Slumber

It was the only day of the week where she knew she could sleep with the gas heater on. Not because this was a weekly suicidal ritual that she religiously performed, but because she knew there would be someone to turn it off.

Tonight, she was tired. With lights turned off and the blaring noise of the television in the next room, she was aware that she only had a few hours to sleep. Come, sleep, come. Come before the night has faded and trials afresh await my doom. Come.

It came, but in slow, unsure steps. Like the carbon monoxide that slowly filled up the room as she awaited her half death. Perhaps it was not sleep, but this gas, which slowly suffocated her to slumber as she thought of the exact time required by the gas to fill up this room and deprive her of air. How odd.

The slumber now surrounded her like the stars that never shone in her sky anymore. She was losing herself, and she was aware. A conscious unconsciousness. Collateral beauty. Her eyes gently closed as the warm orange rays lit up the room to a comfortable resting place. A comfortable last resting place, as they would’ve said later.

Who was to know if this was a half death, or slumber in eternity?

Calm.

In the wee hours that night

The air was pregnant

With suspense and dread

Come sunrise and

You would find the morning sky

Pierced with bullet holes

But for now

All those souls lived a death

In the eerie calm.

---

Writing prompt:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

Vacant Stares

The river, it flows

Reflecting images in its course

It gushes forth, every second

A new image

Images never seen by humanity

Images the river hides

Images. The rocks’ secrets.

Of everything that took place

But wasn’t ever seen by eyes

The eyes that

When witnessed miracles

Nature’s greatest

Blinked.

And turned away

Often looked down

At artificial screens

In the presence of Grandeur.

So nature, in revenge,

Feeling insulted

At something the Creator

of the moon created

Being rejected,

Took away their sights

So that they never saw

And all that remained

Were vacant stares

---

I know I’m not doing these prompts everyday, and BELIEVE ME I had some pretty cool ideas too, but I just didn’t have the time! Also, I love how they make me think! It’s so fun. If you haven’t tried this already, why don’t you check it out here? Also, I’m doing two different prompts at the same time. So you can check out the other one in the previous post.

Check this one out here:

https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2017/10/01/october-writing-prompts/

To do

Another day. She got up (eventually). As she looked in the mirror, she picked up the list Society had put there. Her to do list.

Get up

Don’t think

Eat well

Communicate

Tolerate

Be indifferent

Be cool

Fit in

Change

Loose creativity

Quantity and quality

Adapt

Loose emotions

Receive

Do not give

Harden heart

Just another day. She put the list in her heart. Another day trying.

---

Writing prompt here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

Also make sure you check out her post for today. Absolutely amazing!

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/10/06/heer-saleti-recreated/

Candy Wrapper

A ten year old boy holds the hand of a six year old girl. His sister, presumably. He has hazel specks hidden in the brown of his eyes. His hair is dirty from playing in the dirt all day. He wears a light blue shalwar kameez. He is smiling, and although his face is dirty, one sees the innocence in it. Now he gets angry, pulls his little sister towards him with a jerk. She had been trying to break free from her brother’s grip. The boy sees the cars along the road, he cannot let his sister be in any danger. Amma told him to take care of her. The girl protests in a loud voice. She has eyes identical to her brother, her hair equally dirty, her face equally muddy. She wears a traditional colourful shalwar kameez, which has tiny mirrors and stones sown into it. Right now, she is scowling. Trying hard to break free from her brother. Why doesn’t bhai let her go free anyways?! A six year old mind cannot fathom the dangers of a main road. He brother sees he has made her angry. He had been saving it for after dinner, when amma would put them to bed and then leave, but figures now is the time.

---

A little down the main road, a fancy politician sits in his black prado, amidst security escorts and protocol. He is to make an appearance at the local hospital, which had been sealed for the day. In one hand he holds a cigarette, which gently bobs up and down with the motion of the car on the bumpy road. He has a bored expression on his face, a thick black moustache with his thick eyebrows making him constantly look like he is scowling. His security officer briefs him on what must be said and done in the hospital, which wards he must visit, what expression he must have when the camera’s on him. The sirens of a security jeep continuously sound in the background. Three vans containing media personnel try to overtake the black prado, but fail to do so. Men from the security jeeps yelled at the drivers of the vans, threatening to report them to the Saab.

---

“O dekh! Gaddiyan jandi. (Look! The cars are going)” He said excitedly to his sister.

“Kitthe? (Where?)”

“O dekh na! Uthe.( Look! There)”

His hand had reached the bottom of his pocket. Out came the cheapest candy he could find, the two-ruppee-orange-flavoured candy.

“Ae le. Tere wastay. (Take this. It’s for you.)” he said.

Her eyes beamed with joy. She quickly snatched it from his hand.

The cars were coming nearer.

She let go of his hand. She opened the wrapper, and popped it into her mouth. She threw the wrapper in the dirt.

“Wekh ke guddi. (Be careful/look Guddi),” he warned her.

She was skipping now. Skinny six year old legs adorned with a baggy shalwar, skipping along the road.

“Oye Guddi!” He yelled, “Guddi! Gadiyan aandi pai(the cars are coming)”

It was too late.

