Woke #FreedomMorning @WEP

Commemorating lives and times of Elizabeth Keckley, Frederick Douglas, Horace King, John Sella Martin, Henry Garnet and comparing that with ours.

From, "Behind the Scene or Thirty Years of  

Slave, and Four Years in the White House" by Elizabeth Keckley 

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Woke

“Hey!”, Lizzie's ghost yelled at Okoro.

Before the ghostly shriek could touch Okoro’s eardrum, his hands threw a Molotov cocktail to the dress shop across the street.

Lizzie's ghost loved the shop. Tamara built it at the intersection of North Second Street and Lucas Avenue. Tamara even named it “First Lady Lincoln’s Choice”. Thus, she paid homage to the legacy of her great grandmother, Prissy.

Lizzie herself taught Prissy, a slave girl then, her cutting and fitting techniques, which were later adored by the First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln. Then Lizzie used to live in Saint Louis Missouri, married to James, suffocated by his abuses, excesses and lies.

Prissy passed her learnings to her daughter and granddaughters. Tamara has learned from her grandmother, Josephine, Prissy’s great granddaughter. Tamara’s exceptional sartorial skill fused with her intelligent business moves reminded Lizzie of herself.

Tamara’s burning store gave Lizzie’s ghost the feeling of bleeding welts she got from flogging by Mr. Bingham. Cost of the burned asset might be recovered from insurance but would miniscule fragments of moments of Tamara’s enthusiasm constituting conspicuous countable years into this business be recovered?

Lizzie’s ghost mustered some dust, took form of an oldie, appeared in front of Okoro before he threw another bomb. Okoro failed to shove her off. He groaned in anger.

Lizzie’s ghost asked, “Why are you after this shop?”

Okoro replied, “They’ve fired my friend Keira …”

Lizzie’s ghost expressed concern, “What did she do?”

Okoro explained, “She took money from the register, picked up a dress and a bonnet; she’s working towards repaying; but they’re so impatient! The owners drive fancy cars, they’re wealthy; they could’ve waived Keira’s a few borrowings in a year. That’s how the rich become richer, depriving the poor; this country and its capitalism - Urgh!”

Lizzie’s ghost asked, “Do you understand that Keira not only borrowed from the store owner but also from her poor colleagues? If the owner loses money for Keira's and other employees’ borrowings then they might have to close the store; then there wouldn’t be any employment for Keira and her ilk.”

Then the ghost added, “This country and its capitalism let slaves like Horace King and me buy our freedom, became respectively representative to the State Assembly and Modiste and Confidante to the First Lady. Even before being manumitted, Horace was so influential because of his building skills that the State of Alabama, later a confederate state in deep south, amended  laws, much before the Proclamation of Emancipation, so that Horace could stay in Alabama and build. Don’t they teach these in schools?”

Okoro stalled her, “Don’ know. (I) haven’t been to school here. But traditionally people in this country are racist. White cops kill black people. White folks crave here to enslave the others.”

Lizzie's ghost cast a mirage depicting Horace King, erstwhile slave, whipping John Sella Martin, his slave then, though both had African ancestors. She narrated how Martin endured and escaped slavery and became an abolitionist preacher.

Okoro shrugged, “They’re born here. They never felt estrangement, like me, from mother, five younger siblings flying thousands of miles away from Nigeria.”

Lizzie's ghost quipped “My friend Henry's grandfather was enslaved in Africa itself, by losing a war to another African tribe and, was, later, sold to the Europeans by that tribe.”

She paused for few moments and added, “There's famous Sengbe Pieh, also known as Joseph Cinque, member of Mende People of today's Sierra Leone. Both Henry's grandfather and Cinque were enslaved before being transported as cargo, in brig of ship to the United States, unlike your travel by airplane. They're estranged, too.”

She continued, “My friend Frederick Douglas was separated from his mother by their owner …"

Okoro grew impatient and reflected his grudge further, “They weren’t betrayed by their own father. My father left my mother and us. Until my maternal uncle prodded and goaded me to come here on a diversity visa, I didn’t know that my father could've sponsored our visas! But he never intended.”

Lizzie’s ghost tried to appease Okoro, "So what? I's born slave in this country; my own father, a free White man, made me his slave by some 1662 Virginia law. I didn't give in to feelings of betrayal, bitterness. Instead, I built my life, helped numerous others build their respective lives ...”

Okoro protested, “How can I build life here? Everywhere they ask for racial identity, generously called Affirmative action, basically identifying people by their skin tone or DNA make-up … grossly racist.”

Lizzie’s ghost argued, “Everywhere people are different. Igbo dominated Biafra tried to be separate from Hausa-Fulani dominated Nigeria. Minority tribe, Ibibio doubted their stake in proposed Biafra.”

Okoro whimpered, “It’s not about demography. I hate White people. A white woman got my father after his arrival here …”

Lizzie’s ghost reasoned, “It’s personal then. You’re neither doing Keira a favor nor taking part in a social movement. Just because Associated Press sold you a narrative about victimhood of racism through a South African immigrant of mixed race, you’ve taken part in fashionable violence under peer pressure, driven by your urges of vengeance.”

