Posted on May 21, 2008 by compulsivewriter
A continuation of the earlier post
It was one of those mornings where he hated waking up. He was dreaming of something vague but he wasn’t sure. He forced himself up anyway. He walked to the balcony and glanced at the sky searching for a hint of sunlight. The dull sky totally matched his state-of-mind.
Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, looking within for inspiration. Suddenly he heard someone honk right under his window. She came to his mind. The tiny girl trying to maneuver her big car in the homeward bound traffic. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened, had he knocked on her window. He couldn’t help but wonder how many ‘what if’s marked has life.
What if he had knocked on her window, what if she’d have smiled back and said ‘hey’, what if she thought he was a creep and looked away. The ‘what if’ was making him restless, so he put on his shoes and stepped out to take a walk. And just then the first rain of the season poured down on him. Bringing with it, he scent of wet mud and lush greens of the seasons.
Filed under: creative writing | Tagged: creative writing, fiction, inspiration, life, morning, rain, short story, writing | 5 Comments »
Posted on May 18, 2008 by compulsivewriter
She had driven all the way across town for a meeting, which didn’t happen eventually. The terrible traffic wasn’t helping her foul mood. She was sick of her being stuck in first gear. Her knees were hurting out of the excessive driving. The tiny rickshaws kept cutting into her lane, adding to her agony. She just wanted to get home and rest.
She didn’t notice the guy in the car next door look at her. She tried to focus on getting some song on the radio, but they were just playing songs she didn’t care about. She rested her head on her steering wheel in frustration.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he knew it was rude to stare, but she was adorable. She was restless in her big huge car, shifting gears even when the car was stationary. He felt a strong urge to just roll down his window and knock on hers. He shook off the thought and smiled. He forced himself to look away. She was just driving a car next to his, she could be married or she could be a mother of 5 kids. He wasn’t the type to flirt with random girls. In fact, it was a long time since he had checked out a girl even.
While he was lost in his thoughts, she had driven away… He looked at where her car had been and shrugged. What if he had knocked on her window?
Filed under: creative writing, fiction | Tagged: creative writing, driving, fiction, personal, relationships, traffic | 1 Comment »
Posted on January 30, 2006 by compulsivewriter
I have said goodbye to all those groups and to life and I have been dead into another group. I cannot tell you what group this is, because it is useless having any knowledge whatsoever of it before you die. You hear a lot of stories of what happens after you die. Some say you go on to another world, some say you can watch over the world, over your loved ones. Like I am trying to watch over you… What the stories don’t tell you is the pain of watching your loved ones go wrong, seeing them fall into a pit and then being helpless to tell them what you feel… That is the first rule of this group, we don’t communicate explicitly with your group. You need to have a higher power to be able to do that.
How can they expect me not to communicate with you, a part of me, a part of my soul, a reflection of my life. You learnt your first words with me. You learnt to look at the outside world through me. Eventually, you helped me see the outside world… And now I am in a different world, one that you can’t see or feel, but it is there. From this world I can see the dangers coming to you, I can tell your true friends from the false ones, I can see the mistakes you make but I cant tell you. I cannot break the code. It is like going back to your teenage years when I wanted to tell you about the mistakes you were about to make, but you didn’t need me. I felt helpless then and I feel helpless now. You sit by your bed every night looking at me, frozen in that little photo twenty years ago, and tears well up. I can almost hear you call me as if I were lost or hiding from you. I wish I could whisper in your ear, ‘I am right here’. I feel the urge to cry, to weep, to stretch out my hand to you in distress like I did on my deathbed, but now, there are no hands to stretch out, and there are no eyes to weep with, no voice to call out with. All that remains is an essence of my being. But I see myself in you right now… I see your daughter hold you and comfort you, just the way you comforted me when your grandmother left us. I am alive, in you…
Filed under: fiction | Tagged: fiction, groups, life, life after death, moving on, People | Leave a comment »