koraa kaaGaz

fever dream

2010-03-07T15:49:00.000-08:00

based on what I went through when I took ill during my last trip to India (December 2009)

Voices tumbled over one another exhorting him to mix the contents of different overlapping strata of space and time in order to survive the precarious walk on the tightrope between real space and dream space. It was all this and much more. As he struggled to make sense of the directives, the thought blanket switched face with another series of interleaved ripples and the voices now screamed another message. It was still convoluted and self-aware in its lack of clarity, but he was hypnotised by its power. He felt like a plane slicing the bodies of clouds holding hands of vapour in the cold sky as the sun glared all around. He could not feel the cold droplets of water as he glided from one cirrus contour to another cumulus trough. Yet, he knew where he was. The sense of confusion and deracination at once felt very wrong and completely appropriate. Another conceptual shift revealed a new configuration in the clouds and voices. Now the sense of being in some metaphysical ravioli was pronounced. He could feel the water boiling but did not feel wet or hot himself. There were no beads of sweat to comfort him. Everything he felt was incomplete and somatically wrong. The voices continued their fervent chanting, still not making sense and still very persuasive. He knew he was dreaming; he knew all he had to do to break this fervid marathon of nonsense was wake up, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep again and sleep was he needed most to let his body fight the virus. He had to be patient and let the fever break when it was time. Until then, he was stuck in limbo between real space and dream space. He couldn't take it anymore. His stomach had started churning in response to the drama in his brain and he was too weak to restore order. He forced his burning eyes open and swallowed a few times. He then rose painfully to his feet and lumbered to the jug to get himself a glass of water.

First Mover Advantage

2009-07-24T07:24:00.000-07:00

There are many things he does not tell me. What he does all day for example. He claims to be a "researcher". Contributing to the world's knowledge and all that. I have no idea how sitting alone in a room all day you can do anything much. But then, I believe him. But then again, I'm not like him.

I work at McDonald's.

I could also claim to contribute to World ... erm, World Hunger or something. If nothing I at least contribute to those zeros that they put up at those tall signs on each of our outlets. The ones which say 'so many morons served' or something. But then I don't. Because I have no pretensions about life. You are born, you go to prom, you fuck, you have kids and you shrivel and die one day in an obscure bed somewhere in front of a few idiots who think its worth their while to buy white lillies for you. And that is if you are lucky. Else your life is screwed before it even began. Each one lives for himself - and no one 'contributes' to some invisible global coffer of knowledge. Just to that very visible coffer in their local bank.

He also refuses to tell me why he insists on wearing those stupid white sneakers and the same pair of jeans every day and why he still drives that idiotic old Saab of his. I mean he has enough money to buy one of those fucken' German beauties. Yet he sticks with Swedish trash. He tells me he is going to graduate in a year, and that it is probably the low point of his graduate life. His research isn't getting anywhere either. Why that should affect his clothing - I have no fucken idea. I work at a blasted McDonald's all day, but hell - that doesn't mean I turn out all the time in a grey shirt and a smelly pair of jeans. I sure like to spend that dough at those boutiques on Charles Street. And sometimes I wished that he'd just wear the stuff I buy him. Not fucken' bitch about it all day! Like Mr. Parsons at the outlet when I overdo the fries. Both of them go to my fucken' head.

I've decided. I'm going to end it. I've met this other guy - Jim. He's not bad. At least he doesn't write computer programs while I'm lying on the bed - the only thing missing a placard asking him to have sex with me. Sure, Jim's a fat idiot who doesn't know shit about anything. But that is a trade-off a girl who serves fries all day has to live with.

I've even worked out how I'm going to do it. I'm going to make a YouTube video and post it online. And then use his email account to send it out to all our friends. Its for his own good. If I don't do this, he'll end up alone, miserable and will wake up one day in a puddle of his own filth wondering why his life turned out the way it did. I even know what I'm going to say:

"Dear Michael, I want to tell you that I'm breaking up with you. I am a 24 year old waitress who stays with her mom and watches Gosspi Girl all day. And you can't even keep ME happy! You need to get out of your fucken' shell and appreciate other people. Take care of them. Be tender. And all those words you call 'stupid' and 'sentimental'. Well, guess what? They're important. They're fucken important Michael! Its high time you realised that. It's over. O-V-E-R!"

***

(Meanwhile across town in a tiny lab this email is being written)

"Sara,

Unfortunately I cannot continue to go out with you any more. I thought that if for a change I dated a 'normal' girl I would be happy. I thought I could make you understand the wonders of the world. The magic behind everything around us. How things come together. How they break apart. But I'm afraid your case is irretrievable. And unless you improve and make an effort to be more interested and curious about what happens about us, learn to appreciate and marvel at how things just work your life will remain as dull and uninteresting as it is now. Sara, in a curious kind of way, I do love you and I want you to be happy.

That is why I'm copying this email to all of our friends.

I hope you will forgive me.

Michael."

***

76 people in and around Boston now have two new messages in their inbox.

Question Time

2008-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

Jim stared at the pitch black screen with the floating, tiny white writing. He had heard that Roman Polanski's name was mentioned in the credits somewhere as a "idea man". And he had to see, to make sure.

The lines rolled by. He tried not to remember what Roger McGrady (jib operator) or Timothy Speelding (lighting and compositing artist) did in the movie. Then suddenly, much to his satisfaction, it showed up.

"Larry Tellis - Ideaman."

Larry Tellis was of course the name Polanski used in such situations. Jim, looked at the screen smugly for one last time before he turned it off. He made a note of the recent discovery in the notebook he had by his side. Not bad, he thought for a SFX movie - hidden tributes to Casablanca and The Apartment, and a special appearance by Santana. And now Polanski's name to the credits. More than par for the course.

If he had people around him he would've said "Nice job, boys! A good day's work", but he was alone. And sleepy. And it was night. So he went turned out the light and went to bed. With the calm of a man who knew of a job well-done.

---

The alarm clock went off at the usual 7 am. Jim woke up. Stared at the paper, gulped some tea, showered and headed off to work. Pretty much a standard Junior-Analyst-at-a-major-investment-company morning. As he locked his 6th floor apartment door, Mrs.Abrams from next door said hello. Jim just smiled weakly in return. At least she didn't talk about his car today.

Exactly a week back, Jim had bought a pretty expensive car. It was in fact one of the most expensive cars money could buy - the new Gladeo S6 Platina, not something that should be in the possession of a 25 year old Finance executive. But, if you've just won a cool £1 million on a TV Quiz show, you do have a little bit of leeway to splurge on childhood fantasies. And so he did.

As he made his way to work, Jim recollected those final moments. He had just won £500,000 via what he thought was a really simple question (Which king was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine?) and the last question was about to just show up. No one before him had ever actually won the £1 million, and to everyone's surprise Jim had all of his lifelines unused. Waiting.

When the final question actually came up, it all turned out to be a bit anti-climatic. It was Entertainment of all topics and they asked him about a character played by an obscure Broadway actor that would be made famous later by another famous actor.("Poncho Man" and Steven Stallworth). Of course he knew that! It was in fact on the "do not ask again list" at his local pub quiz sessions. And he had won the million quid. Just like that.

It seemed awesome to think about all this as he strode along the M6, the Gladeo just purring along. He remembered feeling invincible. Omnipotent. Anything they threw at him he could answer. Just like that. As he pressed on the pedal and galloped along the motorway at 150 kph, nothing he felt could ever challenge him. Not a question or a query he could not find an answer to.

