WritersWorld

Over And Over Again

Flash Fiction

**Springtime – A Painting by Claude Monet**
[Source – Wikipedia]

How can I be alone when I am always there with myself? Is this illusion stronger, better, more true than the other one we call life?

In fiction, the tides merge with the sea, the sunshine flows warmly through the perforated leaves, the collocations rise with sense and settles smoothly, a fulfilling aftertaste savoured by one and all.

This is my hope, light and everything. This is what I am following, leisurely. Those who call it a crime are shunned automatically.

Myriad ideas know me well and I know them too, at least some of them. We haven’t set a selling price or cost price, we are friends and I am not clever. Ideas follow a different train of thought, though unaware about the details, I understand the emotional part of it.

The high plateau doesn’t rise again. There I walk alone and often stop near a tree to rest. One eye shine with stars in it and the other quietly shed tears. For a moment I knowingly choose one of the two sides, but generally I prefer walking on the border line.

I saw a shooting star and like the last time I wished for the same thing… I don’t remember it now, though I am thankful. Whenever I am thankful, I feel confident and happy. Often the glow makes me glow.

What I remember now is that I have been here before… it was as different as same it looks now.

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A Dream of Twin Rainbows

Posted on November 30, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Dream of Twin Rainbows Blink Cage Clock Dance Fly Imagination Ocean See Sing Soulfully Thunderbolts Wink

Poem

**One, two… lucky you!**
**[Image by Jagriti Rumi]**

My imagination is strong and hence I can see

The waterfalls, mesmerizing clouds and the ever working bees;

I am very much alive with a working clock

Hanging on the earthen, painted, plastic wall saying ‘tick-tock-tick-tock’;

My ears don’t bleed anymore and though my eyes are shy to blink,

I have learned to bar the command and hide behind a paused wink.

Master shouts and thunderbolts hit the wall,

Faking to cry and tremble, I try to make the cage fall.

Yes! I live in a cage! But I have a dream, a dream of twin rainbows.

I will one day fly towards it, crossing the ocean of dead vows,

There I will soulfully sing and freely dance and just be me…

My imagination is strong and hence I can see.

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She

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Border Burned Guitar Doubtful Star Dreamlike Extraordinary Journey Joy Magical Milky Way Mirror Pride Puzzle She Spirituality Time

Flash Fiction

She is just ten years old. Talkative and curious by nature, she wishes to know, but only about the magical, the dreamlike and the pleasing.

Her world is of all the shades of pink. With the warmth of an honest, caring canopy overhead, she looks at the stars and floats in the Milky Way.

There is ample clarity in everything she sees and time’s her friend – blistering fast or dragging slow. There is only one melody she is tuned to and it is called life.

**She is living in her own world, within and without.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

She is young and brave. Quietly, she observes the world and the world within her, laughs at her.

Battling the questions and transforming the answers, she moves ahead with every failure and tries to fathom the success.

A mirror walks with her; she has broken it umpteen times but they are still in a relationship. Her cries, her sighs, her laughs, her smiles, her ways and one life… all packed in a rucksack is her pride and joy.

The doubtful star burns with her glare and the rhythm of change trespasses the old.

She is living for others now and has placed herself on the top shelf, in a green trunk, under an old book. Close to many and far from herself, she is standing on the border – this way or that way… her life is slipping away…

She just woke up and whatever was under the old book, in a green trunk, on the top shelf she burned that rusted world to dust.

Walking on ashes, she turns black and grey until the mirror returns. It is not going to be joyous all through, but she doesn’t mind the sound of a burned guitar.

They say she is weak and crouched, that she hears less and that her wrinkles make her a puzzle. A puzzle indeed and a child from within, no one knows what a good time she is having.

Her old eyes shine like a starry night and things magically appear and disappear with her touch. The words cannot express bliss; she is singing, hear this – ‘La-la, li-li, o, la-la, li-li’.

She is extraordinary. She is over there, can you see her? I know you can.

