fiction – The Stardust Elephant

Letters to Layla

Dear Layla,

At 10 years old, it took me 3 weeks. 3 weeks of being a 10 year old to feel the first flutters in my stomach.

It took me 3 weeks of summer to run out at every opportunity just so I could see, talk, play with this new friend.

How was I at 10 years supposed to know what a flutter was? He made me as happy as candy did, and so I chased my candy.

I turned 11 the same summer.
It took me an entire year of being 11 and an entire of being 12. 104 weeks to realize that this flutter was very very different from candy flutters.

Candy was easy. No tears. And guess what? It didn’t matter how stupid you were in trying to get candy, you won’t regret that even when you’re 20. Or 80.

Once this had been identified, we became best friends (or so we named each other)

We spent hours on our respective balconies to get a glimpse of one another. Weeks consoling each other when something went wrong and months fighting for nothing at all or memorizing clothing patterns off by heart. Friends always did this stuff for each other, right?

Then, he introduced me to this emotion/word called love.

And I ran, as far as I could and as long as my feet would go on from away from this.

It was such a big word and with big words came big responsibilities and my arms and hands were too small for such big words. I couldn’t possibly imagine holding them safely.

I spent all of being 13 to 16, running away and towards the same thing I was running away from because it was inside me. And the more I tried to destroy it, it came stronger destroying me in turn.

I’m 20 today, believe me, you don’t have to hold it, it’s an experience and you cannot stay away from it.

So experience it, but not so much that it destroys you. Scars are stories. Destructions smell like gun powder and bullets that don’t do any good only take lives away.

From,
Someone that loves you immensely.

If only they knew.

fiction, Story, writing

If only they knew what being an actor meant.

She went on to stage.
Afraid. For the 1st time in 5 years.
Her parents were going to watch her do this today.
Her only shot at convincing them, this is what she wanted to do with her life.
Just This.

Her mother trying her best to fake smile.
Her father, clearly not making an effort.

The play happened, she saw every emotion that crossed their faces right before turning stoic, from the stage.

She knew they liked it.
She knew they were proud.

But when she came outside to meet them?
They said, this wasn’t enough to make a good career.
She would have to go back to her financial analyst job. That’s who she could be and was.

She smiled, she indeed was their daughter.
They knew how to act so well.
And she would always be an actor.
How else would she be a financial analyst?

#WorldTheatreDay

Hollow.

fiction

The bright morning
With it’s warmth
And gentle breeze
Soothed the nerves down
Of mostly everyone.

But there were a few restless ones.
Cause the brightness meant nothing to them.
Nor did the breeze.
For they were determined on making it dark and foggy and polluted.

They had planned big on this.
They were prepared.
But the darkness of their souls, did not let them rest.
And that was inevitable.

The time came
the guns went off
the bombs blew apart solid foundations
the happy faces turned into blood marked sullen faces
the running children turned to ashes
and that’s all.

They exchanged victorious smiles
Patted one another’s backs
and vowed to never see each other again but complete the missions they were given.

One of those souls was not polluted.
He was broken on the inside.
Somewhere down forced to it.
But, he knew.

He knew he had the power to Atleast not do it himself.
But he did anyway.

His insides, now devoid of every thing.
Hollow to the point where he couldn’t take it.

What was the point of existing now?
With all that pollution?
So he chose the easy way out.

Shot himself.
Just the way he did to the 12 year old child who made no sound and passed the world In solitude.