Tag: writing

I’m a Little Teapot

Here’s a nursery rhyme about one of my favourite things: making tea.

I’m a little teapot short and stout.
Here is my handle.
Here is my spout.
When I get all steamed up,
Hear me shout!
Just tip me over
And pour me out.

And here’s my rip-off version of what happens when the little teapot gets a little old.

I’m a little teapot steamed and dry.
Here was my handle.
There was the spout.
When I chip my corners,
Know I’m bare.
Just pick me up
And throw me out.

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I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the eighth day: The Nursery Rhyme Challenge. The challenge is to interpret a popular nursery rhyme.

Search

They pulled into the driveway just as the sun began to settle in the West. Janet got down from the Porsche to admire the now pink horizon and the lake beyond the rickety picket fence. As far as her eye could see there was nothing more than clear water and the occasional ripple. She turned to her fiancé. While Janet had been memorising the view, Jean had parked their vehicle and was now walking towards her.

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Janet’s eyes sparkled. This would be their last trip as two single women. They had waited long enough, enduring more than enough. And if their parents couldn’t handle it, then so be it. Jean stopped next to her and smiling, slid her hand into Janet’s. They stood looking at the sun, as it sunk into the depths of November’s icy lake.

“Let’s go in.” Jean cajoled Janet into her ancestral wood house. They had decided to pay a pre-wedding visit to the place they’d make their home later. As she walked inside, a wave of warmth spread over Janet. The house wasn’t too big but it emitted an aura of comfort.

On her right was a window overlooking the now darkening sky and the silhouette of the lake. On the left was the kitchen and in front of her, leading away from the hall, was the master bedroom that opened up to life-size windows and views worth of a lifetime.

“Chill out, I’ll whip up some dinner.” Jean pecked Janet on the cheek and went into the kitchen to make, Janet knew, her speciality pasta with fresh cream and marinara sauce. While Jean rummaged in the kitchen, Janet went over to the window, looking out at the lake. It was almost dark now, the pink had morphed into a navy and the moon tried to walk out from behind the clouds.

Trrriiiing…trrriiiing. Trrriiiing…trrriiiing…

Janet jumped before realising that it was just the telephone. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now she saw that the sound came from a small table that lay beside a giant radio. “I’ll get it, J” she called out to Jean and went over to answer. “Hello?” she spoke into the receiver.

“In,
search of skin,
color no matter,
brighter or darker,
tell no one,
I will take someone,
Ssssshhhhh!
– ghost, me!”

And with that, the line died. Janet gulped and clenched the receiver harder. The voice — she couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman for it was a mere whisper— had sent bouts of shivers down her spine.

Sat down on the sofa hugging herself. All of a sudden, the room felt as much colder than it had been when they entered it. Jean’s rummaging in the kitchen had also stopped. “Jean?” She called out without leaving the sofa. She didn’t understand why her brow was sweating or why she shivered so much. And when Jean neither replied nor came out of the kitchen, Janet became scared. That’s when she identified the source of the cold: the front door stood ajar, letting in the chilly night air.

Frowning, Janet remembered shutting the door behind them. How did it open, then? In small cautious steps, she approached the doorway.

Janet screamed. And then breathed a sigh of relief. Jean stood in the doorway. “You scared me!” Janet reproached her. “Why did you go out in the cold?” She added a little concerned. Jean looked white and her smile looked strained.

Jean only shook her head in reply, walking right past Janet. Shrugging to herself, Janet shut the door with a snap. Jean jumped at the snap. “Are you all right?” Janet approached her extending a hand to her cheek. Jean stepped away from her nodding with a vigour that surprised Janet. She stood staring at Jean, her hand still stretched out.

“Jean?” Janet spoke with a firm voice that could convince no one. “Why were you outside?”

“In… search…” Jean started with a whisper and stopped.

“Of what?” Janet asked her voice reaching the near-shriek point.

