Wounds That Turned To Wisdom

There was a time when things were different.

At that time, I wasn’t aware how life’d treat me. I was in school when I came home with my first hole. After repressing the pain while I had lunch with my family, I locked myself inside my room and bled for too long.

Then, the next day, I came home with two more holes. One on my upper thigh and the other one on my shoulder. A stinging pain sprout out of them that made my whole body, a wound.

The next day, after returning back home, I left my mother shouting and hustled towards my room while leaving a trail of blood on the white carpet. I slammed my bag on the bed and lifted my shirt in front of the mirror. Half a dozen holes were revealed that dotted my stomach and chest. It was hard, bleeding for hours that day. I needed someone to treat my wounds with gauze. Instead, they were left open. It took half the night to stem the flow of blood and I was exhausted. Excruciating pain was the price of healing.

In the morning my mom made my favorite pancakes for breakfast. I wished she’d have kissed me on the forehead instead of stuffing me with those delicious pancakes.

I returned home that day, more battered than usual, covered with holes from head to toe. I gazed inside my mother’s brown eyes, longing to see the reflection of my holes. Instead, they were filled with every other dilemma our family endured.

I locked my room that day, and stood beside the mirror with blood pit-pattering on the linoleum. The holes looked like tiny flickering tongues. A sucking wound on my back, square between my shoulder blades was hurting me the most. It was too wide, too deep and a gentle touch brought back the memory of my best friend at school. May be that’s why the wound was the worst.

I stood there for too long, dribbling blood on the surface of clean mirror and staring at my face. The taste of loneliness mixed with the sleepless night was bitter. I heard my family talking, my brothers fighting over stupid things. My mother knocked at my room’s door. She waited for an answer but silence was all she could hear while I struggled with my cries, cupping my mouth firmly with both hands. She screamed and called my dad.

I got up, wiped my eyes brutally with one hand while holding a knife in the other. After hiding it under the bed I slammed the door open. My eyes saw fierce expressions on their faces and their lips moved angrily but my ears heard nothing. A shrill sound as if a drill was making a hole in the wood echoed in my head.

After it was all over, I shook my head and locked the door, again. My steps felt heavy as I motioned towards the mirror. The two days old wounds sprang open. Blood spilled out of the crusty scabs that were peeled off.

In the morning, I left the bloodied bed sheets as they were and headed towards school with my head cast towards the ground. I came back that day with more holes but they didn’t hurt that much as they did before. Because, I made dozens of holes that mustered over my torso, to avoid pain from the ones given by others.

“Soon these holes will all turn into scars and they’d be the reminders of how tough I’m“, I thought. The light had started entering inside me, through my wounds.

I bled that day on my bed but the door was wide open. My parents passed by as I lay there, un-noticed, for they had their own monsters to fight with -and I had my own.

“She was not quite what you would call refined.
She was not quite what you would call unrefined.
She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.”

That was the day I promised myself, that I’ll try to fix my daughter’s holes with gauze, made with love and care. But as they say, life is what happens to you while you are busy making ‘plans’.

Every one of us has to unfold one’s own myths.

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This 695 word story is written for Speak Easy. The task this time was to use “There was a time when things were different” as the first line and to give a reference to a photo that was of parrots. I should admit that, while writing this story, my mind started wandering in my own past and when I read my story now, it seems more like my real life story than fiction. I have decided to leave it unchanged, as it reminds me of my ‘fresh’ old wounds.

This story can be an end, or a new beginning of my writing career. I am getting married this coming Friday and life had been hard on me, lately.

Meet you after my wedding ! Miss me and pray for me, Please. Love you all.

Can You See My Fingers Bleed?

I was planning to write poetry or fiction for some challenge today and here I am, sitting, staring at my laptop screen with my vision getting blurred every few seconds. I wipe my eyes with my already damp hands and start staring at the screen again. I feel an urge to hug my laptop right now or kiss it. And I feel an urge to go out for a walk in the woods with my laptop and never come back to my real world.

I have got the best friends, brothers and sisters here with the help of this little box, a machine. Who knew machines would be understanding feelings more than humans, someday ? Technological advancement or Humanity decline ? I know If I’d cry right now, there would be someone sitting right beside their computer ready to embrace me with their words. I know if I’d share my darkest feelings and the most strange emotions there would be people understanding these without judging me.