---

The body of a young girl, the hysteric sobs of a brother, the nineteen cars speeding away that constituted the protocol and security of the fancy politician, the indifference of the politician and his subordinates, the lack of interest of the security personnel.

The Candy Wrapper that lay in the dirt.

---

Another writing prompt completed!

Check out the October Writing Prompts here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

Hunger

There was a crack in the rock. Not a very big one, but it was there nonetheless. Ever since the Earth had spurted him out, he had been cracked. At first he had been made fun of, but then severe warnings from the elders had been issued, and then finally he had been cast out of the community. According to the Grey Rules of Stone and Rock of the community, any rock with a crack must be excommunicated. No rock must ever be known to have some sort of dealings with him, or else they, too, would have to face circumstances.

Naturally, our rock was upset. He had been shunned by society over something he had no control over. Something that wasn’t his fault. In him was born a strong hunger to fill himself. To somehow complete what was after all, in nature, already complete. Little did he know.

His hate for the Earth intensified as he realised that it was, infact, the Earth’s fault he had been cracked! The Earth must have preordained it to be so. The Earth was, in fact, his truest enemy, trying it’s best to ruin chances of all survival! In his flustered little mind, this was all he could think. Little did he know.

Having now established an enmity for Earth and soil, to fill himself and relieve himself of hunger, he turned to the waters. Here were the waters: as yet innocent and pure (in the eyes of the rock), this was it. Here was something that would fill his crack, here it was at last! Looking upon its surface, not considering the hundreds of rocks it had devoured before, which lay in its not-so-innocent depths. This, this was not an enemy. This had done nothing to deform him. This was, on the contrary, something that would help rectify his abnormality! In his flustered little mind, this was all he could think. Little did he know.

The water gushed forth and welcomed it. And our rock, our innocent victimised rock, went forth to conquer society. What did he know, he could never have the upper hand there. Nevertheless, he was there and all he wanted was to drink in his victory, and drink he did. But not his victory.

There is a thing about rocks that if they are cracked (and rejected), their own sense of hunger fails them. They have been hungry for so long they no longer know how to not be hungry. That was the case with our rock too: he was hasty, he drank, he drank to satisfy his hunger. Eventually there came a time when he was full, but how would he know?! He was a rock! A cracked rock! He drank, more and more, until the cracks filled, and overfilled, and finally, began to pull the rock apart. He, in his somewhat deluded ecstasy, would still not stop. And eventually, it was the end. Our rock was split into a thousand fragments, to be no more, rejected by the same water he thought was his saviour, absorbed into the same Earth he so despised.

---

Yet another writing prompt heh. This one was because of Accidentally Inked who pushed me to write! Fenks, inky!

This writing prompt can be found here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

What can I do? I see a writing prompt, I get excited. Thank you Zoya for these prompts! Ha here I am nominating myself lol. Never mind, bear with me.

Have a great day! Don’t let the Grey Rules of Stone and Rock get to you. You’re perfectly complete as is.

Said the Caterpillar.

If only they knew how jealous I was. If only they could see me through a time less traveled. I was a mere caterpillar; they magnificent butterflies. Soaring up high, exploring the skies, seeking things unsought. While I, ugly, fat and indecently crawling. Destined to stay rooted with the Earth, degraded to a mere being of disgust. They: flying, flying, merrily, from this flower to that, traversing this air current to there, imbibing sweet nectar, nectar which my preliminary digestive system couldn’t even digest. I was reduced to eat and chew tasteless green leaves, forever chewing, chewing, rolling each piece down. They: metamorphosis complete, creatures of beauty, creatures sought by every soul. I: denied my chance to even wrap my cocoon, and every time I did manage to do so, it was sabotaged. Sometimes, a mere rip, like a mild attack at a self esteem, quick to heal, forever scarred. Other times: the cocoon destroyed completely, like a shattered self of shards of glass, almost never healing, a self that does not believe in itself anymore. It always occurred to me: I call these people my friends, I stood by them in their metamorphosis, and they? Am I to dry out as a caterpillar? Am I not to fulfill my destiny? Or is this my destiny, and I should resign to it? Have I been fated to never reach the epitome of desire, and inner beauty? Would I die as is, and they be the embodiment of every ounce of my desires?

---

*this piece of writing claims no scientific accuracy.

Image is subject to copyright.

