shuckle24

[shuckle24]

Wolves and Vaccines

Hana didn’t believe in ghosts, she didn’t believe in vaccines and she didn’t believe in people who told her she couldn’t camp wherever it pleased her to. Camping was to come back to Mother Earth, to embrace the wilderness, to live life as was natural for humans to live. You cannot regulate nature and you cannot regulate Hana, and that philosophy had never failed her.

Except for now.

Sorely. Direly. Extremely.

She had no idea her hometown even had wolves. But it did, and in front of her growled the living, breathing, salivating, hungering proof of it.

The wolf licked her arms. In her desperation she kicked at it and missed. The wolf moved its salivating tongue to her ankles, decided they were tastier and sank its teeth in. Hana screamed.

She screamed. She screamed and she kept screaming and she screamed with such intensity and power that the wolf unsnapped its jaws and hastily took a step away. Even though the numbing pain, she was briefly awed at her sudden screaming superpower when the realization hit she had not uttered the ungodly shriek that had unnerved her predator. She had screamed the other screams, sure, but definitely not that one.

She forced herself to wipe the tears out of her eyes and followed the gaze of the wolf, and, even though she had known bears were a staple to this part of the world, she was still astonished to see one in flesh.

The wolf snapped at the bear, yelped, threw Hana a longing glance and, checking its priorities, made itself scarce. The bear seemed disinterested in Hana but thoroughly sniffed through all her belongings, including the candy bar in her pocket, and walked away with a few pieces of jerky in its claws.

Hana ended up making it back to civilization and got her ankle treated. The doctors said that she had been incredibly, astoundingly fortunate that the wound was not too deep, but they still buried her lavishly under antibiotics and painkillers, both of which she gratefully devoured.

She still wouldn’t get vaccinated though.

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #writing #short stories #short story #short fiction #wolves #bears #camping #vaccinationg #anti-vax #satire #satirical #get vaccinated

[shuckle24]

Regardless of what you believe about greetings in the start of a letter, I genuinely hope this letter finds you in good health.

You’re right. I am not exactly doing well. I am writing this letter to thank you for everything you’ve done till now. Having you around brings a little joy to my otherwise numb soul. Your company is something I’ll cherish for whatever life I’ve left.

The letter you sent, though it was not your usual self, a little harsh, I might say. But, it had that warmth and care which I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before. Till this date, all the affirmations and consolations you gave, I’ll be very honest, I took them all in like a blackhole. They didn’t change anything, maybe, died somewhere inside me. But this letter came in like an epiphany. Something I had always known but still couldn’t make sense of, until I read your words.

I had been tiring myself, trying to be that one girl whom everyone loves. I’ve become a people pleaser. And yet, it seems to me that nobody acknowledges me. I’ve masked myself behind a hundred fake personas, did everything to the liking of whoever was watching me but to no avail. Everyone thinks that I’m a lost cause, a disappointment and I do too. You say you’ve seen a glowing potential inside me? No. It is all dark and empty in here, it always has been. And trust me, you were never a bad friend, don’t blame yourself for my shortcomings.

I am sorry I could never keep up with your words, I was not even worth wasting your time on. Nothing ever affected me. I know how frustrating this must be for you. I’m sure you’re annoyed with me.

But, I will no longer be a pain. Your letter struck me with something I always needed. A realisation that I have to stop being someone I’m not. And behind all these facades, no soul exists, it is completely hollow. Yes, that is the real me. And thus, I’ll finally embrace my fate.

Farewell.

P.S. Don’t write to this address again, nobody might be there to receive your letters.

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #letters #suicide #friends #giving up

[shuckle24]

Dear Jan,

The convention of writing a letter is to start with a greeting. An empty statement of hope towards the recipients' good health. With your permission, I will forego that convent since your previous letters have made it beyond obvious that you are already in a deplorable state.

I remember the day I made your acquaintance very clearly, and I remember it because annoyances have a way of embedding themselves irreversibly into my mind. I don't remember the place, the time of day, or even the occasion, but I do remember being annoyed. I remember being annoyed at the maddening, infuriating, and overall depressing quirk you foster. 

Even I- a shy, awkward, bumbling, unassuming child as I was- could sense that lovely potential glowing inside you. I could sense the monumental entity that would one day soar unimaginable heights. I could sense the person you could be, and was left to stand on the ground in involuntary envy and appreciation. As our acquaintance lengthened, I was forced to bear witness as you mercilessly throttled that Jan-to-be, as you asphyxiated her, suffocated her under an entire grave of misconceptions. Instead of nurturing her, you ousted her like a weed.