Unknown people who have no idea who am I and where I belong, what my country, cast and religion is. People who just know that there is some soul out there, craving for their sympathetic words. Craving for the Love that real world failed to give it. Craving for the care that everyone wants, but doesn’t get it. Craving for someone who could listen, just listen to what it had to say. To listen to the rants of a restless soul.

The time I spent crying while laying in the dark, for 20 years is spent writing now. My fingers dance on the keyboard of this very old model, slow laptop and ‘words’ come out along with the silent tears. My tears cried for 20 years and it is time to give them some rest while I let my fingers cry out loud. There is a difference, no one listened to my crying tears but now everyone listens to my bleeding fingers.

No matter how hopeless and depressed my real life is, my virtual life is awesome. I got to understand life, happiness and care –  The strange words which don’t exist in my real life dictionary. In this life, I am not a depressed bipolar soul….I am the queen of my world, my blog ! I walk here with pride, that my real life can’t snatch away from me. This is my world…The people here are my friends…My beloved online community is the best thing I have….And I am grateful for everything this virtual world has offered me.

Words can’t express my gratitude and Love but my tears can. And I know you can see my fingers bleed, while reading my wounded words.

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Linking to Daily Prompt and Dungeon Prompts : Community. Head over to Speak Easy to vote for my story “Waiting for a dead promise” If you like it. Do read and vote for other awesome submissions too.

Cyclic Inception

Credits :

Credits : Thomas Leuthar

Life ‘Inception’

                    Riddle wrapped in Enigma

                                          Prehistoric pen shrieks

                                                                            Echoing Like

                                                                                              Tunnels in Labyrinth

                                                                                                                       Reflecting tales of illusions

                                                                                              Time follows the quest

                                                                             Of Unreachable stars

                                              Struggles and failures

                      Bleed into Hope

The cycle Continues.

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This 33 words piece is written for Trifecta Challenge. The challenge this week was to write a 33 words response to the Picture given. Click on the Badge to read other beautiful entries.

Waiting For A Dead Promise

11

Credits : This

It starts with a heavy pinpoint, sharp, deep in the middle of my heart. As I read Mic’s letter, it swells and blooms, licks like fire through my veins.

It’s a cold windy day and I’m at the window table trying to read the first letter he sent me. At least that is what I should be doing but I spend more time watching the dry leaves clattering across the sidewalk.

I sat here daily, for twenty years with a shotgun in hand. That shotgun is replaced by letters now.

He said, “I’d come back to you no matter what happens”.

I promised him, “I’ll wait for you, forever”

It’s growing dark and the streets are already empty. It has been a chilly, depressing day. I could hear howling wind and one long, repeated call — a bird perhaps.

The feeling I felt then, was love underneath, but it was wrapped in something hard and cold and perpetual.

Death.

Death has followed me for 40 years. Death came for my father first, it sputtered him out like a spent candle. I was seven then. 10 years later it took my mother. Everything I ever loved was gone with the tilt and flare of a scented candle against a curtain. Since then, I resolved never to put myself in a situation that could shatter the way my childhood did. The only way to avoid death was to run.

It worked perfectly for nine years until I met Mic. I felt life exuding from him, surging and bright. For a moment I was certain Death must be looking elsewhere. It stirred at my shoulder, tickled my ear, reminded me it was watching, waiting, poised to poison anyone I opened my heart to.

Everyday little letters from Mic, yellow envelopes addressed in green pen, would wait for me. I replied back, I told him about my father, my mother. About Death on my shoulder.

That day, I was woken from a lay-in by a tentative knock at the door. It was Mic. I was overwhelmed, frozen. He dived at me, wrapped his arms around me. My heartbeats were so golden and warm Death didn’t stand a chance.

You can’t keep him… Death whispered, nervous. Run, before it hurts.

It offered me it’s most enthusiastic ‘contrafibularities‘ that could never be defined just as death could never be defined.

I smiled. And said yes to Mic’s proposal. Because I thought Death couldn’t catch either of us if we’d run together.

