Thursday, May 31, 2007

55 fiction returns: Insomnia

Huddled in a corner - like the walls have her mother’s arms- until sunrise.

“2 hours then the lamp goes off. Sleep can settle on fraught nerves.”

The comfort of daylight.

Lawns mowed, children running through water sprinklers, cars honking , joggers gulping water with loud gasps.

When their bustling ways can drown out other voices.

originally written on: 29.07.2006

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Because I want to

I feel like writing.

I don't know if it was the movie that left me smiling.

Or the journal whose pages are nearly used up and my intention to not wait until the last few run out. I think its time is up to descend up in the heavens that lies in the corner of my closet in a vaguely french-themed wine and cheese against a lemon background shoe-box [Just in case you were wondering what heaven might look like]

I have two to choose from.

There is one that is fit for someone with oodles of wisdom, who wouldn't need to tear pages out occasionally, who wouldn't need a spiral-binding. But I like spiral bindings very much. I usually don't tear pages out but maybe I should let myself have the freedom to do so just in case, no? And maybe I'll choose them long after I have some wisdom [or atleast enough to know I don't need a blog post for an excuse to waste 4 pages to start scribbling in some new stationary!]

I'm choosing the one that will let me craft its cover to my liking. I want to see where it goes. If it is too bad, I will just white-paper it and pretend the disaster underneath didn't happen.
And start all over, maybe with a template from Martha Stewart Living.

I feel like writing. Again.

Maybe all there is. Is this summer's symphony.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Beautiful as the day

It is a quiet afternoon around this bend.

The roads glistens with the white glare of the over-zealous sun to swiftly set the summer ablaze.
Even the songbirds snore at this hour of cocoon-like warmth.

The air molecules expand, as full as birthday balloons, floating uncomfortably outside.

The white bay window frames the slight quivers of the fresh green leaves. Lying on a fainting couch, cool in the shadows, away from the slanted interferences of the sun.

A glass of khas sharbat glistening with beads of water condensing on the outside placed atop the dainty carved sheesham stool.

For a solitary afternoon, to lie in abandon across the white textured French upholstery of the couch. An unlimited supply of cold glasses of sherbet with Strauss interspersed with dozing off.

Maybe I too should dig in a sandpit for a grumpy sand-fairy.
I might find my own Psammead.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

How I found my dream home

She took a turn and landed onto the hidden driveway of an opulent house.

The place had become chaotic without a visible mess. Was it the quiet of the now correctly aligned pieces? Or was it that the rearrangement couldn't undo the atmosphere?

It was May already and spring cleaning was long past. Then what were these sticky little cobwebs doing looming about where it wasn't their business to do so?

Past the well lit, freshly painted sprawl of the open concept main floor. A safe distance away from the noxious solarium, the cobwebs clung with might.

Someone had flung them here when she wasn't looking. The rascal, she thought of the unseen stranger.

What if her trusted confidante had false information after all? She hadn't seen the papers as yet so who knew if what the astrologer had said was indeed true or not.

But the day was still young. Very young actually.
She had enough time to drive to what may be the right location. Where the promised estate of magnificence awaited her.

She'd spent far too much time staring at the distinguished mansion of magnolia and sinister calm air. So she shrugged her shoulders and made a quick exit.

It may be a wild goose chase, she thought slightly wincing at the cliche, but she'd rather have the excitement of scratching out her bingo-card than walk into the unclaimed house to which nasty rumours clung.

Afterall cobwebs are laid out for prey.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

No repeat of Ariel's mistake

Sometimes when my little wooden speedboat zooms ahead smoothly, I unplug the leaks myself.

Look at the yachts bobbing by in the distance. It grows more and more distant and my boat won't stop. I can't go back and hop onto a yacht instead of this one seater.

How did I miss the party?

I hear the clinks of glass, the mixed bubbles of chatty voices and laughter. Little black dresses and sparkles around the neck.

As I look back for my last few glimpses my hair whips into waves around my face.

If the boat sinks, who knows what wonders lie beneath the inky surface waters for me to explore?

Maybe the fishes will let me float past them into their world. Maybe the seaweeds will wave and corals will colour themselves more deeply. Maybe the dolphins will circle me playfully and the orca babies will leap into the air baring their teeth in glee with the delight of my attention.

But I'm not Ariel.
Help me find the corks to plug this again.

Maybe a party will float by me right now and lasso me in.

I hope this party isn't more than the invites I sent out.