All your life, you have striven to be someone else. You have striven to be someone society would adore and accept. You have quailed when society looked down on you; celebrated when they praised you. But you have never, never considered that you could be someone else: you. 

I have been a bad friend. I consoled you in your despair and participated in your celebrations. Now I will do what I should have done in the first place. Slap you across the face (vicariously) and tell you what you need to do. I will tell you that you need to be YOU. 

I could go on a rant here, detailing and defending all my arguments for being you, for telling the leeches in this world to screw off. But a bucket of icy water is far more effective at waking a sleeper than all the gentle persuasions in the world.

Stop living as someone else, stop trying to make others proud. Make yourself proud. Period.

I hope this sting gets across to you, however much it may deplete me in your eyes.

Kind regards,

Your loving friend

August

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #friends #letters #harsh #scolding

[shuckle24]

Kaleidoscope

Opalescent sky  Pregnant with a million moons  Of them, just one mine 

For you, the moon may be a peaceful chalice brimming with a tranquil joy. Or it may be a pale smile, its radiance a soft, soothing kiss. Maybe it is the harbinger of a sweet message; a postman delivering the longing gaze of a beloved staring wishfully in the same direction. Maybe it is nothing, just an insignificant apparition far away. Maybe it is everything, the entire universe condensed. Maybe it is evil; a hideous smear upon the charcoal sky. Maybe it is pure; an eternal sentry standing silent vigil. Maybe it is a symbol bearing a secret significance. Or is it simply factual? A mere hunk of rock falling in space. Or rather, is it all of them, at the same time? What is the moon, if not a million moons? Each the same in the night sky, but so different in each eye. Just another web, woven out of all our minds. What is the universe if not eight billion universes? Some encompassing light years, others only spanning a few, familiar blocks, and some just reaching up to that one unforgettable face; the same story written differently in each our lives. We gaze up to look at that one pearl embedded in the pitch black, but perceive it in so many contrasting colors. Isn’t it wonderful how our minds can interpret the same world in a billion unique ways? 

Myriad tales of  Unique minds; woven into  Endless string of time

#fiction #original fiction #haibun #poem #haiku #flash fiction #moon #reflection #kaleidoscope

[shuckle24]

Ramblings of a Writer

The pouring rain inspires me to write. But it’s not really an inspiration, is it? Writing is not something you are inspired to do.

I was staring at the rain morosely, as one does when the relief of the promised holidays renders you purposeless, and with the clouds came the reminder to close YouTube and open a fresh Google Doc. Writing is almost like urging yourself to complete a freelance job that you aren’t exactly compelled to do, yet such that you must do it anyway. But it isn’t quite like that either, not completely.

Looking out of my fourteenth floor window, I was watching the puddles on the roofs of others ripple with the falling rain and my eyes chanced on a woman squatting, almost hiding, in the midst of a patch of potted plants. She had the exact figure and features of a woman, the exact make of a human, save for a lack of animation, save for whatever it is that gives an object life. 

She was a statue, and she scared the bejesus out of me.

I guess I have to write now. I must. Except that I don’t want to write about hoverboards or hovering aircrafts or birds that hover through the rain. I do not want to write about maglev trains that hover above their tracks and accelerate to unimaginable speeds or about mean tortoises or mean pelicans or words that do not mean what you think they mean or the mean that means average. 

The waning rain intensifies and my eyes keep stopping on that statue. I suppose it is an idol of some sort, it must be. The placement of it is peculiar. Why is it sitting in the middle of all those plants? That must be a tedious and cumbersome storage facility, having to sidestep all those branches to get at it; and if it is a dump, which it most likely is, why in the middle? Why not in the corner or on the other end where other clutter has already accumulated? Why an idol? Why there? I’m overthinking this. Its surroundings and my elevated vantage point makes it look larger than it really is. Maybe it's religious, a blessing for the plants perhaps. Maybe that spot is more accessible than it looks from my biased field of vision. Maybe it's a hiding place. Maybe its placers gave it much less thought than I.

The rain gives rise to other sights as well. It gives rise to similes and imageries and activities. It tints the window view of a city a certain emotion. But I don’t want to write about those either.

I have to write. Writing is an office, but not in the temporal sense. It’s like a cosmic duty, like an that angel exists to do the bidding of God, like a potato that exists- before anything else- to be a potato. It is like fulfilling a post not because you want to, not because of salary, not because you are forced to, but because you are. 

The rain has thinned to the point where the water falling down the drainage pipe makes a louder noise than the collective raindrops. Tangent: is rain just a collective noun for raindrops?

My eyes flit about, watching the rain and the city being drenched in it. I am mostly watching the rain, not the city; and my eyes mostly get caught on the two sights, the statue of the idol and the other sight, neither of which I wish to write about.

