Varadharajan Ramesh's Blog, page 11

Golden Record

‘Hello from the children of planet earth’

‘Go Johnny go, go!’

‘Ribbit!’

‘beep beep beepidip beep…’

‘Muah!’

‘Hahaha!’

The record rotated at the prescribed speed of 3.6 seconds per rotation. They crowded around it, listening.

One grunted, ‘They call themselves homo sapiens.’

His neighbour grunted back, ‘Sapience?’

‘Sadly none!’

The Prince and The Flautist – #Writephoto

The horizon glowed orange well after the sun had set. The small group of men, well three men and two boys, made steady progress away from the glow and into the night. One of the boys had his hands bound and he stuttered forward between the others, defeated but defiant. The other boy, who brought the rear walked with his shoulders slumped, despite being one of the captors and having seen his side win the war.

The men had contrasting emotions displayed on their countenances. The one leading their little group had a smile playing on his lips even as his hands toyed around with a flute. He was of slender build and walked with an easy grace in his steps. The other two were hulking brutes who walked on the either side of their prisoner, displaying matching scowls to air their displeasure at their current situation.

The smiling man paid no heed to his colleagues’ emotions as he waded through neck-high wildgrass bushes, charting a path clear from prying eyes. Few hours later the party reached a small clearing and the smiling man gave the signal to make camp. The silent boy was put on food duty and the brutes stood next to their captive, sullen as ever.

The smiling man placed his flute in his waistband and sat hunched before their captive.

‘Supper will be ready in few minutes, Your Highness. I’m afraid it’ll be a frugal fare tonight as well. I hope you have it in your heart to forgive our transgressions.’

The captive glared at him and spat in his general vicinity.

‘I’m sorry, Your Highness. If it was up to me, I’d have untied you a long time ago. But, I’m just a simple soldier following the orders given to him.’

The captive fixed his counterpart with an icy look, ‘If only you had free will, yes? You and your ilk should have thought more about that before siding with the enemy. We fought to free the land from the tyranny of your so-called King. You would have been better served fighting for our cause instead of bowing in servitude to the man who desired nothing but that.’

The man laughed in a soft voice as if they were sharing a private joke, ‘Your Highness, you talk about fighting for a people’s free will, but accuse us for exercising our own free will. Wouldn’t you say that you have contradicted your own statement?’

‘Don’t confuse your cowering to might as an expression of free will. Everyone knows that my father is the rightful heir to the throne and yet you decided to follow his tyrannical younger brother. We would have won if you people had supported our righteous cause. I guess you all are as ungrateful as your king. Now, I have nothing more to say to you. Leave me be.’

‘Your Highness, your father is a just man. I would say I can see flashes of him in you. But your father is also a man devoid of any other emotion other than justice. A people needs more than a just king. Otherwise, they’d perish in the fire of their king’s righteousness. Just like Harbour Town over there.’

He pointed towards the distant orange glow, ‘Your Highness, Harbour Town was a thriving place full of peace-loving citizens until your father’s army descended upon it with their righteous rage. Harbour Town was an important landmark in terms of both business and culture under our tyrannical king. What do you say about that?’

‘Harbour Town was just the beginning of my father’s crusade that will end with your king. Then you can sit back and wonder how the mighty have fallen. I see you carry a flute around. Maybe you can sing paeans about that when the day arrives.’

‘Everybody falls, Your Highness. Only, when the mighty fall they make more noise and the sight is truly spectacular. Do you feel righteous for even one instant when you think about the thousands of innocent men, women and children who have lost their lives as a result of your crusade? Did you feel that justice was served when places of study and worship were torn down? Were you overcome with delight when thousands of homes were kissed by the tendrils of your virtuous flames?’

The young prince did not reply.

‘You speak about liberating us, Your Highness. What would have happened if your father had won the war instead? We would have a new king that’s all. Do you call this liberation of a people?’

‘Then what is true liberation?’

The man removed his flute and took it close to his lips. He sighed and lowered the instrument, ‘True liberation is living in a country where I’d be allowed to play my flute whenever and wherever I please.’

