Creative Writing: Portfolio

my zigzag

thoughts

zigzag, defined as an angular shape characterized by sharp turns in alternating directions.

Collection of short stories written during the course of creative writing taught by Julian Hannah.

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to the women in my family my grandmother for telling me stories my mother for believing my stories my sister for enjoying my stories my aunt for admiring my stories my dog for inspiring my stories

& the only man in my life, my father.

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1 2 3 1001 NIGHTS

THE SMITHY

DEEP WA

The classical fairy tale of Arabian Nights retold from a new perspective

A short story set in an ‘everyday future’ as a design fiction

A single-sen of significan

page 5

page 9

page 13

3 4 5

ATERS

THE RIFT

EXPRESS DELIVERY

ntence story nt length

A short story from the 1st person perspective as told by an unreliable narrator.

Report on the life of a grad student shipped fresh out of home from a ‘gonzo’ journalist’s perspective

page 15

page 19

S

he blamed it on the fairytales- the garbled messages woven intricately by generations of rookie storytellers and being absorbed by the uncorrupted minds of their innocent offsprings; whether unconsciously committed or ordained by an unfathomable higher intellect, these conceited ageless stories seem to have become part of the human psyches’ natural selection. And yet, these higher primates with their minds like a sieve have learned nothing.

The steady monotonous breathing of her beloved stirred her pensive silence. It had been three years hence that her mind had trained itself to listen for this welcoming sound that seldom punctuated her experience in his bed.

Yes she had married the handsome prince after being cajoled by her father. And yes they had lived happily ever after— or they ought to have, as happy as one could be locked away from society within the confines of a lavish home. Her sist er had reassured her repeatedly that she was better off. They were all prisoners of society she had said. At least she got to be an object of envy for those who didn’t know the whole story.

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She could still remember their first night together. The man that had seemed more like a boy with his elfinlike good looks; dark curly hair that softly rested on his forehead, sparkling black eyes curtained behind long lashes and an impish smile that gave away more than it hid—he had been intensely alive. It had taken her only that one night to discover how alive the prince truly was.

The four-poster bed in their room had converged to form an immersive escapade on their wedding night. But much like all things else—as she soon discovered in her marriage— it had not been a conventional copling.

It had begun that night with him telling a story and soon she had opened up the doorway into his world— a place built on narrative— strongly stemmed by his impressions. He appeared to have a little cinema-scope inside his head and as she turned it on, it started reeling fast and if she closed her eyes, she could literally see pictures going by.

It had been wonderful to say the least, after all who doesn’t enjoy a good story. And to be married to a storyteller—Oh! what luck!

But soon it became apparent to her that they would never stop. She was bound to him as much as he was to his stories. He projected his brain onto the inside of his eyes and shut off the reality around him. There was to be no social visits from friends, nor could she flaunt him to the world. They were to remain trapped in this warped existence, tucked away from all source that threatened exposure of the truth— for he was no real prince and there was no real kingdom.

His condition sentenced him to a life full of uncertainty where those he loved continually tried to poison him and going out was a dangeous prospect because the people threatened him. Even staying in his room curled up in blankets did not stop the voices from getting to him— in fact he habitually got up in the middle of the nights and turned the radio on loud in an attempt to drown them. However, one thing was certain— she admired him as much as she hated their situation.

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The prince was not a big fan of real life, but she was glad it gave him material for fiction. Over the years she had grown accustomed to his ways, even fallen in love with it. But she could never be sure if it was true love or whether it was the natural way of the world when two people were left trapped together. In turn, they built trust in companionship, shadowing each other in their needs and wants.

He modeled a world for her with his narrative by recounting anecdotes and scenes that overlapped in time, often going back to them upon her request, providing illustrious details studded with descriptions and depictions. He was able, original, likable and articulate. Oftentimes, these renditions would surpass logic of time and space until they became dense and palpable. She sought out a way to secure pleasure in these moments—exhaustive as they may have been.

And in the few stolen moments when the prince would retire to the realm of sleep, his mind drained of allthoughts— she would pen down their story. Together they had become quite a pair, the storyteller and his scribe.

Their sane response to an insane world.

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Z

ander Zineopolis had made it through wars— the first one, even before he was born when his mother decided that her body needed to undergo some form of a figure correction and that it would be a good idea to not mention his quiet residence.

Then there had been the one at his home after he was born and pretty much what made up most, if not all of his memories— the gnawing irritant from within of hunger. He never held any grudges though. If anything, he was glad of the neglect. It meant he could still retain his peace-of-mind when he ran away from home as a teenager.

The advertisement first appeared on the tube stations as a holographic commercial, as he recalled. In those days he used to make use of the morning rush hour to pick-pocket the seemingly well-offs. He had quickly learnt to use his slim, long, elegant fingers skillfully and he liked to think of it as art— a fingersmith, that’s what he liked to think of himself— like having a real profession.

