THE LAST STAND

“The Left that’s left”, junior read out loud as wincing at the sound of a gun fired too close for comfort. He then went on to read the main article, or parts of which he thought made sense.

“You never said-” began a voice next to him, as close as the gun. The Captain.

“Did I have to?” he responded.

Gunfire again. “You have to if you have to”, the Captain said, clearing doubts on faking. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“It’s not an uncommon thought to have thought that Marxist ideals took the ultimate plunge into obscurity when Latin America fell, the tale of heat from the cold needn’t be told again. But what the UCA (United Continents of America) knows not is that while the communists have been thrown out to the sea, they happen to have had vessels enough to save some spirit…”

Gun fired again, this time followed by a fading moan – The Captain had missed his mark. However, it didn’t take him long to correct his mistake, this time giving way to quiet after the ammo.

“Yes, I’m talking about the Atlantic. Ever wondered why the UCA flies? Ever wondered if the Airbus was anything more than just a cruise (or cargo) vehicle? Ever felt that the S.S.Obama is not just the wreck it’s said to be? If you have, you haven’t been just alleging: You’re closer to reality than the totalitarian can ever get, you’re hitting it right”, he paused for a while. “Have we made-”

“Yes we have”, came the interruption.

“Did he-”

“Yes he did.”

“Wow”, he sighed, mostly in relief. “Thank the force for that!”

The men then went ahead with what they were doing, although the Captain never really stopped.

“Post-modernism helped identify with them, even empathize perhaps. But a wider eye helps one see that post-apocalyptic is hardly the case here where revolution is concerned, because there’s a tag-team of proprietors of a movement that only just showed its first fa-”

“Wait a minute.” The gunfire had paused too.

He turned to face him. “What?”

The Captain pointed a finger at him. “You”, he said, slightly perturbed. “You could have-”

“The name was on the other side”, he responded coolly. “I can’t have.”

He thought for a while and then remembered, in the mildest of flashes. The boy was right.

“Shit speaks for itself”, he said, resuming business. “We’re just the calling card.”

“Have a look at this”, Junior said, pointing at a photograph next to a name obscured. Both of them looked down to their left, at a man who was trying hard to stay still, his tears signifying life.

“I missed that one”, he said in awe. “Of all my American a-”

He gripped the man hard by his collar and propped him against a cabin wall, the latter’s shudder strengthening his give-away.

“The last stand”, read Junior, his eyes fixed almost entirely on the faking man. “Of Marxism.”

He was in tears with tantrums to come. We need to note here that his nationality is of least importance, for it would mean kidding ourselves if we said the term ‘Nation’ was still in existence, even in the vaguest possible way. He wept, not out of fear but out of frustration and anger at his act of stupidity, at his firmness of opinion now made absurd.

“Doubt if you understand”, the Captain sneered. “We don’t speak bullshit over here.”

A splutter is all he received in return.

“If you mind”, Junior piped up, “can I-”

“I’m not going to kill him”, he smiled. “I counted a hundred, know nothing beyond.”

Silence, two pairs of wide eyes and one pair of slits.

“This man can swim”, he said, 'patting him on his back' before the splash. "And now, the resistance has the Atlantic for itself."

OFF-VERDICT

It was the highlights of the second (or maybe third?) round match of the ongoing French Open, between Roger Federer and a certain Falla whose first name I failed to see (blame me!) and I was fresh from listening to ‘Born to Run’, the Springsteen album and was kind of in a Euphoric state, the ideal kind to write something free of spite and I thought this could be the right time that I clarify my long-contested stand on the status of Federer, and whatever he’s hailed to be.

Let me get to the point, and I think this time my point would be well-felt positives rather than churned-out wails and cries. I’m seeing the man (that’s an acknowledgement in itself, coming from me) after a while now, I’m not the kind that keeps tabs on non-Grand Slam ties when I don’t give a shit about the Slams themselves, it’s the sport to me than the Slam, and it’s the players who ultimately matter. And Roger Federer, as much as he is a champion or world-conqueror, is still a ‘player’, one whose game has risen considerably than when I last watched him play, I mean he’s lighter on his feet, he’s moving better and he’s more aggressive. Yes, he’s gotten more aggressive and that’s frightfully cool, considering I found his usual laid-back rallying nature slightly disgusting, wishing he could be pounded to pulp by the ‘mightier’ versions. But now he’s going front, pretty well-focused, more adventurous and I find that pretty likeable and admirable in him. Yes, for a change I was quite fascinated.