Suddenly the cellphone rang. It was Martha.

"Hi Jim. I really don't know how to say this, and I'm really sorry I'm saying it over the phone like this. But I really can't think of another way. Ermm.. I really don't think we should see each other anymore. I'm really, really sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"

And suddenly all his lifelines were gone, and he was penniless. Again. Just like that.

The Name of Action

2008-05-12T10:12:00.000-07:00

[reminder of theme: something to do with a question]

"This comes 15 sentences before a sentence with the word 'contumely'", the quizmaster had begun.

"Do you know this?!", hissed Sunny. As soon as the quizmaster had spoken, Samit knew it would be coming his way. Of course, he was assuming Arjun would miss it. Seated three teams ahead, he saw Arjun looking pensive. Three years of observing the city's best school quizzer had given Samit good antennae for knowing when Arjun knew. When he knew, which he did (painfully for Samit) most of the time, Samit could tell.

He could sense Sunny glaring at him. Samit always regretted the fact that his parents pulled him out of LMS and into Sardar Patel's ("they have better board results"). LMS were much better at everything else that mattered to him: football, quizzing, dramatics. There, he had also spent one year quizzing with Arjun, who even then towered over the others on the circuit, winning everything that year. After that tragic move for the sake of intangible prospects, he'd watched over the years as Arjun and partner (always rendered anonymous) won a music system, a box set of Ruskin Bonds, and even geared cycles.

"19 sentences before 'quietus'..."

"Shit-yaar-re, even Arjun doesn't know this", squealed Sunny as the quizmaster shook his head at Arjun's attempt. "You will say something or not? Anyway, even Arjun gave up, man."

There was a straightforward explanation why someone as trivially challenged as Sunny was in the team: he came first in History and English. In the opinion of their class teacher, this demonstrated sufficient acumen to deal with quizzes. Samit found it galling to have to qualify via a written test each year for the 'privilege' of partnering that bony ranker. Think, think, think, he tried to persuade himself.

"...which is followed immediately by 'bodkin' and 'fardels'."

Samit was aware of being incensed. At the collective injustices thrown at him, both by those close to him and those forced upon him. He was not a temperamental child and was given to slowly steaming on the fires of quiet contemplation. He wished he could hold his head and somehow thrust it into a pool.

As usual, the quizmaster was stuck at the Stuts, which is what everyone else called the team that unusually had both a boy who stuttered and a girl who lisped. Sympathetic extra time was always available to them. Sunny slumped back in capitulation.

Without any warning, a fleeting memory of his maternal uncle appeared. The uncle who was never spoken of in the family because that poor man had overdosed on sleeping pills, on purpose. Samit was always aware of a persistent sneer issuing from his father whenever any hint of that unfortunate man's former existence made its way into embarassed conversation. We don't suffer cowards, said that sneer, and anyone who turned the lights off permanently just because he couldn't face the darkness didn't deserve to live. One day in the future, Samit would find himself trying to think of every subliminal utterance from his childhood to blame all his troubles on, but right now he simply squirmed, unable to concentrate.

Forget it. If Arjun could not, how can I? (I think I know this.) I can't do this anymore. I'm never going to be good at this. (Go on, say it.) I'm never going to be good at anything. (The quizmaster had walked over.) I wish I could be elsewhere. ("Any answers?"). I wish I could close my eyes. ("C'mon, don't wanna try?") To die, to sleep, to dream.

Said Samit aloud: "To be or not to be, that is the question".

His Fear of Heights

2008-02-10T06:01:00.000-08:00

"So the reason why Housing Department Secretary Fred Carson..."

He was on the ground floor for three hours, waiting for McNeil to show up. McNeil arrived, surrounded by lackeys, and entered the elevator. A sidekick pressed '15'. McNeil, fittingly, had an office right on top of what was the city’s tallest building.

Mr. Fred squeezed in as the doors closed. McNeil paid no attention. Fred knew this was his only chance. He thrust himself in front of McNeil. The lackeys moved in with menace. But McNeil called the hounds off.

Encouraged, Fred wasted no time. ‘I have a script’, he explained. As Studio Head, McNeil was always being accosted by wannabes, and usually dismissed them remorselessly. But he was amused by this little middling man in grey. 'Really?' The flunkeys sniggered. Displeased by their boorishness, McNeil told old man Fred: 'you have until the top floor'.

Twelve floors remained. Fred launched into his story about Cowboy Jim whose New York aunt leaves him an urban fortune. Fred knew his story both by heart and by soul. That it had a slow beginning, under the open skies and plains. But eventually, it would pick up wings and soar. It was Fred’s ticket out.

Mr. Fred wanted McNeil to show a flicker of reaction. But McNeil had weathered thirty years in the business and had a face of the finest oak. The lackeys were quiet too.

The elevator halted. Fred still had the last one-third left. The best third. McNeil exited. ‘Thanks, but this isn’t what we’re looking for’.

"...never permits a new building in his jurisdiction to exceed fifteen floors was the fact that he had rejected the addition of five floors to that same building when it was being made."

The Silence of Doom

2008-01-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

In that cold room on the night of the new moon, I respectfully closed the eyes of the Rajah Sahib with my palms. I looked at his grieving family and shook my head. Surya Mahal was now in mourning for its head.

I noticed the prince-in-waiting Nakul Hans gesture in my direction, so I followed him out of the deceased Rajah’s bedroom. The Ranee Sahibaa silently wiped her tears, clinging to her last moments with her husband and her vermillion. Nakul’s younger brother Vardhan knelt beside his mother and put his arm around her. He paid no attention to us.

"Thank you, Dr. Indraneel, in this hour of grief, for attending so patiently to my father", Nakul said outside, his voice faltering.

"Please, I implore you not to say so", I said, a tremble in my whisper. "It was all I could do. His time had come. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it any easier for him."

"I’m sure you gave it your best shot, Doctor", he said, regaining the crisp command that spoke eloquently of his public school education.

"About that other matter?" I ventured haltingly.

The latest successor to the estates and titles of Daalipore considered this carefully. "Let us go upstairs", he said.

Nar Bahadur, Nakul’s faithful retainer, was summoned for torches. We walked up those four flights of steps to the Mahal’s South Tower. Bahadur was dismissed at the ante-chamber to the Tower, a place that I had grown familiar with in the last three months without once feeling accustomed to its musty and dank chambers. She lay in the corner.

This may come as shock to you, dear reader, so I will try to expound on our odd visit, the latest of a series of visits which I had now been performing for three months. You see, I have also been treating the Banshee of Surya Mahal all this while. She was resident in these dark Tower chambers. You must excuse the pride that regrettably creeps in my voice when I recount these episodes. I have been sworn to secrecy by the Royal Family and may my throat be slit if I have ever breathed a word of this to a fellow being before. But the fact that I am surely the only Indian doctor in Her Majesty’s Raj to have the rare privilege of actually administering medicine to a living banshee stirs up an equally rare vanity in my soul.

Like most of my fellow countrymen, I had never heard of a banshee. However, in my last year as a medical student at the University of Edinburgh, my Professor of Anatomy, to whom I had endeared myself, had opened new doors of medicine to me. To me and two other favoured pupils, he introduced the magical world of the banshees, these fantastic creatures who attached themselves loyally to households and wailed when death was imminent there! However, on return to my native land, I had set aside this memory when confronted with the more mundane ailments of my fellow-men, whose cholera and malaria had cured me of all my fancies.