“In… search…” Jean repeated in the same whispering tone. She sounded coarse. “of… milk.”
And then she smiled. Her warm smile was back, and the colour returned to her face. “Hey, J” she threw her head back and laughed at Janet. “Relax. I went to get some milk. That’s all.”

And then as if someone had flipped a switch, the room felt warm again, and Janet saw that Jean was back to her usual self. They had had a rough ride. Janet smiled too. Her mind must’ve been playing tricks on her. There’s no way Jean would cringe away from her. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed?”

Jean nodded and hand-in-hand, they walked into the room. Jean smiled. The search had ended.

incredible-blogger-marathon-challenge-6I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the sixth day: The Mass Media Challenge. The challenge is to combine the image, the poem, and the word “telephone” in a single post.

Ramdomizer

Why would anyone leave the house without a paperclip in his pocket? BuzzFeed knows my age, my zodiac sign, and my favourite colour based on how long I stayed online. High tide or a low tide, I’ll be by your side with a can of beer and a plate of fish. According to Facebook, today is world toilet day, but a friend of mine posted that it’s men’s day. A party without champagne is a conversation without a meaning. I spent a fortune on a single course and a lifetime wondering why. Want a wedding dress, hardly used? I’m under a moral obligation to keep to the code. Death by chocolate — still a better love story than Twilight. Let’s hit the road.

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I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the third challenge: Risk for a Random. The challenge is to write ten sentences that have no connection to one another.

A Perfect Match

Think brothers, sisters, and friends since childhood. Think Sponge Bob and Patric, some nuts and spice. Think Pisces and Scorpios. Or  Apple and Steve. Think Holmes with his Watson, rum and some raisins. Think PB and jelly sandwiches, or mac and cheese for dinner. Think red think  full, think white and light, and wine while you dine. Think chocolate with chocolate, pumpkin in a pie, or just tea and cake. Think toddlers with paint, and teenagers with selfie sticks. Think plays and  Shakespeare. Think Wyatt and Surrey, and a cupboard underneath the stairs. Think blueberry and pancakes, bacon and eggs. Or, just you and I — the perfect match.

incredible-blogger-marathon-challenge-1

I’ve signed up for Prakash’s Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the first challenge: Phrase a Paragraph.

Making the Meaningful Meaningless

So many of my friends had told me about the wonderfulness that’s 1984. The book, I mean.

big-brother-1984

I, however, never had the chance to read the book, until now. I started reading it a while ago, and as much as I’d love to get through it in one sitting, reality keeps distracting me. Nevertheless, every chance I get, I try to sneak in a page or two in the least. And with every page I turn, I turn over a new perspective.

I haven’t even crossed a hundred pages yet, and yet every statement hits me hard in the face making me glad I’m not in 1984. To say that Orwell has a way with words is an understatement. He twists and warps simple words to suit his needs and instills fear and aversion in the reader.

As a lover of words myself, when I took in words that claimed it was a beautiful thing to destroy the words themselves, I felt my deepest horrors renewed.

After all, what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other words?

That’s a way of looking at words, unlike any way I’d come to accept. Words, for me, are not just means of expression but also means of expression in every wild way imaginable. It’s wonderful that we have so many different words describing the same thing; it’s what gives rise to rhyming words and rhythmic prose and just plain readable writing.

In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — in reality, only one word. Don’t you see the beauty of that, Winston?

I don’t. I don’t see the beauty of it, and instead, I see only the barrenness of it. What’s the point of communication if you can’t communicate as you’d like to? If we could strip down the English language to a mere handful, then that would become the end of human interaction. We’d speak to convey messages and not ideas. We’d talk sense but wouldn’t talk from our senses. We’d think we’re free to speak, without realising we’re free from language itself.

The book throws terrifying ideas. It outlines everything that could go wrong with the world, and everything that could happen as a consequence. And shocked though I am, it makes me want to keep reading.