But does that mean I would cohere and coincide with everyone else in the universe, the whole fraternity that’s at his feet? No, and that’s a resounding one at that! My appreciation of his has this Salieri-kind of way, like his appreciation of Mozart and his prodigy, which didn’t arise out of denial or (although a little did show) cheaper jealousy, but of competence. The fighter in me says I would not give in, or bow to Federer’s skill because that would mean bowing down and admitting defeat and I am not losing! It isn’t an intention to side with every player who plays him, but it is definitely one to see him beaten, to conquer and not just ‘defeat’, for it’s a task in itself to get the better of someone who is proving to be so well-versed and equipped, not just to stave off defeat but to achieve victory, humbling victory. I do not care about him as a brand or as an establishment, a faith or a religion, I want him overthrown and that too in the way that he wouldn’t want that to happen: I do not want him defeated, I want him ‘won’ over.

For all I know, the world can liaise (as much as its fakery could propel it to) with the winner, but I don’t stand my ground or find my feet beside the vanquished, or the ‘defeated’. I see myself as a person before a person, and that person is a rival because he is a task, something that would incite not only contest with him, but also contest with oneself aimed at achieving self-betterment. I see him as a rival, a true rival because he reminds me of one (who I know in flesh and blood) and that would forever egg me on to draw blood, to kill him and stamp him to the ground with his face down in deep shit.

And that’s what champions deserve.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART ONE

Well surprisingly, this is not one of my ‘should have been’ anecdotes, I think it’s my way of showing (myself) that I am not actually reading something without getting personal with it, getting to know more of it than what it offers to show. But being the effect-person who gauges with impact and not exactly theoretically, I guess I’ll have to go ahead with sizing it up as it presented itself to me. A foreword, though: This is not a review or a critical analysis. I’m just describing experience and thought-process on an almost purely-personal basis.

I’m done with Part One, as of now (the book constitutes of four equally weighted parts, or somewhat so-so) and what I’m past is the introduction, familiarization of characters, a sort of bloat-up, an explanation of what’s been happening and an exquisitely underplayed disposition of what is to come, which left me guessing and wishing but not entirely sure. And ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ (by Fyodor Dostoevsky) is not a suspense story, I would hardly call it suspense, because while the course of the story is pretty much laid out in front, it is just the events constituting it that provoke further read, which they do (at least in me) without the higher burden of having committing to a the idea that ‘a thing begun needs to be done’. It is not the anticipation, but the hope and empathy shared that I find is taking me ahead, in a story that has this multi-faceted edge of dealing with a lot more things than it is supposed to.

I wouldn’t go forth and call it ‘complete empathy’, actually. I doubt if it could be called ‘empathy’ at any level, it’s somewhat of a bias of an assumed character rather than of one that’s been established and carried on, and I (rightfully perhaps) find myself currently completely biased with the character of Dmitry Karamazov, the oldest son of Fyodor Karamazov, in the father-son battle for the same woman, who is (painfully) established as uncouth although a pacification of suggested innocence is intended, but yet the impression is unfavourable on her part and I slightly hate Dostoevsky for having treaded that line. But I think that’s not true, or at least I wouldn’t want to go ahead and take it to be the absolute, irrevocable truth, because I think while I go ahead and hate the author, I also hate myself for letting myself be caught in the established (am I using that word too much?) tangle of man and two women, I think that’s where I’m flawed, you know, I’m putting myself in that position and not exactly playing by what Dmitry is or is supposed to be, the detached, vengeful, angst-ridden man he is, one who digs deep into the sores on a girl than her pleasantness and punishing her for that, or at least intending to.