However, six months ago, Nakul Hans came to visit me with a question concerning the health of his family’s banshee. This came as quite a shock to me. The scion of the local kingdom, he put forth the facts before me. His grandfather had obtained the banshee from England, but had kept it a closely-guarded family secret. Now, folklore says that banshees shriek when any member of the household faces death. Little does anyone know that this death need not be inevitable. It can serve as a forewarning of doom, which can be held at bay if precautions are taken. Living constantly with the threat of external aggression and internal intrigue, as the royals and their forefathers did, the banshee became a valuable harbinger that had saved some lives. But one must also bow to the wishes of the great Almighty above, so when illness or old age came knocking at the doors of Surya Mahal, the family could prepare for the worst once the banshee had spoken.

The death of the Rajah a few minutes ago was the first time in 75 years that the Banshee had not moaned in warning when death had come on its dark journey.

The banshee cowered in the corner as I approached her. Her mouth was open and she was clearly making a desperate attempt to call out. But only silence rushed out to meet the air.

"So you’ll be able to reverse the condition now?" whispered Nakul.

"I will, sir, er, Your Highness", I said, as I held the poor creature firmly and shone my torch in her throat. "As I have told you, I must confess that I have never done the procedure before, but the literature does cover it in great detail. I have no reason to doubt its effectiveness, since the earlier procedure worked so well".

"Indeed, doctor. You do realize that I must have her by my side now that the Rajah, may the gods bless him, is no more. Vardhan has been suspicious and I have reason to believe that in his last days, my father had started to agree with him. This despite the discretion of the highest order."

"Do not worry, your highness. You have some very discreet men in your employ. Like me".

He smiled that quick smile, which reminded many of a tiger’s smirk. I must be careful with this man.

"I hope so, doctor. By when do you think she’ll have her voice back?"

"The texts say 2 weeks should be sufficient."

"Hmm. Make it a month – it would be extremely odd if the banshee were to regain her voice so soon after my father passing away. I’ll just have to be a little more cautious during this period, but that should be a price worth paying."

"As you prefer it, sir."

I stood up as Rajah Nakul Hans flashed his torch at the banshee whose features were contorted in rage. I did not know she could do so!

You may, O reader, wonder whether a doctor ought to readily sacrifice his scruples. But please consider my position. Nakul would have arranged to poison his noble father even if I had not acquiesced. By silencing the Banshee, I obtained the fortunate prospect of observing this fantastic beast at a microscope’s length away. Perhaps my book on the banshees will one day be on the shelves of stores in London and be studied at Bart’s. The onward march of medical science has always demanded a few human sacrifices. As a token of memoriam, I shall dedicate my book to the Rajah Aryanath Tejatman Singh of Daalipore, who died this nineteenth day in December, 190x, of natural causes. May his soul rest in peace.

[Note from me:

* Have steamrolled past word limit like the German army looking for land in the East.

* Could not pick up familiarity with the vocab of the era, so did the following: eschewed modern usages wherever possible, used slightly more flowery/old-fashioned words, used brit-style spelling for some entities, used Doyle's prose as a reference.

The License.

2007-12-05T01:44:00.000-08:00

I started out with noble intentions. But I don't think this entry ended up fitting the "social milieu" requirement. Maybe it does. But anyway, here goes.
***

Buddho Babu was elated. This joy expressed itself through another squirt of red betel juice, this one making only a minor red mark near the bottom of his white dhoti. The major part of the projectile found itself nestled at the bottom of a blue bucket placed near the foot of the bench on which he was sitting. Bustling with life, and littered with people - no one in the room really cared. This act was a sign of feeling at home in a government office, nothing really to frown upon.

"Aah" Busho Babu groaned as he got up and made his descent down the final flight of stairs that would complete his year long mission. It wasn't easy when he had decided to take it on. After all, there was the long theoretical and experimental study, the rigorous examination, and the actual live practical, demonstrating that he could do it right. Very few passed. He had rightly surmised that the government did not want too many people with the license. The very fact that they actually sanctioned this kind of thing was unknown to most. He certainly did not know anyone who had one. But then, no-one he knew had needed one either.

He could see a light emerging from the bottom of the stairwell. "This must be it". As he entered the bare, dusty room, the babu at the desk motioned him to wait, while the Chief Sanctioning Officer arrived. Buddho Babu would have a short interview with him, sign the final few papers before he recieved it. Also there was the small matter of the oath.

The Officer arrived in about a minute and gesticulated that Buddhu Babu could accompany him to his office. "Congratulations" he said."This would have been so much easier for you and us, if you had gotten this done when you found out at your Coming-of-Age Investiture . Anyway, better late that never, sign here please!". As he signed, The Officer handed him his small, green card, with his photograph, the official stamp and other details. A small box on top indicated his current status. "Allowed limit : 1500ml per week".

"So, shall we begin with the oath?".

Budho Babu mumbled the words, as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

"I solemnly pledge before The Holy Spirit that I will not misuse the powers granted to me by the Government, and will uphold the general principles of Vampiredom. I will drink the blood of only fresh corpses and the terminally ill, in a manner that will not cause mental or physical pain to any individual involved. I shall not exceed the limits prescribed by my license and will not divulge the details of this transaction to any other individual. I shall lead the rest of my life as an authorized Vampire with utmost integrity and will be forever loyal to the Charter of Vampiric Principles."

Moral Victory

2007-10-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

Why here, he thinks – Do I not have enough to worry about already? Why come back to a place, I've hated for years. Sure, it's praised and lauded. Sure, it's written about. But what do they know? If you'd have had the time to ponder over it, to drink it in – in all its moods, in all its seasons, then you'd know. Know her for real. That beast of monotony. Pounding away since eternity. Fleeting in her love, unforgiving in her wrath. Yes, he affirms – she's left him no choice. Hate the sea, he must.

Those people will never understand this though. “It's your culture, boy! ” he's heard mister Kerkar argue. Shit, he's heard everyone argue. He fights back, - “But she's of no use. All she does is infringe and influence. She dominates. She makes us all dance to her charms. And, we do.” He'd prefer not feeling this way. He'd prefer blending in. How he wished, she could charm him too. No antagonism, no upheaval. No hate. Life – they say is not that simple.

Why here, he thinks. Again.

Around him, Nature awaits the rendez-vous. It gasps with the wind, prepares with the sand, heralds with the birds. About 9 o'clock, he remembers reading - she should be on time. But till then, he must wait. That was never an issue with him. Waiting. He was always good at it. That is all that he's done all his life. Wait. Kind of fitting, he smirks, that he should do it now. A perfect way to round off.

“One must wait, when one does not get.”

Some aphorism. “Man! I should have noted all those down.” Fuck - too late now.

A glance at the watch confirms his premonition. It's time. He closes his eyes. She makes her final advance.

It seems repulsive at first – when she first touches his toe. They haven't met in over seven years. And now, all of a sudden, this intimacy. Alien, cold and yet familiar in its touch. “You succumb, at last.” - she seems to whisper, clawing away. With relish. Taking her time. She grows on him, covering him in her warmth. He's repulsed. More than ever.

