Category Archives: Writing

Short Story – A Dog Called Zoe

Lying in bed on a cold afternoon like this is blissful. It’s even better when there is warm ginger tea sloshing about in your tummy. Mum is ranting about Dad and when he will be back from his bridge tournament in India. Sita, the domestic, has gone to do some grocery shopping nearby.

I’m craving chocolate. I want to make banana ice cream with rambutan and maybe cocoa. But I’m distracted and somewhat alarmed. Distracted and alarmed by Zoe. A cross between an Alsatian and Cocker Spaniel, Zoe is Aunty and Uncle W’s little companion. Adorable she is.

The first day I met her, she wagged her tail and licked my fingers ever so gently. As my visits to Aunty W’s place increased, Zoe’s warmth decreased. Since of late she has been quite aggressive or rather fearful. This confused Aunty W. Try as I may to charm Zoe, she’d slick back those golden and charcoal ears of hers and run for dear life.

So last night, as I sat with a glass of Shiraz and made small talk with Aunty W, poor Zoe was hiding underneath the dining table. Dogs and cats are insightful creatures. You see, I didn’t let it out, to Aunty W, that lately all domesticated pets maintain a respectful distance from me. Why scare the poor dear. Humans, after all, were never too good at perceiving evil.

Zoe knows a secret. My secret. As my eyes glinted and my cherry red lips touched the Shiraz, I stole a glance at Zoe. Her cocoa-brown eyes shimmered in nervousness as her eyes met ours. Poor thing. She knows. But then, with a tincture of pity, I thought to myself that if I was in her position I would be quite scared too.

Fear makes the Heart grow Weak

Mother always knows best. With that deeply ingrained belief diluting any sense of reason in her medicine-ravaged mind, she tottered on her diseased legs to her son’s room to impart another caustic dose of fear. With copious amounts being ladled out with a tincture of hopelessness, this well meaning mother managed for the last so many years to nurture her child on the very ideals she was brought up on. History it seems, does indeed repeat itself and with it one wonders – will the same mistakes?

The offspring of what’s unknown clouded his mind. Fear it seemed was going to be a central theme in his life; till he breathed no more. His mother was unhealthily fixated on the act of copulation and its forbidden pleasures. So it was cemented in his mind that his genitals were in effect cursed and potent with some inexplicable ability to pass on diseases that were biblical in nature. The latest fixation was HIV.

After this capsule of erroneous knowledge (especially when it came to its mode of transfer) was gleefully divulged by his mother, it seems that he could never control his bladder at night in bed. Surely, he was cursed by God? Certainly, Satan has sent a demon to give him this dreaded HIV?

With the spread of ignorance, fear has prevailed. Similar to the destruction wreaked by HIV on the body’s immune system, so too fear has had the same effects on his psychological growth, he was never to have natural resistance to that one thing which others find sublime and glorious in its entirety.

Life.

More short stories here.

The Prologue that Led to Hate

Do angels exist, Samira?

He certainly knew demons did.

As Samira fluttered about anxiously on translucent gossamer wings, he thought playing with a demon in his favourite spot in the garden was not too bad; especially since they were playing that game.

He still wondered, though, why Samira was looking so wound up, almost as if in anticipation. Yet he did not have time to worry about her, since he was playing that game with his demon, which had throughout the last few months taken on a cloak of familiarity.

The game ended abruptly. He did not like the demon’s fetid breath. But he liked the rocking motion that left the tender flesh of his inner thighs sticky and wet.

Sometimes he wondered why couldn’t they play a game like hide and seek. But he was told that this was a grownup game which only grownups enjoyed. The demon knew a lot, so why question the things he said.

The demon was ready to depart now, his pink lips slowly crawling back against his black gums while his incisors shone as if they were polished ivory. He found it lightly amusing, that strand of glistening creation stretching from his member to the fair thighs of his owner’s offspring. He left to his quarters; it would be soon when his master came back with his obese wife.

Anxious Samira lay perched on a rotting avocado, whilst he lay flat on the cold grass staring up at the clouds that seemed bruised and indolent. The avocado tree with its buttery green fruit shook as if in disgust as sympathetic winds ruffled its branches. A rainstorm was coming. He had better hurry inside and pretend he was doing his homework.

He looked back to where he had lain comatose a while ago. This was his favourite place.

It was after all where he met Samira.

If you liked this short story of sorts, then you should read a few more.

The Wife

This is another chapter that saw the light of day. To read the first chapter, click here.

That filthy man.

Why did she marry such a cad?

The thoughts flew through her mind; shrieking bats causing fear and trepidation. Were her husband’s hands caressing another woman’s tresses or his lips murmuring an aria of lust into her wanton ears?

Who’s to know?

She will place her trust in the Lord. He has seen her through enough trials and tribulations. At least Divine Esther can empathise with her while glorious and long suffering Saint Paul can sympathise. She hoped like any good Catholic, her Lord will show her favour by divinely wounding her palms.

She giggled.

Fancy being married to a Judas, who would at this moment in time might be copulating vigorously with some harlot. She felt hungry. Again. She walked, no, wobbled on her thin varicose webbed legs as she manoeuvred her obese upper body down the stairs to that cove of comfort – the fridge.

