Flash Fiction: The Drunken Poet
“Give me some beautiful lines, make me feel good, make me feel special,” she said.
“Every night….I see you…I feel you,” he smiled at himself. “Sorry about the burrowed lines.”
“Burrowed?” she asked. “From where you borrowed that one? I mean not where, from whom?”
“From a song by Celine Dion,” he replied.
“Oh…you are a fan of Celine Dion,” she said, he did not reply. “I want no borrowed words.”
“Let me think of some fresh lines,” he said even though he knew his mind was zonked.
She grabbed the notepad from the table and flipped the pages. He rested his head on the back of sofa and stared at the ceiling. She slouched on the table reading form the notepad. There was uneasy silence for a while.
“Who is this girl?” She was demanding.
He was happy that he did not have to think of fresh lines. “Remember, I’m a poet,” he said. “Girls happen to be my subjects sometimes.”
“You told me a story of a girl that you met in the coffee parlour. Is she the same one?”
The communication seemed to be going different than he had planned. He looked irritated.
She watched his expressions unfold. “Okay! Enough for those people who are never related to us.” She tried to apologize.
“That’s what I was telling to you.” He grabbed her shoulder as he stood up. “Honey, permit me to go to bathroom.”
“Don’t sleep there,” she smiled.
He staggered as he walked towards the door. She tossed her stilettos on the floor and began massaging her feet.
“I should not have drunk so much whiskey in the first place,” he said as he entered the room.
“Why did you drink so much today?”
“Not drunk,” he said. “But my chest is burning.”
“Oh! Too bad, you are destroying your health,” Her concern looked genuine.
He thumped on the sofa. She looked at him. “Do you want me to get ready?” She began unbuttoning her shirt.
He looked at her face and tried to remember the banknotes he had given her.
Actually, they did not meet on a dating site. However, they were building a relationship in the virtual world. Here is an excerpt from the middle of the conversation.
He: So, I’m talking with Greek Goddess!
She: Aha! Thanks!
He: I picture you as a Venus!
He: Do you often chat with strangers? I don’t!
She: Neither do I. I mean I don’t mind. But it doesn’t happen often.
In the beginning, they talked nothing substantial. They asked what was the time in their respective places, what’s the weather like, what they do for living etc. It was not important if they talked truth but what was important was they were communicating.
He: Hello, here!
She: Hi! Good to see you, now! Early huh?
He: Do you think me a guy who roams late night?
She: Ha-ha…you are a guy who keeps posting pictures.
He: A good line
She: You seem to be quite popular online.
He: Yes, but the people I meet online cannot be the ones like I can touch and feel.
She: Touching is that important? Words can’t make you feel?
He: Words are hollow. Hey, did you think touching in another way…
She: No! Just like the way you think. You mean our talks are hollow?
He: How do you know what I’m thinking?
She: Not exactly. But I can predict.
As they chat more often, they begin to open up. They accepted that in the beginning they made stories and tried to hide the truth. They said they did not want any Tom, Dick, and Harry to know about them.
She: Do you mind voice?
He: I mind
He: Can’t speak!
He: I’m dumb.
She: Then the skype is screwed. I’m also dumb.
He: And also deaf.
She: I mean too shy. Really?
She: Ok. Do you miss me when I’m away?
He: I do.
She: Don’t lie; I know you don’t because if you did, you could have mailed me.
He: If you are so sure about the answer then why did you ask me?
She: Just my hypothesis.
He: Your hypothesis is so wrong.
She: What’s right? Tell me.
He: I was so much engrossed with work.
She: Yes I know, you have a busy schedule. That made you forgot me right?
She: It’s okay…at least your here now..
He: Only for you.
She: But it’s not nice to be forgotten no matter how busy a person is.
The affair continues…..and they live happily ever after in the virtual world.
In the cyber space, a girl meets a boy, and the boy meets the girl. They send messages, they reply messages. Ask me what they write, I will tell you everything.
Boy: Thanks for accepting my friendship, you look nice.
Boy: Why don’t you go online? Do boys bother you? P
Girl: Will be online for you: D
Couple of days later the boy and the girl are in the chat room. Here is an excerpt from the middle of the conversation.
He: How old you became on August 13?
He: I’m 17.
She: Wow! Are you serious?
He: Serious. Don’t you believe?
She: How can you be that clever at 17?
He: I was born this way!
She: Cool! Baby I was born this way! Oh yeah!
He: I don’t like Gaga’s songs, but she is cool.
She: I like Alehandro.
He: Never heard! I love Pink Floyd and Jim Morrison.
She: Never heard.
He: Jim Morrison died in early 70’s and Pink Flyod was popular in the eighties, you were not born when they sang.
She: Aha right! But neither were you.
He: Well actually, I listened to them as a child in 70’s.
She: Aha! Stop kidding me, you guy!
He: Well actually I’m 47 years old, married with a lovely wife and a child
She: That sounds cool. So you have missed the 4 with 1? They actually seem alike.
He: What does that mean?