He feels his body shiver, tremble. Not with fear, but excitement. It's going to be over. Soon. But even in this inescapable finality, he has time to smirk - “Even now, you come to me.”

Mister Kerkar was right, he agrees - she's got her uses after all. All you need to do, is wait.

Lab #5

2007-10-16T01:51:00.000-07:00

While we read each other's submissions and everyone pummels mine into oblivion, here's the next lab to get everyone thinking.

Title : Sahib, Biwi aur Golem.
[That's right, a piece in the style+vocabulary of early Indian fiction, in the social-novel milieu, but with a western supernatural creature inserted into the plot. That means traditional creatures like fairies, golems (duh), vampires, werewolves. Not creatures mentioned in only a specific book or movie, like Cthulhu, He-who-must-not-be-named, Jason Voorhees, or Replicants.]
Constraints : Note the vocabulary bit above. I mean it. Really.
Word Limit : 500 words or so.
Deadline : 10th November.

Ideology

2007-10-15T02:57:00.000-07:00

"...if you hadn't gone through that experience, you'd agree with me." Rohan finished.

Rita said nothing. Head bowed, she stared into the flames. Beyond the bonfire, the waves crashed onto the shore. In spite of herself, she shivered. Rohan sensed her withdrawal, and put an arm around her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to remind you of... that time. Innocents do get caught in the crossfire of every law. But if you look at the larger scheme of things, it serves as a deterrent to others..." Fire flashed in Rita's eyes. She stood up, flinging away Rohan's hand.

Speaking as if lecturing to her class, she said, "So I'm a deterrent, now, am I? The scars on my back are good to show others, all those memories of the lockup..." she shuddered again, " are worth collecting into a book, eh?" She moved into the darkness at the edge of the treeline, so that he wouldn't see the blood rushing to her face.

Rohan flinched at the venom. "The alternative is worse," he said, "Unless people are afraid to break the law, it has no meaning. In fact, I'd say a week isn't enough. Look at America, they lock up suspects for months at a time. Crimes in the US are nonexistent today. Everyone's afraid of doing anything out of line with the law. Imagine India becoming so safe. Rita, where are you going?"

Rita was invisible from the beach. Rohan looked for her for awhile, then muttered, "She'll be back," and sat down to toast his hands.

"DON'T MOVE!"

The amplified voice cut through the darkness. A spotlight rested on Rohan. The boat edged towards the shore - why hadn't either of them noticed it before? "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

Rohan stood up. "N...nothing, we were just..."

"HOLD UP YOUR I-CARD," the voice commanded.

Rohan's hands went to his pockets. "Rita, my wallet... I gave it to you when we went swimming... Rita? Rita?"

But Rita was nowhere to be seen. The spotlight searched among the bushes, but there was no one. It returned to Rohan.

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD."

"But I'm not... I'm just... RITA! Come here! I'm not a smuggler, I...we're here for a vacati... RITA!!!"

A figure had moved from the ship onto the shore, and was even now handcuffing Rohan. Rohan took a step back, tried to pull his hands away. There was a click somewhere, and pain shot through his legs. "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE. IF YOU ARE INNOCENT, YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR."

Rita suppressed the urge to come out into the open, to prevent what was happening. She could make out Rohan's expression; memories flooded through her mind. Yet the conversation had pinched, had awakened a fury.

She looked forward to the conversation when - if - he returned.

Takeover

2007-10-13T23:15:00.000-07:00

[Submission for Lab 4]

Pardon me if I'm making a mistake, but I do believe a man of my age deserves some luck when he needs it. Therefore, I may be excused for having fled to the seaside today. I could not face another day there - where nothing I do can find appreciation. This must be what rebellion feels like.

I know, I know. Tomorrow, I will be back at my desk, insults and payscales left by the wayside. By then, the ember of revolt would have died from surprise at being given a life. But today, it spends a day by the sea.

I'm on my toes. I look to the left and then to the right. No one in sight. Just like everyone else, the sun is also earning its pay. It is delivering a performance of a lifetime. No surprise that I'm the only grain of sand on two feet.

After an hour, I spy someone walking towards where I am sitting. He seems to carrying a tripod, a pot, and a briefcase. I look back at the vessel of shimmer in front of me. He stops near me, saying nothing. Instead, he pulls out a flier and hands it over with a smile. He starts to unpack. He pulls out a robe.

If he's an artist of any confidence, he has chosen with care. I'm open to all kinds of ideas today, so I open the pamphlet. The contents are shy and do not demand my attention. Without fuss, it says: Hello. I'm 'K the Redeemer'. To prove it, I shall perform a miracle today at 12 noon at the beach, and hide the sun for 15 minutes. Please do come and watch. Thanks.

All he's asking for is my time. I'm any performer's dream today.

It's only 11, but as you would expect of a god and a pro, he's set the stage and is prepared for everything. Though, I don't see Murphy's Law kicking in. It's not as if the power will go out and ruin the show.

Half an hour later. We've been talking and it looks like he's got no worries about the lack of turnout. His publicity has been limited to some fliers and an newspaper insertion buried amidst people trading machine parts. The sole concession to the demands of stagecraft is his robe studded with stars and crescents. He bought it for 200 rupees and admits to being drenched in sweat.

It's time. He walks over to the pot and lights a flame under it. Fragrance surrounds us. A seller of peanuts stops to see what these two idiots in the middle of the beach are upto. The sun waited above, from its vantage point.

He smiles, he waves his hand, he mutters. I look up, and yes, the sun's gone. Yet, there's light, so you wouldn't notice the ball of fire was missing unless someone pointed it out. However, you might wonder why you were not perspiring.

He turned to me, smiling. The vendor could be seen fleeing in the distance. Gone nuts, you might say. It looks like we have a god in our midst after all.

Thirty minutes later, we walk away together. He'd shed those garbs and I was carrying the pot (what an aroma). Things had changed. Oh, and it does seem that we meek will inherit the world. That is, if it isn't a lot of trouble to the rest of you. We apologise for any distress in advance.

We're piiTh :: George

2007-10-07T08:55:00.000-07:00

Down by the seaside

The waves smashed the edge of the shore; the spray and sand joined forces and flailed in the air only to settle down until the next splash.

Singing to an ocean, I can hear the oceans roar

He stared out at the sea and wondered what he felt. The thoughts running through his head were not unlike the waves he beheld. It was not the turmoil of the waves but the indifference of the sand that rang closer to home.

And there was a void of feeling.

No happiness.

Singing in the sunshine, laughing in the rain

No relief.
No joy.
No regret.

Yet the act demanded something. Or perhaps He was right. There seemed to have been a certain rationale motivating his action.

Uncertainty.

Perhaps that was it. What next? What now? Only time would tell.

No time left to pass the time of day

The consequences didn't seem to faze him or wriggle down his spine like a sense of unease.

I've been waiting for the hands to move until I just can't look no more

Dwelling on the past with its sunshine and shadow only made his stomach churn.

I used to sing to the mountains, then the ocean lost its way

In the far distance, two figures walked into the house. A light filled the inside. That was when he realised that dusk was here.

People turned away

Another gaggle of thoughts twisted in his head and exploded into bits as he rose from the sand.

The pain, the pain without quarter

He looked down at the body and the drops of blood beside it. Cain dusted the sand off his blade and walked towards the house.