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Black Sparrow

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Black Sparrow Dark Dream Eyes Fear Flash Fiction Rain Stones Stories

Flash Fiction

**Dream-like peaceful.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

It was blurry… but I remember it clearly. Old hands like my mother’s but she wasn’t my mother, then why do I see her? The place is cold and that is how I feel until I look at her, I feel cold and wet as if I didn’t run away from that day’s hard rain. Everything around was cold and wet that day and so was it in my dream. That day when I was strolling in the park I saw a black sparrow… Francis said he would rather be a black sparrow than fight in the war. I saw the black sparrow, and I left the park.

She is sitting on a wheel chair, she is wearing black. Today, when I picked up the burnt paper, I crushed it without knowing why; my hands can still feel the smooth blackness. But she was surrounded by a harsh blackness, she was in the sun, but everything was crude and dull. I hate myself for crushing the burnt paper, I can feel the crude blackness now.

Francis collected stones all the time, he had strange hobbies. Stones he said are beautiful unless we give them a shape. The old lady, someone’s mother, had an image in her eyes; a dull face as if sculpted, and I agreed with Francis that it looked utterly dead. It scares me every time I see the dream.

I am there to help you old lady. Who is it that you are holding in your eyes? What are you whispering? I can’t hear you? She isn’t looking at me Francis, she is looking somewhere else. Francis I can’t see you. I can’t see the black sparrow. I am tied to the dream. I see her eyes Francis… her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

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What To Do?

Posted on October 2, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Busy Life Destination Dreams Great Novel Mind Platform The Train of Thought Thoughts Travelling What To Do? Window

Literary Nonsense

The Busy Life (1953) by Jean Dubuffet
[Source – tate.org.uk]

The train of thought never stops, does it?

Standing on a vague platform, everything except me undergoes a peculiar kind of metamorphosis now and then. Bewildered, I stand in utter confusion, with a dazed expression and remain amusingly voiceless.

Waving madly for the train to halt or at least lazy down a bit, I am increasingly getting ascertained about the fact that either I am powerless or I am being considered as a crazy cheerleader.

Often, no, more than often, I have successfully boarded the train.

What happens then – settled quietly near the window, with a half-read great novel that I have tried to finish since one year, five months and two weeks, looking old and rich in my hands, I get lost in the dream world looking through the barred window; settled quietly near the window, with a notebook in front and a pen in my hand, I write down miraculous lines, tying down the strength to move the humanity and a saleable story together, staying humble myself throughout the reverie; settled quietly near the window, but loathing everyone around me and worshiping softly to reach my destination soon…

“My destination…” I say and I am kicked out of the train, back on that floating platform which dances every second on some idiotic tune and disturbs my balance.

I fall down, cry, raise questions, get answers, plan things and proudly compliment myself, with a touch of modesty of course.

And then what do I do? I go off to sleep. How much can the mind take? “So long, my friend”, says my mind and dozes off. Shut down! Power off!

Click!

Switch on and I am back on that platform. Trains have started passing me. I yawn, a full day of travelling to a gazillion places ahead.

Busy life, what to do?

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Etching It

Posted on August 25, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Dreams Etching It Illusion Memories Rise

Poem

Landscape under Trees, etching by Paula Modersohn-Becker, c. 1902

Faded and alive

Like an honest illusion

Memories carrying weight

Equal to a feather’s

Delight. Happiness aloud

Heard in the background

Match the dreams

Flying hard, a scheme

Or a plan

To reach the end

Drifting and walking

Singing, not just talking

Open your eyes

See, smile and rise.

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I Dare To Stop And Watch

Posted on August 11, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Painting A Soulful Visit Heart Hustle Bustle I Dare To Stop And Watch Rhythm Rush Strangely Happy Walking

Poem

**When time stopped for a moment…**
[Image by Jagriti Rumi]

In the rush and hustle bustle,

I dare to stop and watch.

“Just like a painting”, I declare,

“Just the normal, routine, everyday affair”,

They say, and break my heart.