‘My father would have ensured such an environment.’

‘Your Highness, If I had true liberty, I wouldn’t need a king to give me an environment to exercise my skills. Young boys will not be dying in the battle fields for others’ righteous causes. Young girls will not be carried away to satiate the pleasures of those fighting others’ wars. Children will not be rounded up and executed just to ensure that they don’t grow up and take up arms. Instead, they’ll be allowed to live, explore new things in life, follow their passions and fall in love. Do you see the boy toiling over the fire, trying to whip up something for you? Have you seen his eyes? I’m sure you haven’t. I have and I was saddened with what I saw in them.’

‘He has fought a war and survived, flautist. He should rejoice, not despair. Or maybe, he’s just a whimpering coward who has no appetite for war.’

‘He is a lot braver than you, Your Highness!’

‘How dare you! I felled scores of men, much bigger than me, on the battlefield. I’m pretty sure you’d have heard of my prowess. How many did turnip boy here kill?’

The flautist’s eyes took a sudden hard glint that made the prince flinch, ‘Your Highness, how old were you when you first swung a sword? Three? Four? You were born a prince and you were trained to be one. Turnip boy, as you graciously dubbed him, never touched a sword until few moons back. He was a farmer’s boy and he was trained to be a farmer. Like how I was trained to be a musician. You kings and princes, you are the reason that we are far away from home killing people to stay alive instead of growing crops or singing songs.’

‘That is just the way of our lives, flautist. War doesn’t discriminate. War is just.’

‘War is unnecessary! Why do you kings feel the need to let others kill and die to prove your might? Why didn’t your father fight his brother himself?’

‘The war is for the people, whether you accept to believe it or not, flautist. War gives people to fight for their right, a definitive way to determine how their lives are going to be governed.’

‘We keep talking in circles, Your Highness. I feel that war is not required and so are kings.’

‘Flautist, you talk about an ideal situation. The world is not ideal. It is not filled with idealistic creatures. It is filled with people. Human beings are the only creatures in this world that prey upon its own kind. Human beings are governed by lust, hate and avarice. They need to be brought in line by a ruler who is strong enough to rein in their innate cruelties. Otherwise, the world will descend into uncontrollable chaos.’

‘Who are you to determine what is acceptable and what is not acceptable, Your Highness? How can one man decide how others should act?’

The Prince looked at the flautist with a mixture of contempt and pity, ‘A ruler who values the justice he disburses will take the people out from consideration. A crime shall then be treated as a crime and a thief will be tried as a thief. That’s the only way to impart justice – impartial, resolute and devoid of emotion. My father would have made such a King.’

‘You have not understood my question, Your Highness. What gives the right to a King, any King to act as the custodian of justice of a people?’

‘So, you would do away with us Kings and Princes if you got your way. But, tell me this flautist, what would you replace monarchy with? Any attempt to bring order to beings who are chaotic by nature like us will need some rules and methods to implement them. Know this, there are only two types of people in the world – the controllers, and the controlled.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. The controllers, and the controlled. The controllers may use different ways to control the controlled. A King uses his might and goodwill to control his subjects, while a mother uses love to control her children. Make no mistakes, flautist, everyone in this world is either a controller or being controlled by one. You may cry foul and say that the rules are bent in favour of the mighty, but that just shows what you are.’

The flautist sat in silent contemplation. Turnip boy served their miserable looking dinner in mute silence and slinked away into the darkness. The Prince started eating with great relish. It was as if his discussion with the flautist had rekindled his hunger. Within minutes he had emptied his plate and even snatched a little piece of bread from his counterpart’s plate, while fixing him with a smile.

‘Lost your appetite, flautist? We do have at least four days of walking ahead of us before you deliver me to your King. You need to keep your strength, else Turnip boy would be serving chunks of you for supper after a couple of days.’

‘Pardon me for my insolence, Your Highness. But is this the fate of the common man? Be controlled by one controller after another? According to your theory, if I have to escape being controlled then I should become one of you – a controller. What you say doesn’t give me great reasons to live, let alone eat.’