We're piiTh

2007-09-10T08:42:00.001-07:00

Setting: the seaside
Constraint: cannot use any adverbs and only upto 3 adjectives
(inspired by http://samanth.blogspot.com/2007/08/pg-wodehouse-and-adjective.html)
Deadline: ~~30 of Sept~~ ~~10 of Oct~~ 15 of Oct.
Word limit: 500 words

Lab #3: Heart of a small boy :: George

2006-04-01T19:17:00.000-08:00

A van had just come around the corner. The crow was getting hysterical. Without a wince, Valon pulled the trigger. Twice. Kalinas tried to grin but there wasn't much left of his lips. Or his mouth. Or his face, for that matter, although the right eyebrow seemed to have won a few more minutes of airtime. And they ended just as Kalinas crumpled to the ground. The eyebrow beat the rest of his face by a whisker. Which was a bad way to put it, because getting your face blown up while your guts were falling onto your shoes is not a great time for puns.

Six weeks ago, the sight would have made Valon give up his dinner. Now it was different. It felt like brushing your teeth. Or eating a homemade coriander chutney sandwich. But he still didn't like it.

Ten minutes and a black coffee later, Valon's taste buds registered the flavour of the syrup that covered the hot waffles. Dada was late. Again. And then he walked in through the door, a tired-looking, resigned-weary man wearing a gray porter's jacket, as gray as his hair, as gray as his indoor skin. It was spooky. It was almost as if he had been waiting outside. Waiting for Valon to think of him.

"Coffee. Black, " said the crusty voice. "So, Kalinas dead?"

Valon nodded and took another bite.

"The blue eyes were gone on the jackpot bars"

"I hadn't thought about it really"

"A lot of impossible things are happening lately"

Valon's mutter was the only indication that he agreed as he raised his cup to tell the waitress he needed a refill.

Dr. Foster from the Rekal Research Institute believes that the miasma theory might hold the answer to the madness we've been seeing over the last few months ...

Dada treated the TV screen with a few subdued obscenities and treated himself to another gulp of coffee. A grimace and a "yech!" followed. The final glance away from his cup saved his life. The morphy's drunken swipe with the chopping knife missed his face by a breath. The morphy lost his balance and doddered a bit on his left foot, before falling onto the floor. A bar stool broke his neck along the way and the sound was drowned out by the scream of the waitress behind them. And the sound of Valon's gun drowned that out. And then a jug crashed on the floor and coffee mixed with blood. The screaming waitress backed away, slipped, and fell into the mix. More screaming. Dada would've loved to slice her head off just to stop the noise.

Valon slapped a withered Lincoln and some change on the table and headed for the door. Dada dusted his jacket and followed suit, swapping out the clip in his gun in a fluid motion he'd perfected after watching the old Woo tapes at the motel.

"Picture yourself! In a boat! On a river!" screamed the preacher standing at the corner of Romero and King. Valon and Dada walked past him and Valon tossed some change into the dented rusted bowl at the preacher's feet. The clinking was quick and muffled.

"Dunwich was online an hour ago"

"Is Abagail fine?"

"Yeah! They heard from the group in Kingsport too. They should be getting to the outpost by Friday"

"Any more sightings?"

"Conflicting reports. Two reports from Innsmouth and then a message came in from Doglick that a group had seen him near an encampment."

"Maybe Griffin's ... what was that he called it ..."

"Refractive index aberrations"

"Yeah, that. Maybe that's what it is. We'll have to wait till the town hall meeting to find out"

A scream pierced the night air. And then half a head landed with a splotch on Dada's shoe.

Lab #3: Heart of a small boy

2005-08-24T06:36:00.000-07:00

This may be the last chance I have of setting this particular exercise, since we might expand to more people by the next lab. So here goes...

1. Write an excerpt from a novel. Remember the excerpt bit: We are not aiming for completeness of plot. We are specifically aiming for the appearance of an ongoing story, the feel that things have started before this excerpt and will be resolved sometime in the future.

2. The genre must be 'horror'. You are welcome to imitate your favourite horror-type writer's style and vocabulary: Stephen King, H.P.Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Bloch, Aahat scriptwriters, R.L.Stine. Or you could create your own horror-type style.

3. Now the fun bit. There must be a description, preferably in detail, of a specific character somewhere in your excerpt. I hereby nominate 'Dada', whom we all know from our - er - common software company experiences, as the compulsory character. You can make him whatever you like - a ghost, a vision, a painting, whatever.

4. One final constraint. A much watered down version of George's exercise. The word 'Miasma' must appear somewhere, anywhere in your post. >:)

5. Due date is proposed as 15th September.

PS. The title comes from Robert Bloch : "Despite my ghoulish reputation, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk."

Lab #2 - George

2005-08-14T19:06:00.000-07:00

{Yes, I accept all brickbats (and I have already accepted several in the form of the two submissions for the lab). Thought I'd provide a nice silver nail for the coffin:) Postmodern references (as if there weren't enough already) available on request}

"Don't you dare call me Ishmael!" And Aichi proceeded to provide a competent phonetic equivalent of his name to the bewildered customer service representative at the other end of the cell-while. The flatline drone of redundant information on the traffic channel was suddenly interrupted by yet another calmercial:

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

The dehumidifying kruegers had won this time. A brief smudged flash of the long line of SRVs going nowhere on the intertown. The rain did this here. Drove people's brains to seed. Social historians and people who subscribed to the Methuselah Manifest were now getting bolder about finding all this atavistic drive to disaster that humanity had embarked upon. Yet again. It had happened after every revision of the Public Transit Bill. The concerns of the leftist factions who supported the cause of mass transit were laid to rest using what many historians in the know referred to as offering "epistemological problems of sufficient magnitude". The Howard Family had only managed to achieve a fractional improvement over the work of the previous generation and had announced a renunciation last week. The allocated funds would soon be up for grabs through the tax-exempt growleries and their weekly trivia contests...

Aichi Je's voice broke into the void of Walker's thoughts. "Can you connect me to room six one one?"

The scraggly treescape didn't offer much of an alternative to the vista of the chocked arteries on the expressway. Walker had hoped that someone in the administration would appreciate the irony of the term and find an acceptable replacement. But then, it would be too much to expect irony in the administrative circles. All these years had not afforded a government job any more value and meaning.

"You're taking a chance by not wearing a cap, especially at a time like this." That was Aichi Je again. Referring to Walker's overdue haircut and the consequences it might have if they were flagged by a heli-cop and presented with a citation for being decalvant delinquents. Walker didn't even want to explore the irony of that phrase. He just gave Aichi a blank look peppered with the hint of a smirk. They had more pressing problems at hand.

Aichi was trying to get in touch with a feelings facilitator for some "vision reconciliation." Something about a recurring dream he was having –- some dark figure standing by his bed blowing smoke and quotes from Derrida at him. Walker wondered if the lady two lanes away would consider that a nightmare.

A short high-pitched squeal on the radio hinted that the Stochastic Signal System was about to proceed to its next iteration. This might be their chance. A short window of time and space opened up and they managed to get to their exit with just about a second to spare.

The clarity was devastating and the ambiguity had fled the box.

Lab #2 : Sudarshan

2005-08-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

[This story has been in draft state for more than 2 weeks - first on my computer, then on blogger. Sick and tired of even thinking about it. I know exactly how JR felt before posting his entry now! :). Therefore, guys, forgive cheapness in style. The Asimov-ish punchline, though, is fully intentional, and targeted squarely at George for his lab idea.]