Alexei Karamazov was introduced (in the author’s preface) as the ‘hero’, and what do I have to say about that? Well, I’m only a quarter of my way through, and there’s a lot more to come and the youngest definitely shows prospect of being a brilliant human being, perhaps the ‘ideal self’ that I assume myself to be at times, but I think that’s the problem with him – he simply isn’t caught in any trouble of his own, he is loved enough and that gives him scope to love enough and I simply see nothing beyond that. And Dmitry, on the other hand, is found to be dueling his father (‘Oedipal’, as I’m told) over a girl, and that too one who intends not to puncture him (which could be nobler) but to play according to her whims, the exact definition of a ‘beast’ in earthly terms. While I would forever struggle with Dostoevsky for having given birth to such a person (I mean ‘person’ and not a ‘woman’, I’m not implying at sexism), on the other hand I find myself siding with Dmitry, for it’s me that’s living as him.

Part One came to end with a letter of astounding innocence, not unexpected but yet a surprise. And I’m wishing for more of that kind of solutions, if I can be silly enough to state that.

INTERVIEW

This is not an interview with self – it is one that features two different individuals, a demarcation that should be but is always ignored. There’s always this line between the ‘reader’ and the ‘writer’ in anyone who has gone anywhere close to stacking a few words one on the other and I’m doing nothing but recognizing that to full acknowledgement. Having said that, I begin by stating that I found the writer lazing on this Saturday morning in an SRV ambience (The House is a Rockin’) and that’s like the ideal time for questioning because the mind can’t get clearer than the morning, or so felt the both of us. I’d get down right away to the details while you should know that I had no list of questions as such.

Reader: Personal writing, John Mayer titles, too much of ‘Before Sunrise’ – pick one.

Writer: All together. You pretty much put two and two together, I don’t know why there needs to be an explanation beyond, but still… I’m not selling anything to anyone. Isn’t that reason enough?

Reader: On ‘Dedication’…

Writer: There’s no writing without purpose and there’s no purpose without specification. I’m not a Messiah, no one is, and maybe they like to pretend but I don’t. I’ve always felt the need for something to drive me ahead, existence for existence’s sake doesn’t work that well and I’m not committing to the world, that’s way too much people to commit to. So it’s just ‘you’.

Reader: Self expression or making sense?

Writer: I didn’t know there was a split. Expressing myself makes sense to me, I’m not trying to play David Lynch here. Maybe you’re not looking, more like just glancing and I think I’m kind of worth more than that, you should give that to me. Because I definitely think ‘you’re’ worth more than that.

Reader: Who’s ‘she’?

Writer: ‘She’ exists. I’m not obliged to say any more, I’m not a celebrity.

Reader: On ‘stories’…

Writer: A story is mundane, an everyday thing. I’m not for hyped-up reality or idealized fiction, but I’m not keeping it real either. What I say and do can be accomplished by a sufficiently real state of mind, but the lack of surety restricts dialogue in response. I’m not a story-writer, I’m just giving you a part of it and letting you extrapolate. Or maybe I’m not letting you do even that and what I write is just what it is, because I don’t think anything other an oblique impact is possible in everyday life. You pass a couple of people engaged in conversation. You hear a word or two or maybe even a couple of lines, and if those lines are potent enough to keep ringing in your head, you take the step of evaluation and if not, you discard. I’m giving you that choice, at least I think I am.

Reader: Intention…

Writer: Honest intelligence. I look at talks where the other person knows what you’re talking about, maybe can even read it while still in your mind and hence the excessive interruption. The intention is to stay so, I’m talking to the character and not the audience, which I think is perfect. If there’s empathy, I wouldn’t need the additional explanations to make my intentions clear. Is there anything else?

Reader: No, I’ll get back to you if I have more. I’m sure you’d stay responsive, at least for me.

Writer: Always informal, sure thing.

I leave him to ‘Mrs. Robinson’ and get to blogging this. If you think I’ve missed something, I’m all ears.

PERFECT SENSE

“The thing is… I’ve played a sport for more than half of my life.”

“So?”

“So”, I said, “you’re only saying this-”

“Yes.”