‘Flautist, do you pray? Why do you pray? Even without knowing why or how, you have accepted that God controls you. You might come out and say that you are an atheist and you denounce God, but then you do accept the fact that you, as a single human, are quite insignificant in this huge world which in itself is at the mercy of a greater power. We are made to control and be controlled. Where you stand on the totem pole determines just the number you control. Why do you think Kings and Princes command or in most cases demand respect? It’s our wage for accepting the thankless job of controlling the people under our rule. There’s no reason to be disappointed or disillusioned. Do you think that a thousand years after this moment that humans will break free of being controlled?’

The flautist remained silent.

‘No!’ The Prince continued, ‘There may or may not be Kings, that I cannot say for sure but one thing I can say with certainty is that there will be controllers and the ones they control. We may end up playing different roles, but the story remains the same. Now, eat. I need to rest and preserve my energy for the arduous trip ahead of us.’

He lay down on the hard ground and closed his eyes. The flautist started eating, his mind reverberating with the weight of the Prince’s words. He knew for certain that his King would execute his own nephew in full view of the capital’s populace. What the Prince said was true. His execution would be another weapon in the King’s arsenal to tighten his control over the Kingdom. The Prince’s father was a hard man. The Prince was haughty, but he also had a fine read on the people. He deserved a chance to live afterall. The flautist emptied his plate, unsheathed his sword and crept in silence towards his companions.

Written for #Writephoto hosted by Sue Vincent. 

Family Tree

‘Gary, what are you doing?’

‘I’m digging a hole.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see!’

‘Gary, you’ve been sullen ever since Marshall came out. Why don’t you talk about it? Get things off your chest.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about it, Mel! Marshall’s lifestyle is his own to make.’

‘Oh, Gary! Don’t tell me you are homophobic.’

‘No! I’m not. I have no issues with Marshall being gay. Only with the fact that they are not planning for kids.’

‘So?’

‘It’s up to me to take care of our family tree.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yup! I’m planting myself. Don’t worry. The seed is strong.’

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff – Fields. This week’s delightful prompt is by Connie Gayer and stars our resident lord of puns Russell. Do head over here to read other entries. 

My debut book ‘Tales With A Twist’ – A collection of short stories with a twist ending is available for free download. Do grab your copy from here. 

Varad’s Opinions – Deal of Death by Sonia Chatterjee

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When I started this blog, I never thought I’d be doing a book review. The reason for that being I never considered myself qualified enough to review others’ works. Of course, I can give my opinions but as they say Opinions and Reviews are not the same.

As a part of the Blogchatter eBook Carnival, (Super Cheap Plug: My book ‘Tales With A Twist” is also a part of the same. Grab your free copy from here.) I’ll be giving my opinions on few books and the first one on the list is ‘Deal of Death‘ by a good friend from the Blog-o-Sphere, Sonia Chatterjee.

Book Blurb: 

When the peaceful Munshiganj is affected by paranormal activity, detective Raya Ray steps in. Sharmila feels wronged when she’s told she delivered a stillborn. A dead body, a secret inside the temple, soon Ray realizes no one is what they appear to be.

Plot Summary: 

Raya Ray, an up and coming detective battling a huge personal tragedy and its fallout, is requested by the sister of her maid to solve the case of her stillborn baby in the fictional town of Munshiganj. A skeptical Raya acquiesces only because she is tired of the adultery and missing pets cases she’s been inundated with. What Raya doesn’t expect is to land smack in the middle of a mysterious sequence of events in the idyllic little town. What happens next? Read ‘Deal of Death’ to find out.