The cheapskates always tried to cram the chip with all sorts of business information – strangely enough, they were the ones with the most money and they bought the highest-capacity chips, but they were invariably the ones who found the space insufficient. They’d think that the intricacies of running their business was something that needed to be explained down to the most mundane detail. The creative types, on the other hand, usually just wanted to pass on memories of a few of their best moments, and were quite content to edit down their memories to fit the smaller chip their limited finances could afford.
Daddy was arguably somewhere in between these two extremes. You don’t become an art dealer unless you have a head for art in the first place, and you don’t become the best-known art dealer in the solar system without possessing some business acumen. Unfortunately, his son George didn’t have the same mixture of talent, which was why I was in his life, calling him Daddy and helping out in his business, instead of still being in an orphanage.
I watched him now with a mixture of curiosity and concern. When he’d called me here to this hotel room, I’d assumed it was because he was on Io for a short time and wanted to check up on the business on this branch. I was meeting him in the flesh after nearly a year, and I’d been shocked by the fine wrinkles that had appeared around his eyes. They didn’t show up in the vidphone image. Daddy noticed the expression on my face and curtly dropped his bombshell.
“The Plastic-drug course didn’t slow down the tumour as much as expected. It’s a matter of a few weeks more – then the tumour will start affecting my brain tissues.
“It might take several years for the change in brain physiology to be apparent in my behaviour. But by then my memories will be unreliable – Doctor Rao says that the main problem will be mingling of dream and experience – I might end up passing on my weird dreams to you instead of the useful stuff.”
“But Daddy – you’ve heard of those new implants coming on the market – they’re supposed to detect fallacious memories and warn you before writing them onto the chip...”
But he was shaking his head. “I can’t take that risk. I don’t know what my memories will be like by then. If I myself cannot distinguish between real and dream, what good will the implant be? No, I must backup my memories now. If the medicines keep the tumour at bay, I’ll take the backup...again.” And he shuddered.
The process of taking ‘backup’ of living memories was a long and painful one. The patient virtually went through every single scene of his life, every bit of learned or intuited knowledge, with an option of selecting the important memes to be recorded on command. Many people found parts of their lives too frightening to relive, and stopped the process midway. Such incomplete chips, of course, were useless, because implanting them into the recipient’s brain could cause disorientation and eventual madness.
I looked up to see Daddy walking into the next room. “I’m calling Doctor Rao up here so he can check you out too.” There came the sounds of him speaking the Reception’s ID into the vidphone, and asking for room 622, presumably where
Doctor Rao was lodged. After he completed his discussion, he came back in.
“Listen, Sudarshan.” He said. “I’ve decided on the Pivot Fact for the memories.”
It was always difficult, once the recipient had been implanted with the chip, to distinguish between the recipient’s own memories and the implanted ones. In fact, when the implanted memories might themselves be composed of third- and fourth-hand ones, it got really complicated. Thus it became important for the recipient to use some small fact, feeling, image, as a point of reference, as the Pivot Fact. The implanted memories felt different; they came from a different physiology and the feeling of them was subtly different. Once a Pivot Fact was decided on, the feel of that fact was useful to identify the other implants. It was helpful for the donor to mentally mark that bit as conspicuously as he could while preparing the chip.
“Shouldn’t we be waiting for George? After all, he needs to use the same facts too.” I said.
Daddy shook his head. “I’ll talk to him separately. Now let me complete.
“You remember, when you were in college, you were top of the class in Classical Poetry Studies? But even so, there was one poem you were never able to understand. I explained it to you God knows how many ways, but it never made sense to you.”
I nodded. “It was Focus, by some weird American poet...can’t even remember her name.”
Daddy said, “Yes. And my understanding, my feel for that poem will be my Pivot. All right?”
I thought this was odd. “But George was able to understand that poem; he claimed to love it. This won’t help him at all!”
There was a knock on the door. Doctor Rao, most likely. I stood up to open it, Daddy reached out a hand and sat me down.
“I’m not giving George this chip. It’s for you alone.”
“But... but...” I hunted for words to describe it. “ You shouldn’t do that! He’s your... heir!”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled wickedly. “Was my heir. I’m cutting him out. It was long overdue.”

eff 'em, err.., all

2005-07-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

At the end of it, everyone was mostly fed up. Einstein was wrong when he memorably said that he didn't know how WW3 would be fought, but WW4 would be fought with sticks
and stones. Memorable quoting was all that he did, if you ask me. We've still got enough of the deadly stuff to mess around for atleast four generations. We've all just moved on to other pastimes, thank you. Ah, that Einstein. What luck he'd had passing off such elaborate dung as that relativity theory for 2 centuries!

"Hmmm... I think it's time you popped out and had your hair cut", she said, lazily running her hands through his curls.

"My locks of hair, talismans so rare, my maiden so fair..."

"Oh no... not in the morning, I beg of you - I admit bad poetry is much easier to digest in the night. Seriously, go."

"Yup."

***
He gazed at the ceiling. Blank.
"Sri - either you get yourself tidied up tomorrow or don't come. That's about it. I have neither the patience nor the need to come mopping up after you. Those Japs come in tomorrow - so tie, haircut, black shoes. Shave. Pinstripe - if you own one".

Of course he didn't. You cooked your own skin on a slow roast in those, so it made sense to wear them only if you were a masochistic anthrophage.

He had to get up. Too hungry not too.

An apple later, he hopped over across the road to the saloon. In his fervid imagination (the part they wanted to repress), he could never think of that word without half-expecting a gunslinger in sepia to rush out. He realised it was also the news report. Perhaps it was the relative lack of concern among his fellow men. No disaster movie scenarios, no mass panic, no actor rushing against the crowds looking for his sweetheart or his pet iguana. Guess everyone felt the same way - if the rest of the populace didn't think anything was wrong, why should I? It was an infectious line of thinking.

Both chairs were occupied so he settled down. The lack of chirping there was very evident. So not everyone was unconcerned - even the not so news-savvy head hairdresser. Who looked at him sans his usual froth:

"To aapanE nyuuz sunaa? Kyaa kyaa hotaa hai naa saab. Par sach kahuu.n kyaa, apanE jaisaa logo.n pE kuch khaas difference nahi paDhanEwaala."

"apaNe jaisaa"? Was he included in it or was it the ilk of the lower middle classes?

"kaun kambha.kt kehtaa hai" that he wouldn't have any "far.k" happen to him? Perhaps all you needed to do was to do it to yourself.

"15 minute aur lagEgaa saab - abhi start kiyaa hai."

He threw a hand over his long curls - it had taken him the best part of 25 days and a little-known concoction to get them in this state. No, it had taken him 25 years to muster up the courage to grow them up in stiff violation of a life-long family code of never deviating from the boringly straight, the incessantly cautious, the strictly sober. A cantonment life in place of Brylcreem and zero cuts scything through any hairs that his father could grasp in one clutch of a fist. She wouldn't have liked it - she preferred his close crops though she always liked to tease him about his smooth looks.

She never goes away, does she? It had been 3 years 2 months since he stopped trying. But she lingered on, appearing in cameos in his mindspace each day, for varying times, with the most unusual associations. Oh, the ribbing he'd given her when she got her flowing tresses cropped - she took it rather well. It gave him a sense of importance, when she vowed never to repeat that again. Important at being able to influence such decisions in her life. Not all decisions though.