As she ate, those miserable thoughts dissipated. Thoughts that resembled cheery sunbeams brightened up her pimple ravaged face as she gouged out thick chunks of bread and dipped them in curry. And as she flew towards that feeling of satisfaction, she ate and she cried, she ate and she grew coy, until there was nothing left to eat.

Like most drugs, as the carbohydrate-induced state of happiness left her, that recognizable shroud of darkness wrapped itself around her amorphous shoulders.

She would wait, letting her feelings marinate in vitriol, ready to pounce on her husband as he came home from a long hard day at work.

Long hard day… no doubt.

The Emasculated Patriarch

Sometime last year, I started on a novel. But then, various distractions took place during that year. The result was something that was born with passion but suffered a premature end due to excuses. So I thought I would publish these “short stories” (in this blog throughout the course of this month and next) and hope that it would give you some pleasure in reading them. 

Wondering what went wrong in his life, he moved into the bedroom where he was reminded time and time again that this was not his house. The bilious monstrosity near the window barely gave him a nod of affirmation but made as if to move towards the bed. As he slipped into bed, entreating his tiredness to take over, the monstrosity, which civilized people called “a wife” turned on him much like the monster in Jane Eyre and screeched her tonsils out.

“For better or for worse” was the oath that was slung around his neck and it seemed that for the last three decades he has been trying hard to stay above water just so he could extend his already miserable life. “For what?” he consistently thought. Like all humans who believed in a monotheistic monolith, he suffered in silence crying and praying only in the confines of his wounded heart. When he finally lay his fast greying head on the pillow, which he was also made to understand was not his, it was four a.m.

With the snoring carcass next to him, he managed to drift off to a tortured sleep, a part of him being readily aware that his lifetime partner could at any fancied time do the bidding of the demons in her head and bring about his death without provocation. With this unwelcome expectation taking over his sleep, he dreamt of his death and his wife’s last words, which were a razor sharp chill that cut through bone and sinew.

As dawn threatened to break, the sky turning a bruised purple and then subsequently a burnt dull orange; a duet that included an aria of flatus was taking place between husband and wife. As the toxic miasma emanated from the bedroom through the window and into the garden below, the neighbourhood cat, with her whiskers shivering and its feline eyes watering took to her paws.

The smell of rot it seemed was intrinsic and very relevant to this particular house on Governor’s Road.

Writer’s block? Have a break. Have a Kit Kat.

There you are, poised with your fingers in midair about to let loose a stream of wordy brilliance onto that A4 sheet of paper when all you can manage is a whimper of disbelief – you have lost the ability to write (shock, gasp)! No Oscar Wilde brilliance, no Pulitzer-standard words of wisdom, only just a quivering pen. Your brain has hit a veritable cul-de-sac. No more ideas, no more thoughts, no words, nothing. But regard this impotent period as just a bad day at the office. Striking fear into the hearts of writers everywhere is that specter known as – writer’s block. This is known as the inability to produce new work and it is a condition that varies in intensity. You, like all other writers, would have suffered or will suffer from this condition. Like hunger, it is inevitable.

You see, writer’s block may affect you for a plethora of reasons. Firstly, you may have run out of inspiration. This is something that is universal and the best way you can address this is to chill. Go for a jog, listen to some music, run off to your favorite restaurant (this is what I do), watch a movie or just take a nap. Do what works for you. This “time out” will get your brain to relax and will revitalize it later on for some real out-of-the-box thinking.

Secondly, one of the most common reasons why you may suffer from writer’s block is due to personal circumstances. You may be having issues with your career, personal life or your health. Whichever way you look at it we all got problems and we will continue to do so until hearts stop beating. The only way to get around this is to block problems out and find a space where you can work in peace. If home is not a conducive place for work, then arm yourself with your laptop and dongle and head on down to the nearest Coffee Bean or Barista. (Personally, I prefer the M. D. Gunasena down Vajira Road. Not only is it peaceful and quiet, you can indulge in coffee and donuts whenever you need that caffeine-sugar high. But this is my space, so I better not see you there. :)

Thirdly, you think your work is crap. Yet this may not be the actual case. When working on a project, you will realize that as long as you adhere to all the requirements set out, everything will fall into place. Don’t get too emotionally attached to your art form, just see it for what it is, which is just quality work. Stephen King, one of the most prolific writers of the modern era, compares writing to physical work. Once you strip away all the emotional complications that are attached to writing, you will find that it is an easy and enjoyable endeavor.

Last but not least, maybe it is your work space that is the issue. They do say that having a clear desk will help you have a clear mind. Indubitably, this would help you set things in order, and ideate and write more easily. Consider a few other writer-friendly tips as well. Ensure that you have good lighting and that your seat is comfortably placed so that you are not perched at an odd angle. Make sure that you computer screen is at eye level and that you do not have to strain your eyes up or down in order to see the screen.

Remember, if you do find yourself in a rut, you are not the only one. So before, you do drag out that cricket bat and start hammering your head silly, make sure you first consider all those tips expressed earlier
on. In most cases, writer’s block is a temporary condition and can be solved within a few hours. It is all part and parcel of being a writer, embrace it and go through the motions of getting over it.

If you are still feeling down, remember this – you are in hallowed company. Authors such as Leo Tolstoy, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and a host of others have met face to face with writer’s block and given it a smarting slap.

I suggest that you do the same.

*Please note that this article has been published previously on the Writum blog.