I was walking on a road that would nauseate me at other times and I knew I was doing it only because she was doing it, and that’s not sacrificial or ‘making do’, and I’m not ‘conforming’ either. People come in two kinds – like and dislike, and sure there’s the in-between but that’s the point: They’re not people at all. And needless to say, like and hate are two different frames of mind, not necessarily contradictory or mutually-exclusive so I can just be sure about the ‘frames of mind’ because it would be too chaotic to like something and hate it too, that points at duality of mind, a mental multitask that’s utter bullshit. My point is that to get to liking something you’ve hated for long, well… It’s just an evolution and every person is perfectly capable of that.

“No”, I shook my head. “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” she smiled at me, curiously.

“Well…” I shrugged, “I guess I’m not that masturbatory.”

Her laugh was more of a reaction than anything I could have asked for, in response to which I looked away grinning, shaking my head in disbelief at the nonsense I had just said.

“But”, I tried rectifying my position. “But… Knowledge is, perfect sense.”

She nodded as her hair nodded with her. “Knowledge is perfect sense.”

You should have looked at her. I mean, I can still be placed under the allegation that this is fleeting, this notion of her that I had cemented in my mind and you could say that cement dissolves, given its time and space, but you should have looked at her. ‘Kes’, and incredibly so.

I looked at my wristwatch, something I wore just to highlight the occasion.

“I lost my old wristwatch”, I said to her, still looking at it. “I never threw it away.”

“You shouldn’t compare-”

“No I’m not”, I shook my head again, looking at her. “I don’t have a compulsive mind, it takes its time… I’m sorry about that.”

She could see that I was fighting emotion, maybe even tears but this was a test. Even if she had meant exactly she said and nothing less, this was a test.

“You get accustomed”, I began, strained, and I decided then to not take the bend. “Getting used to love isn’t reason enough to quit, is it?” I asked her while she quietly hummed ‘The thrill is gone’ – too suggestive for me to take. I had stopped walking and she figured that out after a couple of steps.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”, I said, looking down.

And I could visualize her being incredulous with her smile.

A GOOD MAN - PART TWO

What’s defeat?

Now, if you’ve got to sink that shit, you’ve got to sink this one too: What’s winning? I guess that could leave you with a fleshy third – Where’d you place what I did? Well, let me tell you something, the bastard was only down on his knees, I’ve been in deeper shit and I mean shit, rolling in shit, face-down in shit, licking shoes clean of shit and that’s a heck of a pair of shitty shoes I’m talking about. And you think that’s low? No. Low’s only when you dig it, when you eat into it. I knew I wouldn’t spare every single of those pairs of shoes that I’ve shined before and I knew that this shining was just a part of it, a part of seeing a head on the ground or a face made plane or a greasy heart that I’d eventually put a squeeze on. And you know what? I remember my shoes. I’m the footwear man.

So what’s there in a name, right? Everything. Everything, that is, if you’re me and if you’ve really got no wax at Tussaud’s, no square jaw, wavy blonde, gold-plated teeth or tattooed lower back. Everything, if a snap’s enough to snap him back and get him burned with his Polaroid. Everything, if that’s been all that’s ever worked out, everything, if that’s what your kids need to live without.

Everything – That’s what my name means to me.

There’s this kind, your kind, who need to be there to be there, you know, menials, and you’ve got your tag and that’s just a tag, it’s just meant to hold the alphabets next to the display cage and if you’re gone, then they’d just scrape the shit, pull the tag off and stick the next sucker that surfaces. But, I’m not my tag. The tag’s me and that’s all there is and I don’t need me for my sake; I don’t need you either.

‘Joel’.

Maybe your dictionary could say it better, but I’d say it right: This isn’t winning. The knees hitting the ground, no that’s not winning, that’s consolation. I’m missing the real deal here and that’s what I want you to see, to think about why this man who’s been hell bent on marking existence to whim suddenly got his wet-suit out in the sun, and that leads to think if I am, for real, doing what I don’t want to do. Am I standing against myself, is there the slightest chance of that absurdity to ever show its face, because heck I’ll never show you mine, will I?