He felt a little warm. He needed to stretch out and think. With a "me.n baahar huu.n", he stepped out.

People don't realise it, but conformity is a disease - a social one. It spreads through contact, imposes its fangs pandemically and kills silently. Think for instance: what else explains such incredibly foolish trends such as bell-bottoms in the First Cold War Age, or those elaborate Victorian puffs and wigs, or if you go right back, the first rags covering the early Homo Sapiens (if they were conscious of being so haute couture). Similarly for weapons: Heads of State just had to have what everyone else had - sticks, then arrowheads, then cannonballs and so on. It never occured to them how easier it would be to not conform - all that wasted time. For we are a dying species and have always been.

He pulled out his IdCore to check all his messages. Part of the withdrawal symptoms was learning to live without the hope that she would pass by, physically or electronically. It must have been the result of the day before, for there it was. News.

"Do you know she's back in town? Had been [d|w]ining at Kings and who should I see checking in?". So read a message from a school friend. One of their school friends.

It was 9:30 am. In an hour was the bus that took him and fellow drones into the comb. To buzz with bees from a different comb. A bigger, sweeter comb to his queen.

It was easy to see why he was back home in within the next quarter of an hour, furiously clicking through to look for the Kings number. It took him the better part of the next hour to muster up the courage to dial. (Why? Who wouldn't have the guts to call? Especially when half the waking world was calling up each other to discuss yesterday's news? What will we do? Can it be true? What rot, I say! And here he couldn't whisper "Free? I'm coming over".)

Perhaps it was all that cowardly delay, for in response to his "... do you know which room she's in? Then may I please be connected to 6-1-1?", all he got was "I'm sorry sir, she's out at the moment." Crappy diem was all that he could muster today. 6 plus one plus one was eight. Never was his lucky number. He spent another hour rooting out the psychic nuances in the number system applicable to the situation.

Six hours later, he was rolled up in a lounge chair at Kings. He had figured it would be the best place to lay in wait - even if it smacked of desperation. He no longer needed to work at the protective sang froid. It had been quite a while since he realised that he'd not given a moment's thought to work. It never occured to him again in the rest of the day.

Lord Krishna lived for some hundred years. So informs us the Mahabharata. Methuselah put in more years of work than most people put in 5 reincarnations. Just because we live much lesser than them doesn't mean that those were merely myths of someone's fervid imagination. Perhaps we did live that long once. Maybe our genes had just lost the ability along the way. Not that implausible today. Perhaps Nature in her infinite common-sense had finally figured out that the best way to rein in our parasitic tendencies was to turn the screws on the longevity dials. id est, stop trusting Ebolas and Falciparums to do the job. Only she got beaten to the post.

He hadn't seen her return, finding that out at 8:30 pm when he asked the reception. Not bothering to call up or to smoothen any strand of his dishevelled head, he found himself tapping her door and walking in, in response to her call.

She didn't seem to be too surprised, just a touch of amusement. She opened her mouth in preparation to speak, when he interjected:

"I don't care who you're seeing, if you're married, if you don't plan on staying, if you don't fancy me, if you'd like us to be friends, if you have other ideas. I don't, we don't, have a lot of time. All I'd like to do is to be with you. As long as I can."

A beat. She spoke. "I don't like what you've done to your hair. It will have to wait till tomorrow though".

Nature was beaten, finally, by our inbuilt promise of self-destruction that kicked in eventually. Pity that the Einsteins and Vernes and Clarkes in all their clever scenarios of the future never thought of a future-less present. When your present isn't big enough, what good is your future? So when we launched gene-mutating chemicals insidiously into each other's water and air (the two entities that don't respect any geographical boundaries) and ended up reducing the average human lifespan to a petite 35 years, what do you expect people to do? Beat chests and complain? Do you think we have the time? It took us 20 years since the end of the Third big war to explain the symptoms and since then we've been scrambling to live, not merely saving it up for a post-retirement time table.

Today all geniuses remain merely precocious. Teenage sports sensations don't have to look to a future of anonymity. The vast majority of us continue to remain in the shadows. Like the poet said, "Obscurity has its tale to tell. Like the figure on the studio-bed in the corner, out of range, smoking, watching and waiting". Only we aren't waiting any more.

I just don't have the strength to "research" the effects of all this on human civilisation for your benefit. I only have about a thousand sunsets left in the account, and I'd rather be counting them than talking to you.

[Note]
As is probably obvious, I *did not* enjoy writing this, or even righting all that went awry! I struggled to weave all the four mandatory elements and it might be visible. I don't know how it has turned out, I'm too exhausted to have an opinion. Perhaps the story idea hasn't come out very clear - let me know and I'll elaborate :-). Soon after beginning this exercise, the only goal, like the Marathon Man's, was to finish (hopefully with all my teeth intact ;-), which I have.

If none of you are planning to put in your efforts, can we (*spluttering*) move on to the next lab (*last gasp*) please? (*droops*)

Lab #2 - "I have no pen and I must write"

2005-05-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

Write a piece of psi phi [0] (or skiffy [1], or speculative fiction if you will) that combines the following fragments to creative effect (this is the first time I'm doing this, so if you're frustrated by the options, let it show in your writing)

* a voice (presumably on the phone): hello ... can you connect me to room six one one ? ... (pause) six one one

* a long-overdue haircut

* Obscurity has its tale to tell. Like the figure on the studio-bed in the corner, out of range, smoking, watching and waiting. [2]

Deadline: 10th June (extended to 24th June as a consequence of temporal delays and a sag in comprehension)

[0] from the magazine by Bob Lichtman
[1] used a lot by Harlan Ellison (incidentally, today's his birthday)
[2] from a poem called FOCUS by adrienne rich

Icarus

2005-05-02T07:28:00.000-07:00

"Now you remember what I've told you, don't you?"

[Voice raised] "YES! I've heard it, I've heard it!"

[Voice raised too] "You don't understand! Shouting at me won't make you right."
[Quieter, but with controlled effort] "See son - don't be foolish, that's all. There's a lot at stake here. I know you - you'll get too high up. You've always done silly things like that and..."

[Interrupting] "Yeah, I'm the one whose always doing stupid things. I got into trouble with King Minos, didn't I? I was the one who got us imprisoned here.

[Irritatedly] "Oh come on, what do you know about the affairs of the world! You're too young to unders..."

[Again interrupting] "I'm always too young, I don't know anything, I'm too immature - that's all you ever say! I'm surprised you're taking me with you - why don't you leave me to rot on this island?"

"This is not the time to quarrel. It is almost daybreak. It's the best time to make our leave. Don't be irksome, I beg of you. Prepare to leave."

And they do. He carefully, lovingly fastens the last of the feathers on to his son, checking not once or twice, but five times. He could feel the warmth of the sun on them, and he could feel freedom's flame beckoning.

"You're sure you won't fly too low or too high? Don't be rebellious as a son is wont to do. Please, for my sake."

Again irritatedly "Oh father, I'm sick of you talking to me as if I were a mere infant!"

[Whispers] "It is your nature, my son, I know it well - you see none but yourself, and are lost in your own image of exultation. It is perilous to be lost in your own self."

Seeing his child's impatience, he thought it was best to leave at the earliest.