I see why sloth has been listed as one of the greater sins. Nothing gets done when there is a lot of time to do things. Nothing is particularly relaxing when you have a wide scope to relax. 

Can we talk about how easy it is to lose sight of the individual. You don’t watch a single raindrop. You don’t think of a specific person when you’re viewing the skyline of a congested city. You don’t hear one spectator when the whole stadium cheers. You might mourn the death of a person, but you never mourn the deaths of people when a large group dies as a whole. You mourn the day, the event, the tragedy, but never really the people, not specifically, not really.

The rain is now barely a drizzle, but from my seat in front of the laptop it might as well be sunny outside. I have grown used to the sight of the idol statue, though definitely not the idea of it, and the other thing has also ended, and thank God for it. 

The skies have cleared, the stream of clogged rainwater issuing from the drainage pipe and imploding on the ground below is now the majority of the background noise. It is a nice noise, a soothing noise, as close to a spring or a babbling brook as you can get in a city. The roofs are now clear of bathers, no one wants to bathe in a drizzle, and the idol statue still remains petrifying and largely unknown. 

The rain is about to stop any moment. I wonder what defines the conclusion of a rainfall. Is there a definition set in stone? Maybe it is when the last drop reaches the ground. Maybe it is when the mood of rain lifts. Maybe it is when we collectively decide that it has. Do we even need a definition for the end of rainfall? And for that matter, does rainfall even have a concrete definition or are its edges blurred? Whatever, I am not a lexicographer. The rain has stopped and I give up. 

#fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #writers on writing #what it is like to write #rain #rambling #musing #on writing #thoughts #thinking #inspiration

[shuckle24]

Taxi!

“Sometimes others need it more than you!” snapped the heavily-coated, half-drenched, elderly woman as she hurtled into the taxi Noah had stopped.

“But my wife’s in labour,” his voice, calm and cataclysmic, did not penetrate the frosted windows of the accelerating taxi.

Hail buffeted his pajama-clad shoulders. He continued searching for another vehicle.

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #labor #pregnant #childbirth #taxi #hail #microfiction

[shuckle24]

"Thanks, my Guy"

It felt good; only if I could’ve done more. If only I could have orchestrated an ending, a completion, a complete conclusion. 

The worst regrets in life are always the opportunities that you didn’t take, the greatest of opportunities always the ones you perceive in hindsight, the most benevolent of deeds always the ones you overlooked, the most heinous mishaps always the ones you couldn’t drag yourself out of, the most cherished of love always the ones you only possess in memory, the most idyllic of dreams always the ones you only ever dream of but never set out to, the best of memories always the ones you could have made, the most engrossing of books always the ones you hadn’t heard of, the finest of sentences always the ones that sprout enticingly on the tip of your tongue and instantaneously dematerialize into the void.

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #regrets #opportunities #missed opportunity #incomplete

[shuckle24]

Before I Leave

I know it’s late. I know we don’t talk much anymore. I know that’s mostly my fault, entirely my fault. 

I know it has always been you who has had to bear the burden of an unfulfilling correspondence, it has always been you who has had to reconnect, to compromise, to comfort. And I know that it has always been me prioritising me over you, over everything. I know you have every reason to dislike talking to me; I know I have given you every reason to come to loathe our conversations, to come to detest the time we spend together. I know you have no reason to maintain this relationship. 

I have stretched your generosity too far, stretched it taut to its breaking point and beyond; stretched it, not letting you snap it even, paper thin to a dismal, pulpy wafer, like an over chewed strip of gum that I sucked the sweetness out of and that got stuck in your hair. 

I know I have no right to be here, I know I have to be gone soon, get out of your hair, leave you alone, maybe even for good. And I will, I will be gone shortly; but I know I won’t be able to bear leaving without seeing you one last time, without saying I love you one last time. I know you won’t say it back, would be ludicrous to expect you to, yet I know that I have to say it, that I must say it. I have to tell you that, despite everything, despite all the self-aggrandizing self-pity, despite all the conceited, self-centred selfishness, despite all the egotistical, self-obsessed, self-absorbedness, I have always loved you. In my own vain, self-important, narcissistic way, but I have loved you nonetheless.

I had to let you know that I still love you, and always will. 

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #writing #short fiction #sad #apology #sorry #i'm sorry #regret #self reflection #melancholy

[shuckle24]

I Promise

Yes, I promise I’ll be back in time. I promise. Yes, honey, I promise.

Yes, I’ll be there before bedtime. Yes, yes, yes, I remember that today is father-daughter movie night, I’ll be back in time for that, love, I swear. We’ll watch the, uh, new, uh, that together. What is it that you kids are into these days? Yes! That!