I see their point, never said I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean giving in, I’m never giving in. I’m giving him his closure and I’m giving myself my count. Bullshit though, this change of name, the action hero loves the bruise. And my nostalgia is but right now and I guess I’d like some memories back, but this time I guess I’d need a fast-forward because I find that the anonymity could kill me.

And of all things, I can’t let him have that.

A GOOD MAN - PART ONE

“What’s in a name?”

“Look at your plate.”

“You’re equating me and you?”

“No”, he took a deep breath. “I’m just stopping you from making me do that.”

The commissioner stared into his face. Whether or not into his eyes was tough to tell because black in black can cause illusions. An equal match of power, shameless to say, had both of them agree against the prospect of participation by entities other than themselves in this discussion-to-be, and it was indeed unorthodox on the policeman’s part having wanted this in the first place. A drink refused citing reputation more than poisons, he found he had to spend the interstices of conversation staring at his counterpart down the only thing that could ever get him anywhere close to ‘vulnerable’. And although not a Sean Maguire idea, the commissioner did attempt to replace his moments of silence with rhetoric.

“You won’t do it?”

“I just don’t see why.”

“For once…” began the policeman, fighting to keep himself subdued.

“Hmm”, he smiled. “You’re not getting me interested.”

The commissioner heaved again. “Do you know-”

“So I’m going to stand trial?” he asked, testily, with more than just a hint of sarcasm.

There was silence where the commissioner’s face turned menacing, his anger being confronted by the battle he staged to channelize it to something constructive. The opponent took another gulp.

“If I weren’t representing the interests…” he began, his hand moving instinctively to an empty holster.

“Why can’t you, even for a second, admit”, he raised his voice much higher than the commissioner to ensure that the latter stopped with his remark, “that what is, is, and there’s nothing you can do about it, like there’s nothing you have ever done anything about it before?”

There was no bang on a table simply because there was no table in between, but there indeed was a pause that could be compared to the aftermath of such a deed.

“You”, he gestured, “are so flawed…”

“No I’m not”, the commissioner shook his head. “You have no-”

“Oh yes you are!” he laughed. “You farm dogs, you great Danes…”

“That’s enough.”

“Is there even a you to you?” he bit his lip, narrowing his eyes. “You’re moving the shit that moves with you only because you’re let to, and that’s only about the shit!”

The echoing room could be a cliché, but it still was so. The commissioner squeezed his nose and looked down as he, calm as he forcedly was, spoke again.

“Look”, he gesticulated to the ground. “I’m not here to discuss your philosophy of wrongdoing and you’re not signing my picture-book!” he shouted, anticipating interruption. “I’m here with a proposal… their proposal, and-”

“Get down”, he cut him short again. “On your knees.”

He took out the antique lighter that was a gift, took out the cigar he had on him, put it in his mouth, lit it with the loudest click, snapped it shut and took a puff as the policeman obeyed orders: a sight in itself.

“Now…” he said, blowing a hefty amount of smoke around him. “Beg.”

LADYBIRD

Fiction has got to be personalized, or wait maybe I need to rephrase that. One can dream, but he’d still be himself when he dreams, which means that although a dream can be a dream it cannot be someone else’s, like that of someone other than yourself. In other words, I can dream situations that I never have been/will never be in, but what I should/will never forget is to dream it the way I do (although this could slightly sound like I’m making ‘dream’ a little more tangible than it actually is, I really am not but merely inducing a certain physicality which I believe to be allowed when coming to a realm of sub-conscious control) and experience what needs to be felt from inside my own virtual skin. This could be my justification or explanation for fiction, and the fact that writers get away even with contradicting themselves on paper.

“This isn’t a free world at all, however bestial a life we’re allowed to live; however far we’re allowed to stray, it’s not like the jungle is ours man… This society is a fucking zoo, and just because we’re in a really big cage, or on an infinite leash, we shouldn’t assume ourselves to be born free to live free, should we?”

