Bombay Rains

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It was a brand new day. Cherie opened her to see a big flaming ball of jelly in the sky. Hmmm. No. Too much. She closed her eyes and minutes later, a regular, flaming ball of fire was back in its place. The beauty of it all lay in the simplification. A purple, dripping sun may just be a tad too much. Today was day one in the Candy castle. How was it to be? Cherie jumped with excitement at the prospect of the Royal Games. Now she could live in a world of her making with just what she wished to exist. With her most favourite thing in the whole world at the helm. A big, giant marshmallow. Cherie set about changing her form. It would appear rather suspicious if she was the lone human in the town. And while Cherie had the pick of the lot; all she had to do was make sure she never took the same form twice. She had to completely disappear from the town memory to be able to view this undisturbed. It wouldn’t suit her purpose to be on the roster. For today; Cherie picked a sweet li

The thing with writing is that no matter how much I do of it; it never seems nearly enough. This is further compounded by the fact that I do very little of it and only in times of great duress when I am trying to procrastinate. Such as now. And it isn’t helped by the fact that with each passing day; I get more British in my way of writing. It sounds like that in my head at least. I can see someone, sitting with a cup of tea, reading this and going- Oh! How perfectly dull. Furthermore, I don’t enjoy my fiction anymore. I call it fiction as it is mostly not real. I’d be far more depressed if I allowed myself to think that the world actually had as much violence and self-loathing as many of my characters display. Please don’t think that I actually manage to write a decent amount and try to get it published. No. No such luck. I also can’t seem to decide on a genre I like enough, to stick to it. The only one I really, really enjoy is comedy and I am absolutely horrid at it. Which

I'm in that mood where I can't decide what to type due to the sheer frustration I feel. I don't get it. How can one person be so absolutely contrary to what you are and still stick around to annoy you. I typed-backspaced-typed like a zillion times until deciding not to say anything because status updates are a sham. You type in some heartfelt message good or otherwise and later on when unsuspecting viewers ask you to explain yourself, you realize you can't. No one would understand and more often than not, it's a really stupid reason and it's embarrassing to reveal it. Which is why I like my blog. No one really reads it. Not even my family or my best friends. Not even me. But I write this crap; I can't be expected to read it too. Let me just turn schizophrenic and start conducting conversations with myself. Out loud.  I do speak to myself in my head; they're very intelligent conversations too. It's very hard to find someone who likes Marqu

Became friends, sustained friendship, fought, argued, made up and learnt tolerance. Plus, we all love pretty pictures of ourselves :)

So, as usual, my parents in an attempt to gain publicity for my not-so-good writing wanted me to send in an entry for the Eastern Region Defense magazine thingy. Their way of motivating me to do the same- "People actually read this magazine honey!" Now, whoever said that parents don't say the right things. Anyhow, it started this morning and I spent the last 4 hours trying to pick one non-depressing story that people will get. My only instructions. Nothing about abuse, sex or death. That ruled out 80% of my writing. Now, before you go away screaming, not all of it is depressing. I wrote some fantasy-genre-imagination-magical realism-type stories too which can be found here- http://byrdyee.blogspot.com/2011/04/candy-castle.html  and here; http://byrdyee.blogspot.com/2011/10/dreams-of-cherie.html but seemingly I was high while writing this. I remember very little. So, it came down to three stories. One was about death (I write about nothing else, whatdoIdo?!);

She had always been a normal sort. Not given to too many fancies. As she grew, this grew with her. She was never known to ruffle too many feathers, till the end of her life. Even as she lay, breathing her last, all that she thought of was the uneventful blur that was her life. But one thing that she was never given to share, one thing that in her heart would always remain hers and hers alone, was her bed. This wasn’t philosophical or metaphorical. She hadn’t taken any secret vow to join a nunnery or anything. Her bed was something she thought of in the most absolute, literal sense. She spoke of her four-poster, with its chipped post and creaky hinges. Her bed was something that no one else could lay claim to. It was her inner sanctum, her place of absolute privacy and was designed to appear just as that. It was arranged with numerous cushions and a single, solitary pillow; a sign as clear as any that screamed loudly- ‘only one allowed’. A single bed sheet, a single blanket. In t