A pigeon’s fate

When I was not carrying your burden, my feet weighed as light as the feathers of a homing pigeon. My soul as pure as the whiteness of its body. My wings carried me high and above, taking me wherever I wanted.

But you plucked on my feathers and made quills out of them. Dipping them in my blood, you wrote my life, my destiny for me. How far was I supposed to go? Who was I to meet? All my decisions were in your hands.

You built fresh nests around me and asked me to lay eggs and each time when I refused, you built walls around me, their levels as high as your insecurities.

Now I can barely catch a glimpse of the painted glass windows of the house nearby. They have always joined my screams when you would go away. And I know once I am completely confined in these walls, my screams will not be muffled, rather, they will be so loud, loud enough to explode those windows and send sharp shards flying all around. And at that point I would wish deeply in my heart for one of those to find your way and pierce through your rough and callous skin. I want you to bleed, I want you to cry in pain and then with those broken shards I want to write the destiny of your life, just like you wrote mine.

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Morning to evening

My mom calls me in the morning and talks about random stuff, we talk for about 15 minutes and she mentions my grandfather being sick, to pray for him and to call him up. I tell her I would (thinking in my brain maybe I won’t. Don’t think of me as a heartless person. I hardly ever talked to my grandfather. Even if I did give him a call, he wouldn’t recognize me. He’s been going through old age senility for a while.) I made a mental note to still give him a call.

7:22 p.m. my phone rings and it’s my mom, she never calls twice in a day, so I am assuming there could be two reasons:

  1. She pressed the button by mistake
  2. Something bad happened

I pick up the phone and try to pay extra attention to her voice, it does feel coarse, like it’s breaking and then in an instant she is crying and telling me her father passed away.

“My mother already passed away, my father has passed away too,” she says crying like a baby.

I stop in my tracks, I open my mouth but no words come out, then in an instant I am knocked back to my senses…all I can think of is the statement we Muslims say when someone dies: Indeed from God we came and to God do we return. And after that I don’t know what to say to my grieving mother…

She tells me she’s getting ready to leave for the funeral…and then she hangs up.

She hangs up and my brain hangs up too.

I was never emotionally attached to my grandfather, not even to the slightest bit but I do feel something. I feel like someone punched me in my stomach…like I can’t breathe well. Nothing feels good, I don’t wanna talk to anyone, I just want to lock myself in the room and stare blankly at the wall.

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain, maybe I am thinking how quick it was, morning and evening, poof! Like how fleeting this life can be. Poof! Just like that you can one day go. You could be young, you could be old, but you go, you do go, no one stays.

Or may be I am just feeling for my poor mom, who lost both her parents within two years.

I don’t know whats going on, but I know one thing, I am certainly not in the state I was before the call and I can’t shrug past it..and don’t want to or else I would be a heartless person.

Slog

This prompt makes me think about that childhood poem about the dog who slept like a log. That’s all I remember from that poem and every time I come across a piece of log, my thoughts travel back to the same association.

But slog isn’t in any way the same thing, in fact its the opposite of that lazy dog that slept like a log. Slog is that dog that slept, woke up and began working. He chased a few squirrels, played with his master, learnt a few tricks but still had enough energy to keep going.

Log on the other hand slept and slept, he slept till noon and woke up with a bright sun hanging up in the sky. Log indolently walked around in search of food, he wanted the food to appear to him, he was too “tired” to play or run, he just was so sleepy all the time.

Each one of us has a “Log” or “Slog” experience in our lives. We just have to decide how often we choose the right one.

via Daily Prompt: Slog

Daily Prompt: Sep 9

Say something about this picture

(Picture downloaded from pixabay non-copyright)

smoker-798992_1280

An old man in his nineties, thinks about all the instances of his youth which he spent in raising his four kids but now there was no one besides him. His dreams and aspirations were left unfulfilled because by the time he reached his 40s and got done with marrying off his kids, he fell sick, and after that there was nothing but memories, memories full of regrets. But there was one thing he was happy about: Someone took his picture one day while he smoked and said they would share his story with the world, especially youth so they could learn from him and not repeat the same mistakes again. He’ll change many lives, they said.

“This makes me happy, that I have finally done something worthwhile before dying”

 

Disclaimer: This is not a real story and was made up for the purpose of this prompt. I got this image from pixabay (they offer free images) and have no intention but to use it in the prompt for imaginative writing.

Daily Prompt: Sep 6

Explain why there was no post the previous day?

So yesterday I was in a situation where I didn’t have a proper access to the internet. Moreover I was physically not in the condition to write any thing 😦

What was interesting apart from that?

A fad for a Disney channel program. It was about this kid who was a ghost and a new family moves in to his house (read mansion) and he wants them to leave. The young (and probably the only) daughter of the family, who was against this idea of moving away from her friends, teamed up with this ancient kid ghost (who she could only see) and tries to scare away her parents. But well unfortunately they don’t budge.

Some strange things start happening in the house which the ghost cant even explain. So they eventually find out that the realtor who sold the house was the one causing trouble in wacky joker masks.

He was soon busted and well the ghost kid had a “nightmare” where his parents were applauding him for doing a good deed.