ALERT: POTENTIAL SPOILERS AHEAD 

My views in bullet points:

Raya Ray: Any good detective fiction is anchored by a compelling lead. As a huge fan of  the detective fiction genre, I always look for the myth behind the detective. ie., Do I want to read few hundred pages about a character who I might not be invested in? Some of my favorite fictional detectives are Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Feluda, Harry Bosch, John Rebus, Alex Delaware and Harry Hole. Most of these characters have a critical flaw or will be battling some personal demon and those make the readers invest in them. The author hits a six with the first ball by making her fictional lead, Raya Ray, a well rounded (pun unintended) character that I could invest in. Raya is nowhere near perfect – she’s battling personal tragedy, a change of location and career, and a long list of mundane cases. Raya, though very smart, is a little bit naive and that is something she’s gonna have to work on as she progresses in her career.
The Story and the Setting: The central plot is very clever and though regular detective fiction aficionados might be able to guess the story’s direction beyond a point, the author can be commended for conceiving an engaging story especially considering the fact that this is her debut. I loved the setting of the story – Munshiganj. Though it might have been a figment of the author’s imagination, I could visualize it due to the descriptions of both sight and smell of the location. For all you know, Munshiganj could just be any little town in West Bengal.
Narration: There are a couple of hiccups at the beginning, where the narration switches between Raya and her husband Krishanu’s PoV, but once Raya reaches Munshiganj, it becomes very clear and smooth flowing. The language is crisp and simple, just how I like it. Call me weird, I don’t like the words taking the attention away from the story.

Strengths:

Strong Plot
A very strong central character
Writing Style
Fantastic twist just before the end

Weaknesses/ Opportunities:

The end seems a little rushed. I know that the whole story was conceived and written in just under a week and I might sound petty pointing this out despite knowing the background, but this point need not be seen as a weakness, but as an opportunity to flesh the story out more for future editions.
The Antagonist: Again, this is a continuation of the first point but I feel the antagonist is not on Raya Ray’s level in terms of being a well rounded character. A hero is only as good as his villain, eh? The author should invest a bit more in the mythology of her antagonists.

Final Words: 

For a debut author, Sonia Chatterjee has dished out a very entertaining detective story with a compelling female lead. Barring a couple of nitpicks I have mentioned, Deal of Death is an entertaining book I’d recommend to anyone who loves a good mystery. Thumbs Up! 

Follow Raya’s debut by grabbing a free copy of the book here. You can follow the author’s writing at her website Soniasmusings and follow her on Twitter.

The Hook Up

She saw him staring at her from her vantage position at the bar counter. She turned, made a nanosecond’s worth of eye contact, flashed a picosecond smile and went back to nursing her gin & tonic. She knew he’d come to her within the next three minutes.

He sidled up to her in two. She grinned. It was textbook. They sat in comfortable silence, elbows brushing, sipping their drinks. Few minutes later he decided enough was enough and turned to face her.

‘I’m sorry! But do I know you?…’

She threw her hair back and laughed. Her laughter made a mellifluous symphony with the mild jazz music that was playing in the background.

‘Are you trying to chat me up, Mister? Coz that was one bad pick up line.’

He looked affronted, ‘No, no! I get that it belongs to the corny pick-up line category, but I do feel like I know you from someplace before. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.’

He turned his back to her and signaled the bartender for a Scotch and Soda. He knew she’d re-initiate the conversation. It was textbook.

He felt her hand on his elbow and smirked. He drained his glass and turned to face her.

‘Slim pickings, eh?’

She shrugged, ‘Present company’s not that bad.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Alright! G&T with a twist and no more corny lines.’

He ordered their drinks and ran an appreciative eye over her. ‘You look beautiful, Miss?’

‘Miss would be just fine, Mister!’

He ran a hand through his wavy curls. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? I could swear I might have seen you somewhere.’

She stirred her drink with a long index finger and licked the drops before they fell, ‘Maybe in a different life. Are you from around here?’

He shook his head, ‘This is the last place I’d be from. What about you?’

‘First time here. But it feels like I’ve been here before.’

He raised his glass, ‘To first meetings and déjà vus!’

They clinked glasses. She learnt that he was a marketing personnel who traveled a lot, and he nodded and smiled when she said that she was the trophy wife of an Industrialist. They talked fondly about their children and shared stories from past.

‘It might be the drink talking,’ she slurred after her fifth drink. ‘But, I  feel that I’ve met you before too.’