"I'll lead the way - remember, stay close behind"

They leap off the cliff and flap their new wings, blinking like a fledgling would. Soon Daedalus was off. He keeps looking behind anxiously to chart his son's progress. The sun kept glinting in his eyes and he couldn't see clearly...

Some time later...

[Thinking to himself] "I can't believe this! I'm actually flying. I'm a bird! I'm soaring! Look at father flapping away, all in dread. Oh this is so joyous! I wish he'd soak in this warm air, its currents."

He flaps a little more and it takes him higher. He sways a little at first but slowly learns how to control his flight. He gets better every time.

"I can get a little higher - just to show that old man you don't have to be such a coward. I'm not going to get too close, just a little.

His enormous wings slap the air about and thrust his body upwards, rushing a surge of excitement through him. Then a little more. And then more. Unbeknownst to him, a little drop of molten wax falls off and plunges into the water way below him.

[Singing] "I am flying... to heavenly abodes... I'm dreaming... of silver roads..."

Which is when it happens.

WHAM!

Stunned by the impact, Icarus loses all balance and drops wildly. He lashes out in search of a hold, but comes up with air. He cries out to his father, but no words will come. He careens away and some of the feathers drop off.

Icarus stops falling. Someone has plucked him off and stopped his fall. He loses all concept of time and space...

Icarus blinks. His vision is a mix of sights. He is on ground, he can feel it. There is someone peering at him. He is all confused. He can see the little figure above him looks like a monkey. He closes his eyes trying to regain his obviously impaired eyesight.

A pause later, he opens his eyes again. It is a monkey.

[Shrill, boyish voice] "Sorry about that, elder brother. I didn't mean to bump into you that way."

Icarus blinks.

"I've just been a little silly, actually. You know that orange, round thing in the sky? I thought it was a fruit you see. I really like to eat and no one would give it to me. I asked for it so many times, no one would pay any heed to me. So I leapt up to get it. I didn't know I could fly so high! No one told me that either."

"So as I got closer, something hit me. I don't know - someone didn't think I should have it. It didn't look like a fruit when I got nearer - it was all hot. By the way, your wings are coming off."

"I think I don't know my own strength, don't you think? My father always tells my mother: 'Anjana, this child will hurt himself one day'. He is the Lord of the Air, but even he can't be around all the time to keep watch on me. But lucky I could catch you before you fell too much."

Icarus sits there and simply massages his head.

[Sorry for this very, very late submission guys, but I had to clear some mental buffers before being capable of doing any useful writing. Let me know what you think.]

Lab #1 : "Me' : Sudarshan

2005-04-21T06:37:00.000-07:00

[Twisting the assignment to fit into the sort of stuff I'm writing currently. This is going to be an excerpt from a bigger story. The plot so far :

Malviya is a rich zamindar, who I meet in the city at his bungalow. He also owns a more traditional haveli in the old city.]

--------

...," I said.
It is only possible to delude a man who wants to believe. Malviya lived with the belief that the world wanted to hear his amazing story.

"You are right," he said. "It is nothing more than manifest destiny that I am, today, in such a position. Those villagers delude themselves into thinking that I rule over them through birthright. Arrey, if I'd been born a bhangi in the village, I would still have risen to rule them.

"Look at Amma. She's an astrologer and knows these things. She took one look at my face and realized what I could be. And so she's supported me all these years, given me helpful hints about the right time to do everything. Why, even that haveli she lives in is a proof of my destiny.

"A few days after we met, Amma had a dream about buried treasure. She told me that this treasure was probably me - that I was a treasure waiting to be found. But the description of the dream made me sit up. For such an old person, she's really stupid sometimes. The spot where the treasure was buried (as she described it) was a haveli I was considering buying. Even she's seen the place. But she didn't realize it. I laughed at her. Finally I had to explain the meaning of her own dream to her, can you believe it? It meant that I was to find treasure in that haveli, that I was buy the place at any cost!

"I was able to convince the buyer to sell it to me. I hunted a bit for the treasure, but didn't find it then. I finally figured out a way to search for it. Again, it was Amma who gave me the idea, and again she didn't even realize what she was saying. What I did was, I asked her to stay in the haveli! I fooled her - I told her I didn't like the small rented place she lived in, and she should be more comfortable. And I kept dropping hints that she could search for the treasure. But fool that she is, she didn't.

"Of course, I finally found the treasure." A crafty look came into his eyes at this point. "Just not inside that haveli. But I found it because I'd purchased the place and gotten Amma there. I knew I'd get it someday.

"Anyway, that is why I keep Amma around now. I know that she can't even use her skills and magic properly. She admitted it to me the other day. Said that I was the only person who was really able to understand the meaning of her visions, and that I could get even more from her if she had a servant to take care of her at the haveli and a baggi so that she could reach me quickly when she has a vision or insight. See, that's what I told you. When people are around me, they start thinking in such a way that I am the one benefited. It's just my destiny.

She has even offered to make sure I never fall under any vashikaran. She herself checks all the food that the cook makes at my home - she tests each and every item herself! Last week she caught something suspicious in the kheer - she told me someone had put in a pinch of ashes from a pyre in it. It must have been one of my enemies..."

Lab #1 - "Me" : George

2005-04-20T05:47:00.000-07:00

Isn't this what you've been waiting for? The chance to wax eloquent about the big Y. This is when the microphone is amplifying the sounds of microbial coitus waiting for you to begin the flood of erudite praise, of euphonious self-aggrandizing magniloquent verbiage. This is when all the lights in the house have colluded to produce the correct hues of anticipation, the spotlights of importance, the shadows of contrast. This is when no voice will cut you off, no margin will force a detour, no hand will rise in question, no clock will strike the time to end … This is it. The moment you've desired in secret, prepared for in your mind, devoted a maddening sense of dedication to. From the deepest recesses of your mind, this is you at your most narcissistic.

Wait till the last ripple dies away so that you can have an uninterrupted clear unblemished view of yourself as only you can see. Wait for the silence, as the forest of your milieu approaches its equilibrium of venerating quietude. Gather your thoughts, get your lines straight, recall the pauses, practise the twitches and the grimaces, the smiles and the frowns, and remember all those subconscious gestures you have to suppress. Quickly, briskly, but without haste.

And we have run out of time. Next ego please.

Lab #1 - "Me"

2005-04-11T05:34:00.000-07:00

The topic is: write about yourselves without attempting to be inhibited or modest. Be egoistic/egotistic & let the "I's" flow.

Deadline: 20th April [?] (I need the time!)

[Update - 21 Jan 2005]
* Deadline extended to 24th April, Sunday

[Submissions]
# "Me" : George
# "Me" : Sudarshan

The Rules

2005-04-06T08:23:00.000-07:00

1. We take it in turns to set a writing topic. This is done (for now) every two weeks.

2. Sample topics:
- A Haunted house
- Memories of a love story
- A paragraph from a Noir story
- Cyberpunk description of a road accident

3. The word limit is, roughly 150 words. This is a MINIMUM word limit. The story does not have to be complete or anything; it is a sample of writing style alone.

4. Complete entries are posted onto the blog, everyone then talks about them in the comments. Hopefully we all get to learn from this.

Hello

2005-04-06T08:18:00.000-07:00

This blog is intended to be a private writing club. We intend to hone our writins skills by working on assignments and critiquing each others' work.