Tag: short story

Words Matter

sentimental

She never quite liked that word. She didn’t like the way it rang in her ears; the way the sound lingered, echoing. Every time someone uttered that word, it took her back to her childhood.

Her father would call her that, every crack of day, every close of day. He used it as a nick name when he shoved her into her room, tucked her into bed (grinding his teeth as he did so), and when he passed her the plate of omelette — with a clatter that alarmed her dog.

Every time someone uttered that word, she’d close her eyes to see her father’s beetle eyes loom back at her.

People thought she hated being called sentimental.

But it was the “mental.”

One Day!

We Millennials care.

While we while away

in wonder and awe

about Syrian refugees,

trump, clinton, an’ all,

writing petition letters

to desktop clerks

of political personas,

#SupportApple

Hashtag iPhone users,

Vouching for Justice, reform,

and all things revolutionary.

While sexual slaves —

somewhere round a corner —

remain deprived and uncared.

But Millennials care:

We have one day,

to “empower” women

with doodles and videos:

“One day!”

“empowered” for one day ;

womanized every other.

It’s International Women’s Day. I tried being nice and hopeful (honest!), but I couldn’t. So this.

 

The wait of a lifetime

She paced up and down the platform. She looked up at the wooden clock, tick-tocking at the most gruelling speed. She looked down at her feet, at her favourite shoes. It always helped her get through the queue at the hostel.

She turned back to see as far as she could. Still no train. According to the “Voice,” the tain should arrive any moment. And that was fifteen minutes ago.

She threw her arms up in exasperation and went back to sit on the bench. She took a book out from her bag, opened it, and stared at the fine print without taking in a word. A friend had demanded she read the book, and she’d been meaning to. Only, she hadn’t been able to get through the first page.

Now, however, she had to read it. A 12 hour journey with an iPod full of songs and no other books, she was ready to get this journey over with.

She still stared at the first line.

“It was the best of times.”

‘As if!’ She wondered to herself tearing her eyes away from the page, and turning to where her mind wandered: the winding track. Straining her ears for the faintest of whistling, she longed for the train that would take her home.

None came.