day in November– the skies seemed clearer than the previous day and the storm had subsided. She was in the bedroom, cleaning the house for her husband was to come home that day from a business trip. In the process, she came across an old box swept and hidden away cleanly under the bed. It took her a while to realize what it was and then when she did, she decided it was too painful a thing to do.

It was a box of old keepsakes and photographs of her childhood. She disliked the thought of it; she did not spend it in happiness. She remembered quite well, the haunt of her cold bedroom and the noise of her parents fighting in the night. She was twelve when her father left and sixteen when her elder brother too, left in pursuit of a life he knew he could never live. She hasn’t heard from him since. She lived off the few pieces of her life untainted by sorrow. It was only recently that she got a letter letting her know of her mother’s illness.

She was in her thoughts when the telephone rang.

A short story about God and His wills, and the life of a young woman, borne of sadness and grief.

Read it here: Perfect Bubble

Grey Wisteria

“How long before I begin to chase you again?” She just looked at me, always the coy expression on her face. I stood there, the cold November wind blowing the shiver into me and the hair across her face.
She walked away from me, like always.
And I watched her.
Like always.
“So will you at least ca–”

I awoke.

The alarm had been beeping for half an hour now, and I felt it ring harder in my head. I twisted about in the bed, my hand searching the other side. It was empty, it was cold. She always woke up earlier than me and disappeared into the walls of the house. Before, I would call out to her, and maybe search for her. But not anymore. It annoys her more if I do, than if I don’t. If I do, I am annoying her, and if I don’t, I’m just an indifferent pig.

I pulled the sheet over my face and just lay there for a while, hearing the voice of the morning slowly turn into the unsympathetic noise of everyday, like a prologue to story I already know the ending of. I heard a door open and shut. If it had been like before, I would usually run to see where she might be going, but not so much. I got out of bed and into the shower.

There are times when you stare at the showerhead, not remembering how long you’d been staring at it, and run past the things you’d planned for the day, only to arrive at a moment where you tell yourself to stop. This isn’t real, and watch it dissolve into the many other things you’ve lost the feeling to do.

This story is about a man, and his life in reality and the parallel dreamland. His life was once happy and has been slowly worn away by time-- both his love and his happiness. He lives in the duality of his own melancholia, and subconscious bliss.
Read it here: Grey Wisteria

Hazel

There was something about him that made me want to embrace him enticingly in my arms– my bound arms.

I slept in a dark room, with a window sealed shut. I could sometimes hear the chirping of birds, or a car briefly passing by through the barred pane. There was only a faint light entering the room all day, and at night, in the absolute darkness, I could hear him break bottle after bottle– still trying to find the answer at the bottom of it. I did not even know his name, yet I knew he was someone I loved.

I did not know how long I had been here, but I cannot remember hating it for a while now. He could come into my room only once or twice a day to feed me and sometimes now and then to touch my skin with his leather belt. I would cry in pain, and then look up to him– his face barely visible in the darkness. I would sometimes creep across the room when he’d get tired and sit down. And it was the only time I felt my hands feel across the curves of his face, picturing in my mind what he looked like. Both of us let it seep in for a moment, before he threw me sliding across the floor.

I was listening to the rain with my eyes shut. It hardly made a difference; keeping them open or shut. It was all the same. The pitter of the rain monotonously barraged on the window, and I followed it till it fell into a dissipated silence. Then suddenly, light cut into my dilated eye. For a split second, there was a bright light. It was a warm sensation, and I began to think I was finally dead. But heaven was still far away; I could hear sobbing.

A psychological love story, based on a disease, whose name if I reveal, will ruin the whole story.

Just know it's love. Manic love.

Read it here: Hazel

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Grey Wisteria

“How long before I begin to chase you again?”

She just looked at me, always the coy expression on her face.

I stood there, the cold November wind blowing the shiver into me and the hair across her face. 

She walked away from me, like always.

And I watched her.
Like always.
“So will you at least ca–”

I awoke.

The alarm had been beeping for half an hour now, and I felt it ring harder in my head. I twisted about in the bed, my hand searching the other side. It was empty, it was cold. She always woke up earlier than me and disappeared into the walls of the house. Before, I would call out to her, and maybe search for her. But not anymore. It annoys her more if I do, than if I don’t. If I do, I am annoying her, and if I don’t, I’m just an indifferent pig.

I pulled the sheet over my face and just lay there for a while, hearing the voice of the morning slowly turn into the unsympathetic noise of everyday, like a prologue to story I already know the ending of. I heard a door open and shut. If it had been like before, I would usually run to see where she might be going, but not so much. I got out of bed and into the shower.

There are times when you stare at the showerhead, not remembering how long you’d been staring at it, and run past the things you’d planned for the day, only to arrive at a moment where you tell yourself to stop. This isn’t real, and watch it dissolve into the many other things you’ve lost the feeling to do.

Grey Wisteria is a story with an unusual narrative: life and dreamland. What do you do when the latter becomes the one you want forever?
A story about love, and the reality of it. 

Read the whole thing here: Grey Wisteria