The last time I was prompted to write 16-word stories was in 2007/8 for a website. They came in a flood and I did not record them on this blog. The website was pulled down sometime between then and now and today, I feel nostalgic about the spurt in creativity I experienced around that time at IIT-K and I long to revisit the stories to learn what I was like back in 2007/8 as seen from 2014. Sigh!
So, I’m now recording a tiny collection of tweet-sized stories that I enjoyed writing today on being prompted by Miss U, one of my favorite kiddos:
1. He wrote her a love letter in blood. She relished every word of it…before she could read it. She’s a vampire, now hungry for more.
2. Sex bored her. She prayed to Satan to revive her libido. Her libido improved, and appetite too, when he turned her into a black widow spider.
3. She sat a little away from her crush daily. He is her Sun and she, the Earth. Their separation is necessary, and distance sufficient.
4. He begged her, “Stop it!”
She lit the candle a minute and blew off the flame. Lit it again and blew again. His pleading waned as the candle melted. She had turned him into a candle at his, “Hey bitch, blow me!”
[^Couldn’t cut this down to tweet-size]
5. “So long, and thanks for all the fish,” said the female fish to the male fish with a long penis, after a satisfying session of copulation towards procreation.
Today. Maybe, tomorrow. One day I am going to leave you and wouldn’t give you a clue. I’m burning all the letters that ever passed between us, one at a time. The letters you sent that summer you were abroad boning that older woman while writing about how much you missed me. The letters you sent from college while you were still figuring out if you’d fallen in love with me. The letters you sent, while you were trying hard to be a kid at heart, from home where you were catching your breath mostly. I tore up all our pictures in half. I flushed down all the little trinkets you called ‘twinkly valentine gifts’ and shed one solid tear to go along. I’m making fast and steady progress, don’t you think? The kids, well, expired. I wonder if you remember how many there were. One sultry Sunday evening we gave birth to four, lying on our bare backs, under the stars. We squeezed in one more a little later that night, and you declared, “let’s have a glorious bundle of five, not four,” because there was still space for one more in the imaginary crib and the imaginary car and we were young enough to accommodate, if only in imagination. It’s not like I had to drown them in the bathtub or anything. I don’t think of them and they don’t exist therefore. One way or another, the physical objects and the imaginary ones are shown the exit door. What would I do with the memories though? They stick on to me like skin. Last Sunday the skin on my fingers got burnt by accident on a hot plate. It pained like hell that day. Over the last one week I couldn’t feel anything on those burnt parts of my hand. But, today when I woke up I saw the skin on those fingers started peeling off painlessly. How do I make the same happen to my memories of you, and your letters, and your trinkets and the babies?
I’m positive I’ll figure out a way soon and the day I do that I would leave you without giving you a clue, just the way you did.