He felt a bolt of daring course through him, ‘Maybe, this might bring back some memories.’ He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Her eyes froze for a moment and then she returned the kiss with fervor.

He broke the kiss after what seemed an eternity, ‘You know, I have a room here.’

She got up in one languid motion and hooked a finger towards him, beckoning.

‘I’d love to see the interiors.’

They stumbled into the room like a weird eight-limbed creature. After a long and passionate session of lovemaking they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

An hour later, she woke up feeling dizzy and out of place. She took a long moment to assess her situation, then noticed the man fast asleep next to her and screamed.

He got up and looking completely bewildered. She pointed a finger at him.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I’d like to ask the same question, lady!’

‘I’m calling the Police, you bastard! Did you drug me?’

He tugged on a stray strand of hair that was dangling on his forehead, ‘Lady, I don’t know what the hell is going on. I came to this hotel for a conference. That’s all I remember.’

They dressed up in silence. She opened the mini bar and grabbed a water bottle from it.

‘So, you don’t remember how we ended up here?’

‘I’m sorry! I don’t.’

She passed him the bottle, ‘Neither do I. What do we do now?’

He finished drinking and tossed the bottle into the dust bin, ‘Lady, I don’t know your name or where you are from. I think you don’t know me either. Let’s just forget everything.’

They didn’t speak a word after that. They didn’t even glance at each other as they went their separate ways.

Back in the room, Tom and Gina were howling with mirth.

‘This is the part I love the most, Gina!’ Tom hovered near the air conditioner.

Gina came floating up to him, ‘Ha! I love the first eye contact they make after we leave their bodies. I never tire of seeing the reactions.’

Tom tried to kiss Gina, but passed right through her. ‘Dammit! It’s been fifteen years and I still keep forgetting.’

Gina chuckled, ‘That’s why we enlist the assistance of such beautiful human beings. Say, you up for one more go? I can see quite few prospects on the dancefloor.’

‘Sure! It’s Saturday night after all!’

The Wrong Bowl

Inder grinned as the little plant’s leaves unfurled. His decades of research had borne fruit at last. This was the first step in growing flora without soil.

The nuclear war of ’99 had made the whole of earth a radioactive wasteland unfit for vegetation. Without plants, all life forms were at the brink of extinction.

Not for long. He had successfully cultivated this plant on a glass bowl. Next step was to present his plant and apply for funding for a large scale implementation.

The next day, his angry wife was waiting with an empty bowl.

‘How many times should I tell you? Never use my kitchenware for your wacky experiments!’

Written for the weekly Friday fictioneers challenge hosted by our gracious host, Rochelle. Please find other entries to this week’s challenge here.

My e-book ‘Tales with a Twist’ containing my short stories is available for free download on a limited basis. You can download it from here. Do read it and let me know if you liked the tales. Thank you.

The Avenue – #writephoto

This place, this beautiful Eden-esque place holds a very important place in my heart. The quaint little avenue over-arched by the trees was where I spent most of my childhood. Unlike most avenues, this one was not infested by traffic. Usually the only vehicles that could be seen here were bicycles being ridden by kids, and prams being pushed by parents.

I rode my first bicycle here, had my first fall from a bicycle here as well. I kissed a girl for the first time in this very avenue and had my first fight here as well. But I remember this place for one main reason. This was where I met her.

I think I was ten then. I used to go ride my bike with Mitch, my best bud then. We used to be the bane of young moms with their babies in prams. Once we were so involved in our racing that I lost control and almost ploughed into a pram. Miraculously, I jerked the handlebar with a violent tug at the last second and averted a nasty collision. Instead, I went of the path and collided head-on with her.

She was wearing this dirty summer dress. She was about my age, I guess. But she didn’t belong to the locality. I had a bump on my head and a loose tooth because of the fall. She had a deep gash on her leg. I’m pretty sure others might have gotten angry at the idiot who bumped against them. But, not her. The first thing she asked was I was okay. I mumbled an apology. She just waved it off, scooped some damp mud and applied it on her gash and skipped, or maybe limped, away. I had never seen anyone like her before.