It’s one of the weirdest experiences (or so I’ve felt) having to read myself and I’m not referring to the ‘recent past’ when I say this, it’s more like the version of mine that could not even exist right now (considering the two intermediate years) or which could have evolved, upgraded or maybe even grown contradictory, which means that I could either hate or laugh at what I had written because what I penned was what I was and that means laughing at myself for what I’ve been, and it’s certainly not a very scary thought considering it’s what moves life ahead in the first place, this acceptance of evolution, of change. I’m talking about ‘Ladybird’ here, the girl from my ‘delusional clarity’ paradigm and this isn’t a recent thought, by the way, it’s been chugging along for a little bit and I’ve probably been thinking of rewriting her for the past couple of months and I sort of found myself held stalemate by myself and the last couple of days have probably given me reason enough to bring her back, you know, hit the road with her again because I ironically find myself right where I left last time, except that the world’s spun around for a year more and I’ve spun with it too, which means that my ‘Ladybird’ would smell something pretty different this time around, perhaps musk aroma on deo-spray (that’s a shot in the dark, though, I hardly know what those two smell like).

Always wanted to be a magician, you know, one struggling for shows, shabby clothes and fancy tricks and all that. And this time around, there’s the intention to make the girl more empowering than the selfishness I showed last time around, a slight motive to unite causes and definitely look at a different climax, which in itself would be better than the previous one, considering one can’t get lower than that.

At this point of time, I sincerely hope I do justice to it.

MY LOVE LETTER

To Lily and to Rosemary, I hereby attach this hoping you'd successfully find the Jack of Hearts.

The reason why I wrote this in the first place.

'FASHIONISTA'.

I had planned on a thousand things, or well, at least I planned a few enough to name, starting with this really strange ‘solo’ story that I had thought-out, and then the Harry Potter connection since I’ve always felt that the owls were a little too human as they are, knowing the when/where/why of stuff, and hence it wasn’t a personal perversion that had me link Harry to Hedwig, but just a natural enough suspicion, or at least something that’s adequately natural (or even valid) to me.

I don’t know when exactly this began, though. I remember this time when I walked the campus of IIT Kanpur and that wasn’t exactly purposeless, but all the same it served to make me see some purpose higher than that which I initially set out to, and I think that’s where ‘Fashionista’ was officially born except that I didn’t name it so back then, I hadn’t named it as anything actually but just this vague idea that the most deserving of women are those who’d never seek, you know, there’s such a level of self-satisfaction and I doubt if you’d be thinking of the stratum of society that I’m dealing with as I say that, maybe you’re just thinking of the quietest girl around or the most intelligent but I’m talking on the lines of impoverished and ‘dying hungry’. This isn’t me trying to be a Messiah, though, just the plain-old jerk who’s obsessed with his own thoughts rather than someone else’s, and it was that jerk who came up with these lines that kind of serve to be the finale.

“Half a life in chaos spent,

dressed down, citing innocence,

but how bad can innocence be?

And the rest of it, a bargain earned

of petrol drops that refused to burn,

and a heart that still spells belief…

it’s just the heart that still believes.”

‘Anti-Thesis’ is still technically incomplete, although I had called it to be the eighth addition to ‘My Book of Rhymes’. Turns out I can always retrace and sort of eat my words when it comes to myself, so the eighth addition would officially be ‘Fashionista’ instead.

“She’s all around, all around,

in this world that’d never lift her;

She’s all around, all around,

little miss underdone Fashionista.”

Music? I sort of imagined this ‘Harder’ (David Gray, ‘Draw the Line’) kind of vocal with a very Dylan ambience as is supposed to be when getting social, for disco beats don’t really make it to the intended bunch, subject to an intermediate consumption that only screws it up, gold to shit. Guitar solos are most welcome, though: Nothing wails better, truly.

SOLO

Nothing meant, everything implied, and that doesn’t imply assumption but only just what is implied: Implication. Conversations don’t need glasses or wine and a table’s only for one who doesn’t know where he should put his hands; pockets hide incompetent gesticulation, longer hair shows lesser face and that’s lesser space you could be seen sweating out of. Glasses are meant to come in cheap, for photo chromatic acts against utility, and the source of light isn’t always the moon or a light-bulb or a crystal chandelier: There do exist sub-level sources and the sun could be one if not distinctly seen.

A conversation doesn’t necessarily call for two or more parties.

“How about a beer?”