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Clean, white, clinical-looking surfaces with silver chrome sophistication. Zander had been awed by the immensity of what was being advertised. Then the punch lines began to appear at every corner of the city. Like wildfire, it spread even onto devices.

Want to have more control over your life?

Design who you become.

Then some sharp looking fellow with an unrealistically attractive face would speak with some flair with promises of this novel technology. “Be an artist!” he said, “An inventor! Recreate yourself in the image that you fancy.”

That had been a few decades ago. When prosthesis was still seen as a medical procedure for the disabled. But then the mortality rate of mankind had gone up significantly. And pretty soon, a new industry began to give way by popular demand. Another industrial revolution— but this time characterized by the use of skin grafts, bone growth and the mass production of customized body parts. It didn’t come by cheap of course. But much like all other adoptions at our times, the wants soon turned into needs.

Zander often wondered how the others saw him now.

He had considered going through with the procedure himself many times in life. If not for an improved self image, then for the curiosity of the experience. He would not even need to bear the cost for it. His skillful fingers had truly been his savior in more than one way. He had barely managed through youth— realizing the potential, had gone behind the table during the advent of the first bionic man. He had dedicated long hours to being a real fingersmith.

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Equipped with a surgical blade and knowledge, Zander could transform 60 year old women into high-spirited surfers, men suffering their midlife crisis opting for the strength of their early 20s and even special cases of depression and trauma where he was particularly gifted in designing a change for the clients who didn’t know what they wanted.

He had found himself in the waiting room of his own practice once. He recognized a few of his clients— Violet, the youngest he had designed.With a fair-skin and crimson rose bud lips, he thought she had already received a better bargain in life. But no, she had wanted something she considered better. Just like everyone else in queue.

She was currently eyeing Zayed, the bronze skin that she desired, from South America, or India, or Sudan. He couldn’t remember. “But what did it matter,” he thought to himself, “nothing is what it seems anyway these days.”

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It must have looked quite ridiculous to the passersby I’m sure, hilarious even— the way I hovered at the very edge of the shore, my feet synced to a mute unchoreographed tap-dance, skipping every few steps, as my toes threatened to give-in to the forceful ensnaring calls of the sea gods- quite oblivious to the spectacle I was making of myself if I may add, but perfectly aware that even with the knowledge of my rude voyeuristic audience, I would not have deterred from keeping to this less than flattering prance-of-a-dance routine I had resolved myself to; but with the waning daylight from the afternoon sun now seemingly in the process of soaking itself in the vastness of the rippling golden basin, probably reflecting its long tiresome day in the warm soothness and feeling the frustrations ebb away—I had to reconsider my position once again— in the fading light, the once clear film of turquoise was dissolving to disclose new depths of colours, brilliant myriads of blues that threatened to turn hypnotic and with it reveal the undisclosed dimensions of wonder and mystery, a place where fantastical creatures are given form— yet the very notion seemed absurd to me; not that I don’t have my own set of quirky beliefs that hold me captive but I cannot begin to fathom how anyone can be enthralled by dark, slimy, tentacular creatures of unperceived origins who seem to all share an uncanny habit of laying low, hidden below the surface perfectly disguised, lurking, waiting for the opportune moment to spring upon you and unravel their oddity—that can hardly be considered a good kind of an experience for anyone to look forward to (unless you were born with a genetic tweak that compels you to perform ridiculously dangerous and nearly life-taking activities for ‘fun’, while those with a more normal gene strain watch in awe— in which case, don’t you then become an object of fascination to them and therefore quite fantastical yourself?) and with the ominous fear of all my hypothesis still etched in my mind, a hand clutching my heart and the other flailing in an attempt to establish a stronger grounding for myself while in fact engineering quite the opposite effect, I dreadingly stepped into the sea.

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T

he wonderful thing about the dining table in our childhood home was that no one checked under it. The shrouded darkness beneath the cloth and wood swallowed up all the nitty gritty details of reality, leaving behind a perfectly empty space to be filled up by your own thoughts— a perfect hideout for someone being driven mad by their own imagination. For my sister and I, this was a magical place, a mind castle where we could build on our dreams, together.

“You live upstairs. And this is my house. We are neighbours.” she would say while pushing at the leg of the heavy wooden chairs— her pretend-doors.

I would then crawl out, a little hurt at being banished from her pretend-home, only to come back moments later playing the part of a friendly neighbour paying a friendly visit. This was seemingly more fitting and my presence under the dining table was finally acceptable. We would then speak grandly of our summer plans and the tiresome foreign visits over cups of milky-sweet tea and plump-strawberry-jam-filled scones fresh out of the pages of Enid Blyton.

Of course we had never quite tasted either or made it out of our native land yet— but that did not stop us from noisily sipping from our invisible teacups with our tiny pinkies sticking out, scraping up the messy remnants of our scones, not as quaintly as we imagined. Sometimes these visits would be cut short by our strict make-believe schedules—mostly hers (being older by two years, it was only right that she should be the busier of us two)— at which point, I would scramble up to the top of the table to my home, which never seemed to attract many visits from my sisterly neighbour. It was probably the weather I had up there, or my choice of flooring, or something reasonable like that I am sure. Maybe it was the overly-eager pet I owned.

