Happiness

The rain breaks suddenly, giving the wind an excuse to act three. She runs to the window and tries to pull it shut. But the rain isn’t easy to beat. Little pellets of water ambush her. Cold splashes hitting her warm skin. The raindrops sting her face as they melt, in long tear-stained streaks. The breeze runs through her hair, flirting. She feels light and heady; a small smile draws up. She gives in. She sticks her tongue out, trying to catch a raindrop or two. And for those few minutes, she is truly and completely happy.

All in a day's work

They hovered around the sickly fire like three little moths. She could feel the evening chill settle down on her rickety bones. Spitefully, she poked at the fire. They should have been sleeping in warm beds, at some comfortable retirement home in the country, right now. In one of those nice blue room, with crispy green curtains; a crackling fire by the side, and fresh yellow flowers. But instead, here they were, crouching in a dingy cave, waiting for some stuck-up fart. It never works out like you plan it, does it? A noise outside broke her stream of thought. So, he was here. The gullible twat. She stood up, creaking all the way. She dusted her dress, and headed out. “Come on girls," she called, "let’s get this over with. Double double, toil and trouble …”

Out on my terrace the world seems just fine

I sit at the little table on my terrace and write. When it rains, I sit inside, with the doors open. It’s just as nice. All I need is one look around and everything solves itself. The exact right words come to mind and pretty phrases draw themselves up. And for a bit, I truly feel like I was born to write.

I haven’t made up my mind about working from home. I like the relaxed pace of life. I like doing things on my time. And, I manage to do everything, and on good days even more. Maybe it’s not the home bit that’s got me all confused, it’s the work I’m getting. Uninspiring. Insipid. Pointless. Boring. I feel less of a writer with every deadline I meet. But then I go back to my terrace, and figure, it'll be fine.

There’s something about this place, this view that really works for me. The thick green hills with pretty lego homes encrusted in between. I see little green, orange and maroon slanting rooftops, some shooting out wisps of smoke, some blushing into a rose shrub. I listen to the birds sing all day. Up till six, even seven and eight. It’s so soothing. It’s enough to make me reach for my pen.

There’s a twisty little road that runs past, and into the bend. Occasionally it throws up a car or swallows one rolling down. I know what I’ m looking for is just around the corner, around the bend. It will find its way to me. Someday.

The air is crispy, almost sharp. I can taste its sweetness. The sun is shinning through, throwing up different colours of green. A cup of coffee sits simmering by my side, the pages get filled.

I've always wanted to write. Even before I knew how. I was in the eighth grade and we had an English assignment. I penned a story; it was the only time I didn't mind doing the homework. By the time our grades were out, I knew this was what I wanted to do.

There's a new house being built, near by. I can hear the workmen all day. It's a funny house; the balcony looks the wrong way. I wonder what kind of a view they'll have. If it's even half as good as mine, they'll be fine.

SOS

I’ve been wondering and doodling and screaming out in frustration, over the last few weeks. I need to do something with my writing. I need to start somewhere. And I need to start soon, if I mean to accumulate a sizeable fortune before I hit 80. I was wondering if a creative writing course is a good place to start. So, if anyone has taken one, or heard of one, or anything else, please please please do drop me a line. Pearls of wisdom are always welcome.

Letters of love

He found the letters quite by accident. Maybe that’s what made it worse. He was, in fact, looking for a pair of misplaced cuff links, a present from the in-laws. Little wonder they stirred up so much trouble. He had looked everywhere, but he should have known better than to go snooping in her stuff. All he did was open the chest, and they just tumbled out. It was almost like they were waiting for him. They smelt of rich Cuban cigars and the open salty seas. There was even a hint of Old Spice on one. He read each and every one of them. They were heart wrenchingly beautiful. Some crying out in lonely desperation, some bruised by violent passion, and some so poetic, even the violets on the dresser blushed. He almost didn’t blame her. But it is incredibly torturous to read about another man’s undying devotion for the woman you love. He suddenly felt very old. And very used. It’s one thing if your wife is cheating on you, but it’s quite another if it’s your mistress.

From her balcony

She loves her balcony. She stands out there and watches the world. She knows its patterns by now. Everyday at nine, the girl with the curly brown hair comes running to the coffee shop. And a minute late she runs out with a steaming cup. How old is she? Is she married? Is her hair really brown? She wonders why the girl and the man with the black bag never talk. They are always standing next to each other in the bus line. She thinks it’s strange to see someone everyday and never share a word. The old man from the building on the other side of the street always shares a word. He leaves home at 10:30. He buys a paper in exchange for a joke. He buys a coffee and shares a laugh. He likes whistling as he walks down the street. He reminds her of Gramps. Gramps with a rounder belly. She thinks he is lonely. Maybe his children don’t call anymore, and his friends are all gone. Maybe he just needs to talk. The mailman comes in the afternoons. He is always on time. He looks so sad. Like the schoolgirl. She’s not sure why she noticed her in the first place. The street is full of kids when school is out. But this girl is different. She would look beautiful in a classic tragedy. Maybe she is in one. In the evening, a young man passes by her place. He stops below her balcony and buys flowers. She wonders if he likes buying them, or is it just a habit. She stands here everyday. One day someone will look up and see her. Maybe they will wave or smile.