No, no, don’t be mad, I’m sorry I forgot, I won’t again next time, I promise.

Look, daddy has a lot to fuss over at work, honey. I can’t remember everything your generation is up to. My brain can only process so much. 

Yes, I double-promise, I’ll be here in time. This venture is important for daddy, okay? Mr. Fukushima is a very, very important client, these Japanese always are. Think of all we can do with the extra revenue, we might even be able to pay off the mortgage for good. 

Sorry, sorry, no adult talk in front of young Fibi, I forgot. My bad.

I’ll be back soon, okay honey? Yes, I have your lucky lego piece right here in my pocket, snuggled up right up next to my heart. I’m going to need all my luck tonight. Yes, ice cream for movie night, gotcha, and sprinkles too? Sure, hun, let me get this deal and I’ll buy you a damn ice cream parlour.

No, of course not for realsies, don’t be silly, and remember to brush your teeth extra good tonight, I don’t want to come home and see you asleep with dirty teeth.

No, no, no I didn’t mean it like that! I will be back before bedtime, I promise; I just want those pearly whites to shine in your smile for ever and ever. So don’t you neglect brushing, young lady, and I mean that for always.

Yes, I’ll read you your bedtime story after the movie. Yes, yes, I do remember that your dolls need a new home, as well as some new friends. Maybe they should’ve paid their mortgage as well.

Nothing! Sorry! That was nothing, I promise.

Yes, yes, I’ll be back, I’ll be back pronto, back in a flash, I’ll be out this door and back again, back before you can say ‘I wish daddy was back’. How about that? Goodbye, darling. Lock the door tight, okay?

Okay! Babye now!

.

.

God, how will I make it up to her this time?

#fiction #flash fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #original fiction #father #daughter #father daughter #promise #back soon #movie night #work over family #work #venture #abandonment

[shuckle24]

I'm Forgetting Something

I could swear that I am forgetting something. My neurons are reaching for their neighbours but cannot quite form a connection. The neurotransmitters are being released from presynaptic membranes but are diffusing across all askew, failing to trigger the cascade of chemical information that leads to a thought, or a remembrance. I can feel the chain of my thoughts simply missing one, insignificant link, a connecting link of no real importance to the memory, but a chain with one missing link is no longer a chain, but two incomplete chains, and there I am simply unable to wrench the memory out of my mental drawers. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, forgetting something crucial as if it's completely peripheral.

I'm forgetting something.

But what?

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #forget #forgetting something #forgetting #remember #remembering #sciency language #technical language

[shuckle24]

The Evening and the Sunset

It is not for nothing that writers and poets throughout history have associated evening and the sunset with confusing serenity and hidden inner feelings. When the sun sets over the bustling city and its pitiless pitch, people lose their certainty from events once so certain. It is a time of ambiguity, of half-formed thoughts and unformulated ideas taking shape. It is a time when sharp edges blur and once discrete entities dissolve into an amalgam of nothings. It is as if someone has removed my glasses and my vision turns all hazy and distant but in a way that is not unpleasant. I sit on my kitchen counter, waiting, taking small sips of my coffee and spectating the bloated, orange sun as it bulges and dips behind the tall apartment buildings on the posh end of the city. Eventually, like a welcome herald, the doorbell buzzes and frees me of my musings.

She had entered my life completely out of the blue. It was around the time I had escaped my foster home and abusive foster parents and rented a flat at the opposite end of the city. I had taken to imagining myself as a weasley sort of creature scurrying about in a society I do not belong in. Skinny, hairless, sniffing at the air, keen to sense a storm from afar and creep into a hole. The universe had stamped out the trust I was born with and I was unwilling to issue more. I was hesitant, she was bold. I was doubtful, she was capricious. I never discovered what it was that she saw in me, I never uncovered the equation that compelled her to seek me out despite all the barriers I had erected around me. Nevertheless, she did, and that was the beginning of a friendship I could never have imagined was possible.

We began hanging out casually. At first only on the weekends, then on alternating weekdays, then on skype every night. Now, every evening as I finish my coffee- black, no cream and only half a spoon of sugar- the doorbell buzzes like an invigorated bee. I stand up- stoic on the outside, smiling widely on the inside- and open the door. We hug, exchange greetings and I pour her a cup of coffee (creamy with two spoonful's of sugar). I open my mouth to offer her a seat but she has already found a comfortable spot on the sofa. I turn away to hide my smile, feeling both giddy and abashed to realize she is already so comfortable at my house. We slip into a conversation almost unknowingly, there is no ice to be broken. She rants to me about her grievances, and I complain about work. The last rays of the sun dissipate into darkness but inside the well-lit apartment, we hardly notice.