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The picnic knapsacks were held off for the special days when we would be keen to set out on a real adventure. We were always very well equipped for these days. We packed with incredible precision, even including a first-aid kit for unforetold accidents that may require quick patching up.

During these occasional trips, my sister and I would leave our hideout spot, expanding our world around the forced reality till we had projected over the marble tiles that took the form of unreliable shifty stepping stones over a gushing rivulet. We hopped from one stone to the other, propping each other up when either of us stumbled. Sometimes one of us would reach the coffee table first—by now transformed into a romantic rickety bridge— and be eagerly egging on the other with encouraging words. The adventure simply could not carry on till we were both together you see. And so we would continue till we had explored all corners of the room and imagined, then reimagined, every object that resided in it. We were almost never interrupted by the grown-ups, besides the irregular snores from their afternoon siestas that would consistently float in from their rooms. We were left alone— we were happy.

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And then the day arrived that my sister learnt to read.

I watched as she slipped into another world. A world far far away from the one we had been building under the dining table. I wanted to get there, but try as I might (my short pudgy fingers running haphazardly along the inky lines of grown-up paper stacks) my strength fell short of my will. This went on for many days— till it went past the numbers I had mastered to count during my math lessons. At long last, defeated and alone, I retreated to my familiar spot under the dining table, its emptiness no longer exciting. The tea would often be left forgotten in the kettle, the scones stale and dry. I found myself noticing the cracks that had formed on the wall against which our once glorious home had stood; there was a bear, a little girl in the corner with her hair tied in ribbons, a whale with an elephant’s trunk and a shooting star. Soon enough though, even the cracks grew old and tiresome to look at. So I took it upon myself to make some repairs— after all, what good would it do to sit tight in wait.

I spent my days lying flat on my back, arms stretched out high above my head—knock knocking— fixing something or the other under the dining table. Sometimes the work would get too intense and a voice would call out, “Stop that!” it would say, “You’re being too loud.”.

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More seasons passed by. My legs began to stick awkwardly out of the french doors of our once wonderful English home. The ceiling now bore doodles, hidden away from common sight much like the cave paintings of old. The place had grown cold much before the spiders came. They were newlyweds— looking for a quiet, dark corner to reside and the wife took particular fancy to the east wing bedroom, “It would be a perfect nursery for our kids Charley!” she pleaded, batting all eight of her hauntingly-black eyes.

I knew it was time for me to leave.

Yet once in a while, after the busy mealtimes— when I am sure no one is looking— I drop my napkin, bend dramatically low to retrieve it and steal a quick look at the derelict house of dreams built by two sisters under the dining table.

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Over the last 480 days I have flown to seven countries, met a couple of hundred people that went on to become my friends, tried a dozen or two new food dishes, have been introduced to a handful of bad habits, learnt to form strong opinions about almost everything in life and have come in close encounter with Death three-whole times. I have walked more than I have ever walked in my entire rest of life.

I have seen city lights growing smaller while the clouds approached at a rapid speed. I have seen the grown getting closer as I fell through these clouds at an even more rapidly. I have observed the mechanical ant-like movement of cars and the silent-hills of trees. I have seen fair and pretty faces with clear shinning eyes— the kind that seem to pierce through your being. I have seen snow. The white fluffy kind that makes you forget your love for candy floss. I have heard the sloshing as these tufts from fairyland turned into dirty grey slush.

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I can now truly appreciate the hardness of ground in different parts of the world, through different seasons and even illustrate the many ways in which knees get scraped.

I now know the kindness of strangers that I will never meet again and the ugliness of friends. I have encountered the absolute quiet, given into the cacophonous voices in my head, followed my heart, then followed my head, then stopped following entirely.

I have been to doctors. The kind that like to push needles into you regardless your symptoms—before even saying hello. Then the kind that look at you accusingly, as though you are the virus—like you wanted to get sick.

I have seen psychiatrists that love to prescribe drugs and turn you into voodoo rag dolls. I have seen psychologists who only pretend to listen but rather not help you, then the ones that claim they are there to look out for

you but at your first cry for help, slither away. I have been to a life-coach.

She is the best thing that happened to me since the first time I learnt how to draw and the time that my mother became my friend.

I made friends; with a 4 year old— and with her parents, with lost ones from years ago, with those I would have never imagined to meet in life, with my family after leaving home, with strangers in overnight bus rides, with strangers at conferences, with strangers who were friends of other strangers, even with myself.

I lost friends. The 4 year old— because of her parents. Even myself.

I learnt to read maps and follow a compass— well google maps of course.

I still manage to get myself horribly lost sometimes in the most severe circumstances.

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