The shrill call comes again, thin, high, and mournful. What kind of bird calls like that? Something is out there.

The wind is tapping branches against the window. I look out but see nothing. Dusk is falling but the street lamps are not on yet. Then I see a tiny movement right under my window. Something is crouching below the marigold bushes. A hurt bird, perhaps?

After they reported Mic dead, I began to keep the shotgun next to the front door.

I’d sit for hours beside my window table staring outside, thinking that the day he’d return, reeking of decay, I’d run a finger down the barrel of the shotgun, propped beside me.

“Thank you for coming. I waited for you” I’d say.

“I promised.” He’d smile under the bullet hole they would have put through his forehead. Dried blood would flake off of his eyelid when he’d blink.

“I’m not coming with you,” I’d say.

“Death has done us part. Let it join us together once again.” He’d say.

“I have decided to fight against it” I’d tell him.

I drape myself in a warm brown shawl and open the door to see what that thing is.

A small bundle of grey fur, a tiny kitten, hope ? almost lost in the gloom. It meows, a thin, desperate sound.

When I pick it up, it is ice cold and I can feel every vertebrae. It’s nothing but a skeleton. I look out for any scratches or bites, she was safe. I take it into the warmth and give her milk. It opens great green eyes and looks at me. It rumbles in an attempt to purr. After a while it curls up in my lap.

Some people don’t understand the promises they’re making when they make them, he can’t blame me for breaking mine. Before moving on, for twenty years, with a shotgun in my hand, I sat there and waited, but he never came back.

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Okay I’m in love with the zombie apocalypse, the idea fascinates me so much. I’m sorry if it disgusts you ;) The story is written about the time when zombies would be somehow sensible, they’d actually remember things rather than just “Brains”.

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More or less 740 words story written for speakeasy. The challenge this time was to use, “I sat there and waited, but he never came back” as the last line and give some kind of reference to  a scene from the British comedy show,  Blackadder the Third. Hope you enjoyed. Click on the badge to see detailed rules and other entries on Tuesday.

Thoughts on Anger and A Thank You Note For My Dear Friends

Credits :  This

Credits : This

Anger is the most dangerous attribute possessed by humans. I have actually seen people getting ugly in anger and doing things to harm themselves that affect the rest of their lives in a very bad way. Everyone of us gets angry and I don’t know what are the factors that contribute towards the extent of anger in one but I do know that it can be controlled. It is said that if you want to know the true nature of one, check how he behaves when he is angry. Well behaved, affable, polite and courteous people become the eye candy for everyone in no time.

I have heard of many ways how we can control sudden anger. One of which includes counting backwards from 1 to 10 and taking long breaths. Another method says that if you are standing then sit down and if you are sitting down and you get angry then you should lay down somewhere. Doing this lessens your anger. Drinking cold water helps too sometimes. Self control is the key actually, no matter through what ways you get it.

I don’t have anger problems. I get angry like others but very rarely and my anger comes for a very short period of time usually for 5 to 10 seconds and then disappears. I guess my God gifted silence is the reason behind this. May be that’s why people don’t get scared of me and say whatever they like, even if it hurts me. I don’t want to praise my own self, I’ll look like a fool then, but I’m satisfied with my anger issues as they are minor and controllable. Can’t say I’ll remain like that in the future or become a screaming furious lady. I’d love to hear about your anger problems and how you deal with them.

Also, I want you all to check out my lovely friend, Maria’s blog where she is celebrating my wedding week with such an enthusiasm and energy, I’m sure you’ll enjoy. She is a best friend and a sister, a very talented blogger who most of the times amaze me with her exquisite thoughts on life and everything else. I want to thank her for giving me such love and care. I feel blessed to have her.

I’d like to thank my brother Arindam Saha too here for his continuous support and love. He understands me more than I understand myself and he is always there for me whenever I feel down. Love you brother.

This post is written for Dungeon Prompts who asked about anger management this week and also for the daily prompt who says us to teach something to our fellow bloggers.

Best Steak Ever -A Story Of Perfection Spellbound !

Credits:  This

Copy Rights: This

Someone once said that there is no love sincerer than the love of food and I tied that quote to my shirt tail. Since then, ‘eating good’ is the best and consistent habit that I possess. I once happened to visit a restaurant to grab a bite for lunch and that restaurant became my dreamland afterwards. Let me tell you my story of “Best Steak Ever”.