He: So you are doing mathematics?
She: Aha forget it.
He: Forget everything, I’m neither old, or too young.
She: Who cares! You are you! And that’s wonderful!
He: Well actually I was trying to be funny with a funny girl.
She: Me vice versa. Aha…
The next day.
He: So early?
She: Yeah! How are you?
He: I just woke up and logged to see if you were here.
She: Oh! Wow! I too, just woke.
He: It is 10:45 AM here, a rather hazy day.
She: Here 9.
He: I’m going to eat, drink and be happy. What’s in your mind?
She: I’m going to eat chocolate and go to work.
He: After you have taken the first bite, save a piece for me.
She: Aha! Ok. I’ll take another bite then.
He: Got to go, have a nice day!
She: You too! Take care
Flash Fiction: The Everest Season
“We had a good time in the Himalayas,” he said.
“Poor me, I missed the chance,” she said. Tears welled in her eyes.
They were speaking Italian and the girl looked just like straight from Milan’s runway – sexy, skimpy, tall, pale, anorexic; only that her face was little rugged.
People were obsessed with mountains, the country was agog with all sorts of people wanting to climb Everest, Annapurna and all those lesser known summits. They were tanned and frost bitten, talking about peaks and expeditions, their failures and success, excitement and sorrow. The spring was a season of Himalayan expeditions, and to be more precise, the spring was the season of Everest.
The man had successfully scaled Everest, however, the woman couldn’t go further Camp III. Just below the South Col she was so much frustrated that she lost her mind and tried to climb alone at night. She did not agree to go back to the Base Camp, and the two Sherpa had to carry her. She was snow blinded and mountain sickness got better of her. And she was saved luckily at the Khumbu ice fall.
“I think I must have worshipped the mountain deities,” she said. “What they call Everest when they pray it as a deity?”
Torn with the love for the Himalayas and her sworn, her shin twitched and she began to wail. “It’s my fault! It’s all my stupid fault!”
Flash Fiction: The Joke
“I’m gay,” he said.
“That’s ok. I’m working on a gay company, everyone around is gay,” she tried to assure him.
“Really?” his eyes were pulled to ears. She smiled. “I hope to work with lesbians some day,” he added.
“Why lesbians?” she asked.
“Maybe I could correct my orientation,” he was somber.
She looked surprised. “You want?”
“I don’t want, but the laws in this country are tough,” he replied.
“That doesn’t mean correcting,” she looked straight into his eyes. “You should want it, otherwise no sense.”
“You are correct,” he said. “But my family needs to understand this.”
“Do you think gays are born that way, or is that a choice?” she asked.
“Some are born that way, and some choose.”
“And you?” she looked persistent.
He laughed. “I choose to joke!”
“How’s that?” Her eyebrows were stretched.
“See, I can choose to joke about myself.”
“So you are not?” She grabbed his arm.
“I was trying to be funny,”
“Aha…kill you, I believed.”
He smiled. “Was I funny?”
“Nah!” she shook her head. “I don’t think gay people are funny. But it’s funny that you joked!”
Note: Author is sorry if someone is offended by this story. His intention is just to entertain the readers.
Flash Fiction: Everest Calling
The kids were loitering on the street. Their songs tried to penetrate the ethereal music from the shops that sold anything from Thanka-paintings to incense, spices, tea, coffee, Khukuri-knives, DVDs, books, and pot. They stopped at the square and raised their heads to see the man before them. The European was ill at ease. He pouted his lips while leaning over the electricity pole.
“O frien’ any problem,” one of the kids asked.
He smiled and handed his coke to one of the boys.
After spending two cold months in Khumbu he was back in Kathmandu. From Tribhuvan Airport, he went directly to his hotel at Thamel. He wanted to switch on the air conditioner but there was a power cut. He went to have a quick wash; the bath was dry.
Under the terrace awning, his wife booted her laptop and wrote: We could not do with the Everest. Perhaps next spring, she said to herself. I’m in love, I’m in love – she cried – O Everest, why did you reject me. Tears brimmed in her eyes, she longed for her husband to share their common grief.
“No water, no electricity,” the European complained.
“Melamchi will come.” “Tamakoshi, Seti…”
He stood smiling, head lowered, without understanding water and hydro projects for the nation building.
“O sir you clim’ Everest?”
“You see Yeti?”
“Take me nex time. I wanna make record.”
The face with frostbites relaxed. He rubbed the boy’s cheeks. “Yes, I know, you’ll be the youngest Everester.” And then he looked at the distant north: The Himalayas, their white caps… Everest was his sleepy wife, her unbuttoned blouse, beckoning him to climb. He swallowed hard.
Flash Fiction: Love and Marriage
Time after time, you get confused about facts and fictions. You cannot distinguish between illusion and reality. You are haunted by the city, by the people, and by the world around.
You close your inner world and open your eyes. You see a feeding cup on your husband’s hand. No, no, you don’t want to drink milk, no milk, and no pills…
Suddenly, the world is reeling again; you see darkness everywhere.