My home was not the most peaceful place on the planet. Mom had remarried a couple of years after Dad’s death. My step dad was okay, but he was never warm to me. My sixteen year old step sister, Ashley, though had one and only one mission in life, and that was to make my life miserable. I was always envious of her gorgeous dresses, her accessories, and her flawless skin. She never allowed me near any of her stuff. She also made constant snide remarks about my mild buck-tooth and freckled face.

I still remember the amount of hell Ashley raised when she caught me trying her bracelet on. She was dating Mitch’s brother, Kenny, a known bully. By association, he too started to harass me. Kenny also used to whack Mitch around, in a self-appointed mission of trying to make him a man. So, I guess that’s what made us stick together – two kids pushed around by their older siblings.

For a while after the bracelet incident, Kenny did not allow Mitch to come over to our house. Instead he was made to tail Kenny’s posse of bullies instead. That was when I became friends with Hannah – the aforementioned girl in the dirty summer dress. I met her again a month after our collision. It was a pleasant spring’s evening. Flowers were in bloom and there was a slight drizzle in the air. I found her collecting wild flowers in the avenue and placing them in her tattered basket. She looked so peaceful and serene, and that made me go to her and say hello.

We fell into easy conversation. That was the best thing about Hannah, you could talk just about anything under the sun and not be judged. Over the next few weeks I became close to her. We swapped our life stories, her father worked as a janitor in the local hospital and her mother was a florist. She had five siblings and though they didn’t have much in terms of finances, they made the family work by sheer will and love. I poured my heart out to her about Ashley, Kenny, and Mitch and about Mom’s general lack of interest in me. Hannah just smiled and placed a ring of flowers on my head. I think I fell more at home whenever I was with Hannah than when I was with my own family.

My friendship with Hannah became stronger over the next few months. I started sneaking Ashley’s old clothes and her dolls and trinkets out to my new friend. We went for long walks in the park near the avenue, we collected flowers, made garlands and wore them, I even taught Hannah to ride a bicycle. Mitch saw us once in the park and stopped talking to me completely. He started hanging out with Kenny’s gang often and even started dressing up like those douchebags. I started to ignore him as well.

One day, Hannah told me her greatest desire. She had always wanted one of those Easy-Bake ovens, but her folks had never found that extra bucks to buy one for her. I remembered that Ashley had one that was collecting dust in the garage. She never allowed me to play with the damn toy. I asked Hannah to come over to my house on a Saturday, so that we both could play.

That Saturday, Hannah came wearing a garland of daffodils on her neck. . Mom and her husband had taken their annual trip that weekend and Ashley had gone over to Kenny’s. We headed over to the garage and dusted the Easy-Bake and started playing. Hannah was wearing one of Ashley’s old dresses that I had given her. She looked beautiful and I said so. She smiled and asked me why I never wore my step-sister’s dresses.

‘Because I hate her!’ was the only answer that came to me.

Hannah winked and reminded me that Ashley was not around and encouraged me to do what I had always wanted. I went back to Ashley’s room, picked a light blue skirt and a yellow top from her wardrobe and wore it. Hannah braided my hair and placed a daffodil. I must admit that I liked the way I looked. We went back to the garage and continued with our play when I heard a shriek.

I turned around and saw Ashley standing by the door. Kenny, Mitch and a couple of their friends were with her. For what seemed like an eternity, we stared at each other.

And then, Ashley started laughing. ‘Haha! Hey, Mikaela! What are you doing wearing my dress?’

The others started laughing as well. Kenny snorted and thumped his brother on the shoulder, ‘Look at your friend, Mitchie. I always thought he was a faggot. Never knew he was a tranny.’

Ashley stopped laughing and came forward. She looked at Hannah as one might see a slug, ‘Who is this, Mikaela? Is she a tranny like you as well? Why is she wearing my dress as well?’

Heat rushed to my face, ‘Stop calling me Mikaela. My name is Mike, and this is Hannah. She’s my friend.’