It’s not long before we both have to leave, yet that thought does not bother us. We are more invested in the conversation at hand and we are both aware we will have this time again tomorrow.

Happiness, then, is not the joy you currently have, it is the knowledge that the people who give you joy will always be here beside you.

#fiction #flash fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #original fiction #descriptive #evening #sunset #friendship #abuse #isolation #friends #sadness #sorrow #happiness #loved ones

[shuckle24]

Premature

You were always a feisty one. These eight lovely months, you never made them easy. It was silly to hope you had settled. Patience. Just a little longer. We’ll cut you out tomorrow. 

#flash fiction #fiction #my writing #writing #short fiction #33 words #microfiction #premature #premature birth #baby #original fiction

[shuckle24]

Where am I?

“Where am I?”

“Oh, does it matter?”

“What? Where am I?”

“Everywhere and simultaneously nowhere.”

"What the hell? Where am I?"

"Where the river meets the sea; where dreams are disintegrated to oblivion."

"How did I get here? Where am I?"

"In Xanadu, with Xubla Khan. Nine fathoms deep, with the spirit of the land of the mist and snow."

"Why am I here? Where am I?"

"In the room where the women come and go, speaking of Michelangelo"

"Who are you? Where am I?"

"Buried in Lazarus' empty grave."

"Why are you here? Where am I?"

“With the stars, a gargantuan speck dwarfed by infinite nothingness.”

"Did you bring me here? Where am I?” 

“With the tardigrades, in minuteness.”

“How do I get out? Where am I?”

"Beyond the edge of the boundless, borderless universe. Tucked into a singularity at the center of the centerless cosmos." 

"When did I get here? Where am I?"

“Where the two seas meet, but cannot mix, as an invisible wall separates them.”

"How long have I been here? Where am I?”

“In human imagination, non-existent and zero dimensional.”

“How long do I have to stay? Where am I?”

“In silence, scarce and wise.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself, visible, beckoning, yet unnoticed.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself, answering your summons to deaf ears.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself, distinct, direct, front and centre, possessing the answers to all your questions.” “Where am I?”

“Within yourself, answering calls that are more intent on searching than finding.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself, shrouded and obscured by the very search party deathly eager to seek you out.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself, profoundly deep yet so maddeningly near and unobserved.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself.”

“Where am I?”

“Within yourself.”

“Where am I?”

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #where am I #lost #deep #profound #philosophy #finding yourself #inner self

[shuckle24]

Tumi Ashbe, Ashbe Na? (You Will Come, Won't You?)

A Flash Fiction I wrote in Bangla. Here is the transliteration and the translation. Transliteration: Tumi ashbe, ashbe na? Deri holeo, kosto holeo, tumi ashbe, ashbe na? shondha periye rater adhar neme eleo, manusher kolahole ranga ash pashta nistobdho nirob hoye geleo, tumi ashbe, ashbe na? Amar shathe dekhta korte ashbe, amar shathe kotha bolte ashbe, amar mathai hath buliye diye amake ador korte ashbe. Amar shathe olpo kichukhon holeo shomoi katate ashbe. Bolo, ashbe na? shobar theke lukiye, chupi chupi, dhere dhere, nishobde pa fele shokol bera kata tar oborodh digiye tumi ashbe. Bolo, ashbe na?

Translation: You will come, won't you? Even if it's late, even if it's difficult, you will come, won't you? Even if the gloom of night darkens the evening, even if our noisy, bustling surroundings become silent and unmoving, you will come, won't you? You will come to see me, you will come to talk with me, you will come to caress my head. You will come to spend some time with me, however brief. Tell me, won't you come? Hiding from everyone, hush hush and slow, with silent footfalls, overcoming all fences, all barbed wire, all barricades, you will come. Tell me, won't you?

#fiction #flash fiction #writing #short fiction #flash fic #love #platonic #longing #Bangla #Bangla flash fiction #transliteration #translation #pulled apart #emotional

[shuckle24]

At Least She Still Sings

It was difficult to catch her singing, and often I didn’t try. I mustn’t. For I mustn’t be caught listening. 