You try to keep your sense intact. You strain and screw your eyes, you can see silhouettes.
Oh, that lanky boy, the crush you had on him. You remember him from your younger days when you could not pull yourself up to tell your tale. He is here to see you, to say l love you. You are still waiting for him to say I love you.
The boy had come to live with his aunt in your neighborhood. He had been living in the house next door for a while, but you did not notice him until you saw him in the store. You talked to his aunt. All the time he was looking at you, his shallow eyes scanning your face. He was so ordinary that you could not decide whether you liked or disliked. At the first meeting, how could you know his ordinariness will slowly become something special?
You open your eyes. There is a nurse preparing an injection. This injection intoxicates like a shot of tequila. You close your eyes, fill your lungs with air and wait for the sting.
Once the boy had lived in your heart, your mind. You exchanged skin and borrowed time. You shared four years, the best part of your life. Did you think so when you were with him? You cannot say now, it happened a long time ago. What issues you had, you can’t remember. You are losing your consciousness.
Involuntarily your eyes open, “Don’t be so anguished honey,” your husband says. Now, you remember, this is your man who always stands with you, always holding you into his heart
Flash Fiction: Suicide Note
Rain! Oh, it’s raining. Rafik…Rooja…Fatima…where are you Fatima? When will the super be ready, what’s cooking in. Will you get me a cup of tea? Fatima, get me a cup of tea, did you hear what I said.
Fatima speaks from a distance. Why…I’m busy in the kitchen. Rooja, go and see your father what’s he after.
This woman is always busy for me. Rooja? Why would I see that shameless girl? She doesn’t cover her head, hangs out with unbelievers.
What the hell was that? Hey tell me who are you? Wait, I’m coming.
There’s nothing here, where has it gone? What’s this thing on my hand? Mm…It’s a rope. A rope? How did it come here…Hey you geckos crawling on the wall, don’t ever dare to stare at me, wait, wait for me, you ugly creatures.
Here you scamper. You were challenging me, huh? What do I do with this rope…Oh, where have those geckos gone…Err on the ceiling, ha, you have taken refuse beside the fan. So you want to play a game. Alright, wait for me I’m coming to get you…Don’t laugh, I can get you if I stand on the chair.
Here I ‘m, I can almost touch you now. So you think you still want to fight me. Let me see what you’re doing. Ha, awful geckos are feeding on mosquitoes! I thought, you were glaring at me, poor creatures, you don’t feel like me. Do you feel pain; no, I mean not the physical one, just like my agonies…Why is this rope still on my hand?
Rooja’s distant voice: Abba, where are you…Abba….Brother did you see…Abba…
Don’t want to see you, shameless people. You mock me, you don’t believe the Prophet, you have no faith in Allah. I could not mend my children, forgive me Allah, forgive me for I have sinned.
Chair wobbles and falls on the floor. Strangled gasps, choked grunts, a violent swinging in the air. And then the stillness!
Rooja’s ascending voice: Abba, where are you, are you in the room?
Light footsteps are heard and then few moments later door creaks.
Abba, why haven’t you switched the lights on?
Switchboard clicks and then the loud violent cry: Abba…Abba…
Flash Fiction: Samsara
So, you don’t love me, you don’t want to reciprocate my feelings!
That’s right baby, your hate is killing me. But listen baby, listen, every time you kill me, I’ll rise again, like the phoenix from the ashes. The old will die and new will resurrect.
Do you believe in Karma, do you believe in Samsara, do you believe in rebirth?
Karma is by-product of your deeds; what you sow, so shall you reap. Samsara is endless cycle of life, the chain of birth and rebirth. Old becomes new, as simple as that.
Your old avatar hates me but your new avatar will love me.
I see you smiling – a blend of pity and condescension. So you are calling me iconoclast. You might have reasons, reasons not necessarily the truth, however, pragmatic in its aspect. No-no, there’s nothing indiscreet in your saying. Actually, you know, nothing infuriates me because I understand the theory of old and new.
Baby, perhaps I’m making you torpid. Allow me to tell you a story.
Long-long time ago there was a savant named Jad Bharat. He lived by a riverside in a jungle. One day he witnessed a gazelle die shortly after giving birth to a calf. He was so much overwhelmed with sorrow that he decided to rear the calf.
Once he had been a king, had abandoned his all belonging, he sought for nothing but the truth. However, in his old age, he was deeply attached to the young gazelle.
Due to this attachment, after death, Jad Bharat took the life of a gazelle. He could remember his past life because of good Karma in his past life. Feeling remorse for his attachment to the gazelle, he corrected his Karma. Then he was born as a Brahmin. In one of his multiple lives, he was able to explain the miseries of birth and rebirth. He was born no more.
See, how old becomes new. You understand, what I’m saying, don’t you baby?
Old you will die and new you will resurrect. And we will be liberated.
Yes baby, yes, we will be liberated. We will be born no more. What is the meaning of my love, and what is your hate actually!