Dark Clouds

Dark clouds have turned day into dullness. A magnificent wind blows, entering this window and exiting that window. It is so dark I cannot read, yet I have not switched on any lights yet. The darkness corresponds to my mood. For days now, weeks, the weather had been the same: either oppressive heat with unbearable humidity, or continuous rainfall still with humidity. Why should I call a continuous rainfall “still”? It was so. Everything was still. Days rolled into weeks, weeks into months, and yet all was still. Utter monotony. I sat on the floor, amidst cotton amd nail polish. Looking out, seeing the hours while away, away to be lost in monotony. People ask: are you well? Yes, I am well. Well enough. I have everything I could need and more: monotony. An unchanging routine with no chance of excitement. No prospect for difference for another year or so. People are dying around the globe, death visits the neighbors and here I am. Perhaps the most ungrateful of them all? Perhaps just human? Books find me a way to escape: sometimes the past, sometimes in lands so far from my eye and yet, as soon as we come back, the sameness returns, the circumstances are still, our ways uninterrupted. We have done so much and yet nothing. Looking out I see a freshness in the green of the leaves but I know as I leave the house in accordance with my routine, I shall come back to find even that stale with dust. Sometimes the rain intensifies, sometimes it calms down, sometimes it even stops. I know I have a lot to do and not enough time, yet I know if these words are not penned down they too will be lost in the vast expanses of my thoughts. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. When I prioritise something above words, I am punished by their loss. Yet writing deprives me of words too. This is sometimes pleasant: no words to think of, a clear mind, a consciousness. However, sometimes it has the reverse effect: I am overburdened with words and they keep forming until I have no alternative except to put my mind at rest: sleep. But all this does not relieve me of the current monotony. Seeing the time, however, I realise that I have nothing new to offer to anyone. I am NOT depressed, or upset. These feelings have now turned into cliches and irritate me to an extent that is unbearable. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand, but try living your entire life with the female species of this society… particularly the Homo sapiens. Felis felidae would make a nicer alternative for this society but that has other problems and anyways, I have yet to write about that another day. Anyways, as I was saying, I am not upset or anything, I am just tired of the same sameness that engulfs my world, even though the Earth is in chaos.

Until next time, stay hydrated.

Rab Rakhan. 

(P.S. If you happen to be a female of the species mentioned, please do not be offended, I was referring to the females found in my society that I face. Just like when I do my post on the females of Felis felidae, I shall be referring to those of my society too. I should add that this post reflects my mood for this passage of time, and that almost none of my posts reflect my “permanent” moods or stances on anything, if such a thing exists. Also if there is someone genuinely depressed or upset, you have my sympathies. I was referring to all those people who have turned this into cliches. May Allah bless us all with His bounties. Remember me in your prayers.)

Her

Dry and cracked lips. A face already powdered. Two fat fingers dipped into the lip balm, and then smeared all over those lips. Trying and trying to hide. The dryness, the cracks. Anybody could’ve told she bit her lips when she was nervous. Like right now. She took out some lipstick and put it over the lip balm. Her dress seemed to be too tight for the new spots her acne had left on her back. Nevertheless, she walked out the door, feeling ugly in spite of everything she had done not to.

……….

“Ugh look what she’s wearing,” her friend whispered. “Ugly.”

“Who? What?” She answered carelessly.

“Her. Look.” And so she did. Beautiful jet black straight hair. A waist that thin. A face done up to perfection. Even if her lips were a bit cracked. The dress wasn’t ugly, it just made the rest of them feel uglier than their insides. She suddenly felt as if her own jewellery was somewhat outdated and shouldn’t have been worn at all. The earrings were the pride of her family. It was family tradition to wear them at this dinner every year. But maybe her brown hair didn’t complement her jewellery the way her mother’s had.

……….

Well now was not the time to feel so conscious about her lips. Ugly though they did seem, to her. Now was the time to feel proud of herself and show off. That is, until she hadn’t seen those two girls whispering in her direction. A taller one with an amazing jaw line. And the other, slightly shorter one with hazel eyes. And what amazing jewellery. A complete vintage look. The way she wore that chain around her neck complemented her hair perfectly. And one could tell her hair was naturally like that. The shorter one looked away carelessly. And doubt started in her mind. Perhaps her own hair were to plain.

……….

Two arms grasping the bars of an iron gate. A body trying to gather the will to let go and stand without any support. Black spots formed infront of her eyes every time she blinked. Parched lips and a smudged nose picked up the aroma of a feast here.

A black car pulled up. It was big. Bigger than the cars s he had seen in her nine years.

A man came out. Black suit. Red tie. “Out! Out you bloody little beggar! Out with you hideous beasts!”

The will was summoned for one last move. The bony arms that dragged her into the bushes beside the gate collapsed as they found fresh dirt. Her knees buckled as she saw two beautiful ladies inside the gate and a third one getting out of the car. The last thing her innocent eyes saw was the look of disgust and hatred as the man pulled out something shiny from the car.

……….

The woman must have been around thirty. Probably less. A black fur coat wrapped around her shoulders. The air of uncertainty looming around her. The driver had gotten out to get the wheel chair. Some peasant must’ve been blocking the gate. He didn’t seem too happy about that. The door opened and she placed one hand on his shoulder as he helped her in the wheelchair. Even this simple act was too tiring for her these days. She breathed deeply. Not at this party. She would get through it. Her hand instinctively went to the area above her left knee, where her leg had been amputated last year. It still hurt. A year was not enough to get used to being legless. Especially at social events like these. People judged too much. And stared. Like right at this moment, she could feel the gaze of a black haired girl from one end of the lawn and a brown haired girl with hazel eyes at the other end. She wondered what they might think about her. 

And from somewhere, just somewhere behind her, she could feel an accusing glare that seemed to penetrate through her.