As a rule, I left her alone. Everyone did. But sometimes I let my eyes follow her discreetly along as she shifted through the rooms, an apparition, silent, ghostly, unhappy. Mostly the third. She almost never was looking for a quiet place to sing- most of the times she was merely trying to walk off her desolation- but sometimes she was; and it was those sometimes that I had to restrain myself the most. It was difficult, and at times almost impossible, but I knew that she would be utterly and completely broken if she ever caught me in the act of catching her in the act of singing. She would stop singing altogether, maybe she would stop talking altogether. It would be like trampling on the already shattered vase of her heart. It was difficult, and I own how ridiculous it is to emphasise my challenges adjacent to hers- but it was. Often I gave in and trailed behind her in the gardens or cocked my ears at the door of the deserted garage in the hopes of catching a note or a tune, or even just a simple hum. I almost never did, but sometimes, increasingly rarely, something faint would brush by my ears, a pleasant tingling, the ghost of a vibration, the departing soul of a note, and the moment made me feel piercingly guilt ridden and simultaneously blessed. For her voice had an indescribable beauty to it. Something whole. something ethereal yet at the same time fiercely human. Her voice was answered prayers. Her voice was entropy giving away to complexity. Her voice was the universe having meaning. 

But even metaphors do her injustice. You cannot describe beauty with metaphors, you cannot describe an orange with words. You need an orange to describe an orange, and you need appreciation to perceive beauty.

It’s a shame though, the world could have benefitted from her voice. Or maybe it would’ve just broken her further while attempting to wrench it from her. At least she still sings, albeit infrequently and insecurely; and while I might not be able to hear it, at least she can, and at least the air molecules can. At least the air molecules are allowed to oscillate back and forth at her perfect pitch; maybe that is their reward for being good, laws-of-physics abiding air molecules. 

That is a happy thought, and as a drowning man I try to clutch at as many straws of happy thoughts as I can. She’s well past that though, she won’t even grab my outstretched hands, let alone straws. All I can wish for her, all I can pray for, is that she drops gently and softly down, and that she can plummet into the bedrock with a final song in her lungs. 

#fiction #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #writing #sad #singing #song #broken #orange #metaphors #beauty #voice #beautiful voice

[shuckle24]

I'm on Fiverr if you ever need me!

I am offering my services as a freelance writer on Fiverr starting here on out. So if you ever need anything written, anything, you know whom to call. Plus, the prices are reasonable, I promise.

For Fiction: https://www.fiverr.com/s/ex5bYr

For Non-fiction: https://www.fiverr.com/s/NgaprN

#fiverr #digital marketing #freelance #branding #creative writing #fiction #flash fiction #short stories #original fiction #short story #my writing #writing #short fiction #writers #article #blog #storytelling #story #hire me

[shuckle24]

Cold Fire

I moved my hands through the blue, papery flames. The desert sun was blistering overhead in the brilliant desert sky, casting angry, yellow rays that baked the rough sand and us. The cold fire helped a bit. 

My eyes fluttered from object to insulating object before resting on the nomad sitting cross-legged on the insulating cloth floor of the tent. He was clad in the general nomad fashion, oily garments, thick-leather boots, a resilient yet beaten-down turban, and respirators resembling the face of some sickly insect dead in the desert’s heat.

“Tell me,” I began, knowing that I did not have to finish. Articulating my questions was completely arbitrary; by some peculiar design or the other, he was always aware of my queries beforehand, and had always spared me the need to vocalise them. It made matters simpler, renouncing redundancies is the survivalists motto in these vapid surroundings.

Today, however, he was silent, almost deliberately oblivious of my icebreaker. He sat still, unmoving, spine-straight, his eyes crinkled behind the respirates, his breathing slow and rasping.

The silence stretched on but was not uncomfortable. We had spent hundreds of hours in unbroken silence during the course of our travels and had grown used to, even fond of, the bated stillness of the desert.

Beyond the thick curtains of the tent, the sun slowly ambled its way behind the giant mounds of sand; and inside the thick curtains of the tent, the light changed from a fierce, shielded yellow to a matte gold. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees, partly due to the sunset and partly due to the heat-sucking blue flames, though for miles and miles around our little camp the rolling waves of sand would maintain a steady sixty degree celsius for a good while still.

I looked away from the curtains and attempted to catch my friend’s gaze. He let it be caught easily, like a fisherman allowing his catch to swallow the bait. We remained in this manner for some time, watching each other placidly, me trying to ask a question, him knowing my question and adamantly refusing to answer it.

“Yes?” He encouraged me.

“Hm.”

Silence again.

“I-I” I had fallen out of practice speaking, “Th-the flame, why is it cold?”

“Do you mean, how is it cold?”

“Ye-” I stopped myself, and nodded.

“The fire is burning Kalkacite. It’s a kind of organic matter we grow in trees. We have positioned it in such a manner, mathematically speaking, that it is simultaneously in our dimension and in the Seventh Dimension. Or rather, the beginning of the fire is with us, and the end in the Seventh Dimension. Have I told you about the Seventh? Or did I call it the Nether? Doesn’t matter. The wood takes in heat from our surroundings, but the heat from the combustion stays in the Nether. The Nether warms up, and we, much deservedly, cool down. Do you understand?”