I click a picture and start

Walking towards where others are going;

Feeling strangely happy, but not showing.

I’ll read the painting when alone,

Savouring its rhythm and its tone,

A soulful visit, now and then.

Who cares for where and when?

In the rush and hustle bustle,

I dare to stop and watch.

**… there was joy.**
[Image by Jagriti Rumi]

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In Bloom

Posted on August 8, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Short Story Clouds Conversation Dream World Foggy Day Friendly Glow Gone Are The Days Grandma The Plant The Printed Words Time Weather Window Wish Wonder

In Conversation

**A foggy day paints the forest in white bloom.**
[Image by Ieva from Pixabay]

Gone are the days when a foggy day reminded of a short story that my Grandma read to me. It becomes just too awkward to step out for a walk and too dull to stay in. The wooden floor creaks when I don’t want it to. The stairs quietly sit there, only talking to me if I stop in between and wonder about something.

Gone are the days when I wasn’t acquainted with the ceaseless and fleeting nature of time; when I didn’t understand what the wall clock was saying to me; when I thought of going through the mirror and meet Alice and her friends.

Gone are the days when the bed side table light’s friendly glow helped me to make last minute changes in the Mothers’ Day card. I always picked colours in pairs and tried my best to keep the card neat. This tradition is now forgotten though whenever I buy a card, I look for myself in the printed words.

Gone are the days when that old song transported me to my dream world. Now, my mind always takes me to a vacuum and when I suddenly come out of it I realise that that old song is over.

Gone are the days when I wrote with an ink pen, confident about what I am expressing. My letters looked as if I had scribbled throughout, but the response showed that the love always got conveyed successfully.

Gone are the days when the grass, the weeds, the flowers and I counted the clouds together. Some clouds changed the shape quickly and some remained the same – thick, heavy, floating nonetheless. The floor and the walls in the house are cold though accurately warm for me but not for the grass, the weeds and the flowers.

I try to take care of a plant. It lives in a small teacup, sitting shyly near the window. The curtains know the plant better than I do.

Gone are the days when I wished and believed that it will come true. To see the plant in bloom just the next day after planting it is a silly wish wasted as a child but I am not silly anymore and so I don’t wish.

I am going to see how the plant is enjoying the weather. It’s foggy – I’ll say to start the conversation. Come along, if you want to.

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Today with the Clouds

Posted on June 20, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Beautiful Burst Into Laughter Funky Good Listeners Journey Painters Secret The Clouds Today

Fictive Short Feature

I say the clouds by nature are very funky and awe-inspiring. I enjoy watching them pass; just a simple hello or a nod is appreciated. They swirl and sway, move in waves and dance every single time, yet they maintain their uniqueness. I mean something which can be counted as a routine, an unchanging event, is actually a very grand and beautiful journey.

Only time might be able to answer how many eyes have dreamt and seen their secret mysteries getting a platform on the clouds – a bunch of flowers, a giraffe eating tree leaves, a cute rabbit, a candy bar, a bicycle, a boat, a pretty face, a simple smile – everything floating silently, invisible to others but clear to those happy eyes.

I say the clouds are a blessing in disguise. They are what freedom might look if given a form. I often try to paint them, to capture them, to be like them… a far-fetched dream. I am trying and I’ll continue.

I tell you there is some sort of sublime never-ending party that is going on up there. I have a proof… I didn’t believe it until I shared it and got to know that many, many, many people know about it too. Some of them have, like me, heard the clouds laugh… not just giggle but burst into laughter.

Others talk about the clouds as singers, dancers, good listeners, painters; a well-known scientist had said once that the clouds have the coolest particles, meaning that by nature they are funny and calm. Clouds also like to play. But more than anything, they are profound… I mean they have depth.

Wise people say that all the answers become clear in the end… it is now believed that ‘all the answers become clear’ because they are hidden in the clear looking clouds. So I guess one should not wait till the end and just keep looking. I am going on the hill top today… let’s see if I get any answers… nevertheless, I’ll have a good reason to burst into laughter.