Mitch came forward, ‘I’ve seen her before. She is that toilet cleaner dude’s daughter.’

‘Leave us alone.’ I pleaded. Ashley grabbed me by my hair, ‘Remove my dress, both of you. Now!’

Kenny stumbled towards us. I think he smelt of beer. ‘When my girl says she wants her dresses back, you better give them back, Mikaela.’

‘Shut your mouth, Kenny. And, get lost!’

A punch landed on my stomach, making me to double over in pain. ‘Don’t you dare speak to my brother like that, tranny!’ Mitch’s words hurt more than his punch.

Ashley slapped Hannah and pulled her dress hard enough to rip it. I jumped up and kicked my step sister in her shin. She howled with pain and indignation. That was all that was needed for Kenny and his friends to fall on me. When they were done with me, I had a broken tooth, two broken fingers, a cracked rib and a swollen eye. Kenny ripped Ashley’s clothes off me and then stripped me naked. Ashley had rendered Hannah in a similar state too.

Kenny laughed and pointed at my genitals, ‘That, Mikaela, is a penis. You use it to pee. If you so want to be a girl, you shouldn’t be having that. See!’ He grabbed my face and turned it towards Hannah who was trying to cover herself with her hands, ‘Now, that, is how a girl looks naked. Get it? I’m glad I stopped Mitch from hanging out with you. He’s a real man. You better realize that you ought to be one too.’

They kicked me a few more times and tossed us out of the garage. I led Hannah to my room, where we dressed in silence. Howls of derisory laughter followed us as we made our way out of the house. We went to walk along the avenue that evening. Hannah slipped her hand into mine. I stopped and looked at her. She smiled.

‘Mike, I don’t understand.’

‘What?’

‘Why did you feel insulted when they called you Mikaela? I can understand if you don’t like that name.’

I sighed, ‘I don’t know, Hannah. I know that it was not because I like to be called Mike.’

She sat down below a tree and patted the grass beside her. I sat next to her, ‘I’m confused, Hannah!’

‘What do you want to be, Mike?’

‘As in?’

‘Are you ashamed that you feel like wearing girly stuff?’

‘No! I don’t think I am. But I guess, I’m scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘Dunno! Mom’s reaction, maybe? Others too.’

‘What about your own reaction?’

‘What?’

‘Are you comfortable with who you are? If you are, then whatever others say will never affect you. But, if you are not comfortable with yourself, then even a pebble thrown at you will seem like a boulder hurtling down a hill towards you.’

‘Wow! You speak like a saint.’

‘Well, when you are poor you do get a lot of wisdom being thrown around in the house.’

Hannah reached over and kissed me lightly, ‘Mike, you need to decide. Whatever you decide should be something you are and will be comfortable with.’

I decided that moment to leave my old life behind. I ran away and didn’t look back. I struggled a lot but I did make it work. I moved two continents and five time zones eventually. Luckily, I had Hannah’s words ringing in my ears every moment of my growing up period. I’m a well-known writer now. I champion the causes of youngsters who go through what I did all those years ago.

Twenty years has passed since that Saturday. I felt it was high-time I came back. Mike might have been scared, but not me. Mikaela Parker doesn’t scare that easy. I hope to run into Hannah while I’m there. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m optimistic. But, most of all, I felt like seeing the avenue again.

This was where I was truly born.

Written for #writephoto hosted by Sue Vincent.

These Boots Are Not Made For Walking

She looks at her tattered boots – their soles kept in place by thumbtacks, the once crimson felt lining resembling the color of rotten flesh, the insoles smelling something putrid, the ruined zippers barely holding the boots around her wasted legs and the aluminium-foil tape wrapped over the toe caps.

She knows that she looks a lot worse than her boots. She remembers the day she purchased them. She was the new gal in the town, with dreams of becoming an actress.

She sighs in resignation and consents to take part in the medical research. Better a guinea pig than being homeless.

Written for the weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by our gracious host Rochelle Wisoff – Fields. This week’s picture prompt is from Courtney Wright. Please read the other entries here.

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