It was unnecessary for him to ask. I shook my head at him but he was purposefully looking away. I shook harder, and then harder still. Finally, I took the hint that he wasn’t going to take the hint.

“No,”

“The Kalkacite wood needs to take in heat to burn, so that takes away some heat from around us. The combustion would release significantly more heat, however that heat is released in the Nether and cannot reach us, thus we have a net cooling effect.”

“What is the Nether?”

“It’s a dimension with its down dimensions. For our purposes, imagine it as an alternate reality.”

He lapsed back into silence in that abrupt fashion of his. All around us, the weary band of nomads shuffled around and made camp. We would be staying here for a while, and the tents needed insulation, layers upon layers of it, and a myriad of traps to catch the desert mice.

“Say,“ I say after much rehearsal, “why do the lengths of our days fluctuate so wildly?”

“It’s complicated, for it is only loosely related to astronomy and more entangled with the history of our species, and that’s something we don’t talk about.”

“Why not?”

“It’s formed of events and incidences best left buried.”

“Your planet- our planet- it has two stars, doesn’t it? In a circumbinary orbit. It’s evident that the Yellow Star, as you call it, is slightly altered after every-”

“Listen, you are very smart. Far smarter than we were at your age; but that comes with its own cons. I wish you could know of our mistakes, and avoid them; however it is better to erase them from the planet’s memory, so that you will keep from ever dreaming them up altogether. This home of ours was not always so barren; when I was young my grandmother would tell me stories of roaring oceans teeming with life and green plains more widespread than the deserts. Maybe you deserved that world more than we did; maybe you would have created a worse hellscape than this. Either way, it doesn’t matter. That reality is now so far behind it might’ve just been a dream. I wish it were, you cannot destroy dreams. I cannot give you the old world back, but I can give you something else.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Your water bearer, I’m taking him with us.”

“Excuse me?”

“We leave soon.”

I glanced over at the figure sitting placidly hunched over in the corner. He belonged to a species different from us, but not completely dissimilar from us. He, like many of his species, was short and muscular, with brown, leathery skin and lanky arms, a snubby tail, and lungs robust enough to withstand the torrefied desert air. His pupils were coal black and kilometres deep, surrounded by a bright-blue retina and an ever present glint of intellect that never truly sparked into genius. Strapped around his waist and held fast by a leather belt was a butcher’s knife, a mouse trap, a handgun (for when the knife was not enough), and, most prominently, a flask of fresh water. 

“Why? What do you mean taking away, we are both travelling to the city, aren’t we?”

“No, just you are. We- and I speak for all members of our tribe, those still with us and those departed- have grown tired of cities. We will take the long road and head north; check if there really is a great sea leftover, or if it is all some idle fantasy. I wish to see the roaring waves and compact sand, I wish to feel a breeze on my face, I wish to breathe real air for a change.” 

“I still don’t understand, we were always aiming for the city; and why are you taking him with you!”

“Two reasons.”

“And they are?”

He looked at me oddly for a moment before answering, “You don’t need a water-bearer, you can bring your water yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Yes.”

“And why not him?”

“Because it is a tedious job, and not one that requires an entire post to itself.”

“But Jason likes bringing water!”

“It’s all he knows but not all he will love.”

“He is my friend, I can bring water for myself, but how will I move through this sweltering hellscape without companionship?”

The nomad smiled, “That is the second reason, I want you to feel loss.”

“Why?”

“For the greater good, of course.”

“That is not a valid argument, that is never a valid argument, you yourself taught me that,” I sat up on my knees, my fingers unconsciously curled up into fists on my thighs.

“What is this anger for?”

“Huh?”

“Your anger, does it stem from the loss of a friend, or are you vexed that I am taking something away from you.”

I calmed down a little, “I still don’t understand.”

“You will, one day. For now, I need you to tell me how you feel.”

“Sorry?”

“Your emotions, in detail if you will.”

“I feel-” and obviously I had no clue how to describe my feelings. I didn't even know how I was supposed to feel. Come to think of it, since our acquaintance I had left it up to the nomad to direct my feelings. 

“I don’t know how I feel,” I answered honestly.

“Think.”

“For what purpose? We are a stone’s throw away from the city and its air-conditioners, we have a week of rest to rejuvenate ourselves and two entire weeks to complete our travels. Why this sudden shift in-”

“Think,” he cut me off with a wave of his wrinkled hand, “back to the time when we started our journey. How many companions did you have back then?”

“Several.”

“And how many are still with us?”

I opened my mouth to respond and exhaled empty air through the filters of my respirator. How many of us were left? I had lost count weeks ago, and it had been a while since I had conversed with my companions; or, for that matter, with anyone other than the silent nomad and the faithful Jason.