It was a beautiful bright sunny day and the breeze was as cool as a cucumber and some rose water mixed together. Hungry as a bear and cheesed off by the office work, I wandered around in search of food but couldn’t find anything but closed restaurants staring at me. My belly bubbled and squeaked and bones started to melt when my eyes caught a glimpse of some heavenly lights dancing far away. I followed the lights blindly and there it was, ‘The Restaurant” gleaming like a royal palace, minus the stiff-like-ice-cream-stick guards.

I entered the restaurant and took a table beside the window. Black and red velvet chairs were warm like a freshly made toast. A beautiful menu card tied with red ribbon was laying on the table. After a while, that red ribbon was laying on the ground and my eyes were sliding through the card long with my finger. A bunch of  mouth watering dishes blocked my mind and I couldn’t decide which one to order, it happens to me very often. In this case I usually tell the waiter to ‘Surprise Me‘  with a romantic smile and trust me, this trick has never let me down.

While waiting for the food, I looked around. A teenage girl and twenty something boy were sitting right next to my table, enjoying their salad days. The girl was eating like a bird and the boy was staring into her eyes with a charming smile on his face. She was hiding her shyness behind small bites of that Tuna fish sandwich. Two fat men wearing suits were sitting at my right side. Expressions on one man’s face were perplexed like he was spilling beans about some pie in the sky. The other man was indulged in eating like a horse.

Waiting for half an hour wasn’t that easy but it paid off when I saw the waiter approaching towards me with a tray in his hand. I could hear the soothing melody of the world’s best music coming out of that sizzler. A seductive fragrance of cooked meat mixed with the steam entered inside my body through the nostrils and initiated a fire in every inch of my body. A scrumptious divine delight was laying right in front of me. Two beautiful grilled chicken breast fillets were placed delicately between creamy buttered mashed potatoes on one side and colorful vibrant vegetables on the other. All these heavenly ingredients were dipped in a dark red streaming peppercorn sauce.

While supporting the chicken fillet with a fork in one hand, I made a soft elegant cut at its edge with a knife. The layer of chicken split up and an exquisite surprise, a river of melted cheese came flooding out of it and filled my plate. With my fork I assembled  a small chicken piece, tiny portion of mashed potatoes, a mushroom and a carrot, dipped them in the cheese, rolled them in red sauce and put the first bite in my mouth.

sizzle eater

Copy Rights : This

The first bite-oh, what heaven that first bite was. The mushroom like the freckled breast of an angel, resting gently on top of buttered mashed potatoes and the meat, flavors mingling  in a seductive pas de deux. Then the carrot cuddled up with cheese and some more meat brimmed with the sauce…. And then a black pepper grain! The most playful little grain ! The mixture so exquisite, swirled in my mouth breaking apart, and combining again in a fugue of sweets and savor so delightful. A meat Christmas was celebrated in my mouth.

The second bite- the third- fourth and I came back to senses when my fork screeched with the empty plate. It was an out of the world Booze cruise journey, a perfection spellbound. I felt like resting in heaven under the blue skies after having it and most amazingly, I kept eating that steak in my dreams for a whole week after that.

I can proudly say now that there is  only one right way to eat a steak – with greed in your heart and a smile on your face. It’s finger licking good !

This post is written in response to Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts. Don’t forget to share your experiences. Feedback is always appreciated.

Why ?

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Sacredness makes me strong

Blessed with wings but I creep along

Carving words of silence, I sing a song

In Meadows, Beyond ideas of right and wrong

Lies the soul absorbing light through the pierced wounds

Home of love invite to be the guest unknown

Paths to you are shown by trees long

I Search inside where you belong

Empty-handed, I still Roam.

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I don’t know if this photo prompt relates completely to my words or not but these were the thoughts that came into my mind when I first saw it. As I am feeling down these days too so couldn’t come up with anything creative. I hope you’ll bear me with that.

This poem is written in response to Daily Prompt and Friday Fictioneers. Click on the link to see other awesome entries this week.

Photo Copyright – Björn Rudberg.