“You drink?”

“You don’t?”

A chair’s occupied while another’s let free, a physical demonstration of equilibrium. The beer order was never public and hence was never in the same vicinity as ‘confusing’.

“You should wear an eye-patch.”

“I was thinking lilac.”

“Beige”, he stressed. “Quit the knee-jerk.”

“More ankle and shin…”

“…and calf muscle.”

“And calf muscle, yeah.”

The moment of publicizing personal interest came around, the argument being necessity rather than roast & ground or human-made.

“Caffeine”, I shook my head. “I’m a little Stuart there.”

“Harry Tuttle”, he said, humming the ‘Brazil’ tune.

“Nah, it’s kind of more Daniel Dunne.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Blow some smoke”, he said. “I’d get you that.”

“It’s the fire that’s missing”, I said. “Not the smoke.”

And he blew some himself, although I’ve never seen him take in any. The meandering prospect of time limit crashes caught up with both, a second in between.

“Monday night”, he said, getting there first.

“Morning to come.”

“What’s the music tell you?”

“Jazz”, I said. “Or wait… Plantation blues.”

“You’re extinct.”

“And you’re not my woman.”

I stood up, watered myself with both the glasses, straightened his chair, set my hair right, laughed at his and walked my way in as opposed to an outside cliché.

HEDWIG

It is not my responsibility to tell someone else’s story, but I do take up this task of telling how I’d say it if I could, and that’s partly because I don’t approve of certain details, or because I wish there were others instead of those established and that in turn would mean acceptance of details other than the ones I object against, which should make it clear that with the forthcoming effort I’m in no way demeaning or plagiarizing an existing franchise, but merely developing on what I thought could be a worthwhile elucidation of an unintentional fact.

“His sleep is but the hours”, she sighed.

Long, dark, unkempt hair, round-framed glasses, skinnier than she’s fed to be, she floated out of her allotted space leaving the door open. Others of her kind could consider this to be a decent level of disobedience, of neglect of such a thing as curfew but under his possession she had never had the slightest of feeling of bondage, or of being owned. Owned, maybe, but never by him, you know, it was like she owned him and he owned her and they co-owned each other, which meant that she couldn’t care lesser about herself than she cared for him and not that she shouldn’t care for him at all. And although the reason why she was out of her cage was more selfish than noble, she was also perturbed that the boy had started to eat his sleep with dreams and that she could find no tangible way by which she could do anything to help him out.

“Look how he sleeps!” she chimed, excited.

“He sleeps?” she queried.

“Yes, he sleeps!” came her response.

“Good”, she said. “He should.”

She sat herself at his bedside, clawed her way to that old photograph he so treasured, that which adorned the gloom he resided in solely by being distinctly out of place and that was what marked its charm; that was what marked the charm of those inside it, within the frame for it showed a couple of people who liked being out of place even when alive. What did she know though, about death and what awaited beyond? What did she know about sacrifice, or having to live without the ones one’s supposed to be living with on a permanent basis without the slightest of contact? Or what could she ever possibly know about love or the slightest sensation of the same, in its multiple forms ranging from the obvious to the obscure or about being deprived of it, that which the boy painfully had to live every day?

“You carried his letters”, she said.

“You took them even to ones you shouldn’t have”, she asserted. “You took them to her!”

“And how many times you have cried!”

“It rains!” she exclaimed. “He doesn’t know.”

“Is that the sun?” she gasped, suddenly aware of extending shadows. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Back to bed, then!” she ordered herself, but not before she lunged and kissed him swift on his lips.

“The boy won’t know what he doesn’t know.”

The cage was shut, the girl within, and the sun woke him up to a day that promised nothing but solitude. But she still smiled; smiled at the thought of him not knowing that love sat closer than he thought it to be and that it always came from where he’d least expect it. She smiled at what had gone beyond, all sobriety of tragedies past and with hope at the ones to come, and at the thought that there would particularly be a point where he’d see her for she is and it was that acknowledgement that was the goal and not the acceptance itself.

Until then she would have to live with the pecks she occasionally endowed, and the fondles she received in return, which she found to be more than what she could ask for.