I pulled my backpack close and fished out a small cloth sack from the far depths of my belongings. I untied the knot at the mouth and emptied the rubies on the carpet. They had belonged to the hilts of my fallen comrade’s swords, and although we had been forced to leave the bodies behind for the desert rats and whatever vermins still thrived in this necropolis, the gems were too precious.

I caressed each shiny bit of rock gently and arranged them single file in a neat arc. Twenty-three. The day we had escaped the fire that had swept across our village we had counted ourselves to be twenty five strong.

“We’re the only ones left, me and Jason.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“God.”

“You hadn’t even noticed, had you?”

“I did, peripherally, but not really; I hadn’t registered it internally.”

“Do you remember your companions, can you recall how they fell?”

“Yes, yes of course. Sharon fell prey to dysentery midway through the desert, Jacob succumbed to an infected bite, Horace went peacefully in his sleep. I remember them all, it’s just that I lost count midway through.”

“Did you grieve for them?”

“What?”

“Did you grieve for them after their passing?”

“No, why?”

“You blocked them out of your minds instantly so that they won’t hurt you. It’s almost as if they had never existed, isn’t it?”

“Well-”

“And I thought we were heartless; we would at least mourn for a few days before trying to move on. You do it instantly.”

I bowed my head, abashed and unsure of how to act appropriately at the scolding, “Why are you telling me this? Why all of a sudden? What good is it to feel pain when the heat and exhaustion already dominate our beings.”

“None, presumably. I haven’t been able to decipher the correct response to loss,  but I am an expert in the incorrect responses to loss. It doesn’t do any good to bury the memories so ruthlessly. Let them live a bit longer, if only in our memories.”

“I suppose,” is the best answer I can patch together.

He sighed, closed his eyes, adjusted his respirator, and continued in a toned-down, almost apologetic voice, “It is not your fault. We’re the ones that put you in this hell hole and now I am getting mad at you for adapting to it. When your generation was young there was too much loss to go around, and so you grew desensitised to it. You opted to erase the dead from your minds so that you might not share the same fate, but you don’t have to live like that anymore.

“We will leave tomorrow, in search of the ocean, in pursuit of that which we have destroyed; and you can go on to your cities and budding metropolises. Maybe your brutal history will give you the perspective to do things differently. You will make mistakes, you will make plenty of mistakes, but hopefully you won’t make them in as conceited a manner as we did.  I doubt you will have the chance, because God knows there is little left to demolish. Only the sand and the rock, and you won’t have the technology to face them for a millenia yet. What worries me is the havoc you might wreck upon yourself, upon each other. That is why I want you to experience loss, to live it and not stifle it down. It would be hilarious if we came this far to restoring our godforsaken home only to have you botch it all up due to the same mistakes we did. History repeats itself, but it cannot if we wipe it out entirely. Get your water yourself, and learn to experience loss so that you might retain the ability to love. God be willing, one day you and Jason will be reunited, and if you are able then to love together, and grieve together, and bring water and food and comfort to one another, then even the sun might return to its designated path.”

“To each other?”

The nomad sank his head, almost burying it in his stomach. 

“Of course that is the first objection you raise; I suppose that too is our fault. If only we hadn’t made so many mistakes while trying to fix our mistakes. Yes, for each other, Jason to you, and you to Jason. I am sorry you find that such outlandish a prospect. We did too, once, and annihilated ourselves in the process.”

He paused to lick his lips and I could sense him restraining himself.

“I’ve said too much already. Experience is richer than lectures. Go on then, go on and build a better world for your children than that we built for our children; though in truth we did more destroying than building.”

I seated myself comfortably on the cushions again. The ensuing silence was both natural and meditative. Silence had been a major instrument in their quest for restoration, and it would continue to be that for us. The heat has evaporated the desire to speak from our souls, and the resulting quietude has opened for us a novel mode of communication and enabled us to understand and commune with one another almost telepathically. 

“And yet increasing you are reluctant to do even that,” the nomad interjected, once again reading flawlessly through the folds of my brain. 

“Mhm?”

But he smiles, “No, no, I have said too much already, that lesson is for another time, or hopefully you will have figured it out before I get the chance to lecture you on it.”

He looked at me with those odd, wrinkled eyes and I knew the time to part would be soon. 

“Should I then prepare to part with Jason?”

A final smile, probably the last of his that I will ever be able to witness.

“Yes, yes you should, and God bless you, your forebears, and all those who will come after you.”

#fiction #short stories #original fiction #short story #my writing #writing #descriptive #science fiction #scifi #dystopia #dystopian #desert #nomad #post apocalyptic #friendship #friends #loss #suffering