Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Advice: Don't loaf on this lane

This filthy, all-purpose lane is a total attendance grabber. With a whiff of freshly squeezed orange juice and the sound of motorcars and the buzzing of bees, the busy latecomers who return from the sight of locked classroom doors grab a warm cup of coffee or a refreshing plate of cut fruit. These groups of rejected women gather around the dirty footpaths engaging in their lengthy, chitter-chatter early morning rants.

The now faded orange juice aroma is usurped by a cow who decided to do her perfumery business for the day, swishing her semi wet tail as if the cool wind were her natural hair/tail dryer. Insistent flies of course find their daily hub as Mrs. Moo moves on to house many more of them.

Vegetable sellers, turn on their vocal chords for the day screaming reasonable prices despite the heavy recession. Pharmacies burst with fresh orders of pregnancy tests, tampons and contraception as the cafes clear up the half finished idly’s and the left over sambar bowls, in the midst of planning lunch menus for the day. Cars and bikes hustle their way through a measly path flooded with living creatures the size of a fly to an enormous cow and everything else between them.

I took myself here on hearing that the shortest route to the other side of the road would be through this lane. It's certainly not the shortest route of most pleasant sights, sounds and smells.

Thursday, 22 January 2009

Newest found way of submitting my assignment

Dear Mrs. Ramesh,

I have lost your email id, so I thought that this is the next best way to submit my assignment (in time) since you want a soft copy. Sorry for the inconvenience.

This is the sci-fi flash fiction. (Not from the movie)

“No. 90X4P to Earth: !, No. 90X4P to Earth: !” as this resonanced in his head he was blinded by the ultraviolet white light, a distant yet close blurry image of a cyborg with a chemical smile and an unusually luminous reflection of himself.

There were T-200 seconds left, the clock beeped in a niggardly fashion. Making a choice, for someone with a deficiency of decision-making skills was pressure beyond comparison; especially when his world might have to come to an end.

Did he envisage a new and updated Mathew 2.0? Or was it easier to be reduced to dead chemical matter in a fraction of a second? Struck with an internal conflict of feeling futuristic and frustrated with his life, Mathew felt his brain cells being braised by various thoughts.

He rewinded a 1000 years ago : 2000 AD, when life had a close to definite span and mankind couldn’t alter the living hour. He regretted how technology had fabricated itself into a whole new evolution. His past played in his head as if it went by in the speed of light; he vaguely remembered the concept of love- how he fell in it and out of it, his mundane monotonous schedule and a handful of random important events.

His anti-intercourse, unsuccessful 2-week-old invention Xilo lay in the corner diseased by a rare morphined coma. “No. 90X4P to Earth: T-100 seconds.” A little more than a minute and he would walk into his future. Mathew looked into the shadow of the radiant UV ray and saw Xilo who was deprived of assistance. Without anymore thought processing he took a confident step into his reflection. In a flash he felt a passionate tug. He turned 360 looking for the source of the tug and instead saw an awakened Xilo spurting the ever-lethal Xenonian Ammoric elixir over the cyborg. His eyes strained to capture the supersonic action of the cyborg disintegrate into shreds and magnetically transport its self towards the moon. “Xilo! My son!” he screamed with intense exhilaration and shock.