This Story Has 3 Sides

(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge : This week’s challenge is to tell the same story from two or more unique perspectives in whichever format you want)

 

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient.

In a white bed I lie

Revisiting old memories, happy & sad

Clock ticks as life ebbs

Clock ticks as life ebbs

I smile as the end seems near now

A beckoning arises from the beyond

Woman – The one with all the time, all the enthusiasm but no energy.

 —

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient, her husband holding her hand.

They say time heals

But it only deepens the sorrow

My love fades before my eyes

My love fades before my eyes

She smiles to suggest she is ok

My eyes smile back as the heart cries

Husband – The one with all the energy, all the time, but no enthusiasm.

 —

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient, her husband holding her hand as the doctor hurries to check the patient’s reports.

I rush past my duties

Mechanically, emotionlessly

Need to catch the matinee show

Need to catch the matinee show

Apart from the drama unfolding in the room

This job defies emotional indulgence

Doctor – The one with all the enthusiasm, all the energy but no time.

  .

 

 

 

 

 

Criticism never kills

(Written for Daily Prompt – Tell us about the harshest, most difficult to hear — but accurate — criticism you’e ever gotten. Does it still apply?)

 p20121127-095213“Writer? You want to be a writer? Where has that sprung from? Can you even write?”, Dad asked me incredulously.

This was a question, yes, but it stung me as though judgement had been thrown in to my face. But then again, I knew better than getting miffed with Dad. I had not shared a word of what I wrote with my parents, or anyone else for that matter. So obviously, I couldn’t expect a better reaction when I told my parents that I wanted to be a writer – a copywriter specifically.

Mom gave me a look which said “There goes my daughter with one of her harebrained ideas which she won’t see through till the end…again!” She suggested I get a regular job (in line with the masters degree in marketing I possessed) and then write as a by-the-way thing. I stood my ground.

I wanted to be a full-time writer.

But then, my parents’ reaction forced me to question my career decision again. Did I have it me to be a writer? Would I stick with this choice? Did I really possess the kind of imagination that might interest people in reading my writing? Luckily for me, the strangling question of will I earn enough? never occurred to me. I sought creative satisfaction over material comfort. I’d rather be happy with my limited amount of money than be rushing through a round-the-clock job that leaves me with no mental peace.

That was the last time, however, that I questioned my choice. And thankfully, neither did my parents.

Today, I’m glad I took that step and listened to my heart. I’m glad I made friends with words. I’m glad I’m doing fairly decently in my chosen field.

And it feels so nice when I see Dad sharing a piece written by me on Facebook 🙂

A Day In The Life Of…A SHOE

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Courtesy – Google

I loved English classes back in school – especially the essay writing which opened up new doors to my imagination every time. A recurring topic which occurred over the school years was “If I were a ______ for one day”. Taking cue from the long forgotten autobiography style writing, I’ve started this new series titled “A Day In The Life Of..”. Who knows what I may turn into next! A cat, a dice, a bottle or a hose pipe? Stay tuned.

Oi! Look down here. Yeah that’s right. Lower…lower…a bit to the left…almost there…almost there….NOOOOO!!!!

Once again I have been ignored. This time in favour of the strappy blue bitch on the third rack. I mean, seriously, do you even care a bit about me? I knew I was destined to be better – and you unfailingly prove me right every time you cross over from me to another pair of stilettos, pumps, wedges and all those fancy pieces of footwear. 

I still remember the day I was being made. Which also happens to be the day I lost faith in shoe-manity (Like humanity. Don’t raise that brow – shoes have feelings too!) The finest sheet of leather spread out as the maker began measuring me. I couldn’t see the markings, but boy did that pencil tickle! I imagined being made into a fancy bag with a smooth finish, perhaps with trinkets on my handle to announce my arrival. Or maybe – wait a second, this guy was cutting the leather all wrong for a bag. Oh, maybe I was a satchel or something. A sling bag? Or a hat? Or a…no no no no!  The rounds of an eyelet, the tongue forking out, the curve of the toe cap…I was a SHOE!

And I didn’t like it one bit.

The horrors of my birth are now washed away by the renewed horror of continuous dismissal at the hands (feet) of my owner. Ok, I do admit to giving my owner’s feet a jolly good squeeze when she first wore me (because I WAS STILL UPSET ABOUT MY SHOENESS) But hey, that was ages ago. You can’t go around holding a grudge for so long. Especially when my partner is the ultimate symbol of shoe-y perfection.

My owner is some kind of shoe fanatic. From my knee-length friends to the flat brethren, we live like one happy shoemmunity….till the doors open and it is Judgement Day. Which of us will be worn today?

I’m sure I won’t be. One mistake has caused me a life of longing, waiting around and pretending to be happy (“Yay! At least I don’t have to splash in muddy water or bear a stray drop of alcohol on my shiny body”, I say with a fake smile).

I have made peace with my existence as the accessory to the lowest part of the human body. But it seems as though it is too late now. I feel sad for my partner, who is suffering for no mistake of hers. We look the same, yet are so different. She broods in the extreme corner of our rack, while I join the furor of a shoe orgy every time the door to our rack closes.

Both of us are nursing our wounds, albeit in different ways. The wounds of rejection.