The ghost continued, “My time saw that violence is White man’s way. John Brown bled Kansas, raided Harper Ferry Arsenal for slave revolution. But he was of English, Welsh and Dutch origin. White man’s newspaper publicized his actions.”

Then she added, “You might call me racist for my views on John Brown and media. Won't you?”

Wee hour’s greyness covered Okoro. He was quiet. Lizzie’s ghost begged him, “A new morning is here. Embrace it. Free yourself from anger. Stay woke.”

Then she dissolved into thin air.

Okoro ran to his uncle’s place, finished filling up and submitting his application form to Saint Louis Community College for a course on telecommunication engineering; tidied himself up, went to work in the neighborhood grocery store.

He realized, “History’s the witness of both conflicts and construction. It’s my choice to take a side and define myself.”

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Word count: 998 (nine hundred ninety-eight, with hyphenated words, without hyphenated words, 1000 [thousand]) Words.

FCA : Full Critique Acceptable

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If you are impressed by the wonderful theme and the painting associated with it then you MUST check out the initial WEP post laying out the year long challenges here.

 

Mary Huxley and The Truth #Unmasked @ WEP

There is no formal challenge in December, 2020. If it would have been then the theme was “unmasked”. Perhaps the irony that we could not be unmasked yet, from COVID-19 pandemic obviously, took the challenge away. 

Yet I was ready with my story. Hence, I am posting as the WEP ritual.

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Mary Huxley and The Truth

Mary Huxley pulled the gun from the holster. The peddler must surrender, or Huxley would pull the trigger.

Huxley has been chasing this ever since she had stepped in this area, on foot, in civil clothes, without gun, even before she received charges of the post officially. She strolled around the scene from midday to middle of the evening, until the end of the last begging shift of the day. She reversed her shirt, released her bun into a cascade of hair down to her waist, between the first two strolls, to avoid being noticed by the beggars or anyone working in the area. Before subsequent strolls, she changed her look respectively by putting on a jacket and plaiting her hair, and, by reversing the jacket and stuffing the plait into a beanie cap. She used various combinations of these style moves during her subsequent strolls.

The scene had several visual obstructions. It was bound by historic Dawson Hotel to East and another Pennines sandstone building to West. Adjacent to this building, to its North, stood Hurtshire railway station. A hundred feet long alley was stretched from the station at West along the northern boundaries of the hotel to East. There was another alley between the hotel and the building. The alleys were separated by the hotel building, an erstwhile garden turned ivy infested dirty patch and an elevation of almost six feet to their eastern end. The southern alley descended to the level of Northern alley and was abruptly truncated by the sandstone building. A viaduct ascended westward along the southern alley and went past the building’s southern end.

Two cameras were mounted on the eastern wall of the building, one camera viewing the hotel a hundred feet away, another viewing the northern alley emerging from the railway station, forty feet away. These were single view traffic signal cameras, not with three hundred sixty degrees view, hence, unable to record everything surrounding them.

Huxley noticed different beggars, appearing in shifts, sitting by the northern wall of this building, near the railway station, just out of respective lines of vision of the cameras. The beggars were exchanging tiny paper wraps, like candy wraps without candy, filled with white powder, if paid with bills as small as five squid. Otherwise they were asking meekly, “D’ya have ‘ny change? Change please.”, shaking the paper cup part full of changes.

Mary Huxley, the cop, concluded, “Narcotic peddlers, in disguise of beggars.”

She sat on the crest of the viaduct, beneath the cameras, to watch the effect of the entry of the patrolling Peace Officers on the peddler. The station was out of the visual frame. The peddler’s blanket corner was peeking from North-eastern corner of the building. The hotel was to her right. Around this time, her anxious mother called, “Can’t you quit policing? Pursue forensic technologies, instead. You’re a Chemistry major.”

Mary’s mother hung up knowing the futility of the suggestions with, “Can’t stop worrying…. the whole world’s sworn enmity with the police…”

Patrolling peace officers were appearing every half an hour alternatively from East and West ends of the visual frame. Whenever a uniform appeared at the hotel end, Huxley found that the beggar was missing at the begging post. She also noticed the beggars leaving their post and pretending to walk towards the hotel, minutes before a peace officer appeared from the station.

From her strolls she gathered that the begging peddlers could see police persons approaching from the shopping center lying north-west of the railway station. The visuals enabled them to feign being passersby before the officer. But the hotel end was visually obstructed by the ivies and the elevation.

Huxley realized that there must be a signal for the peddler on arrival of a peace officer at the hotel end. Within the following two hours, she figured out that the vocalist with a guitar busking under an arch of the viaduct was striking a distinct pitch viewing the police officer at the hotel end. It was the signal to the begging peddler.

In her inaugural shift on job, Mary approached along the northern alley to Hurtshire station, remaining invisible to the busking singer by the ivies. She surprised the begging drug peddler at the usual begging post by North-east corner of the building and made her first arrest.

She mentioned in her report the requirement of cameras with three hundred sixty degrees vision above the beggars’ post. Her peers were congratulatory but jealous. Yet she was relieved from pursuing the case further.

Months passed. A veteran among colleagues, Martha Bentley, told Mary, “The beggar you’ve arrested was an undercover.”

Huxley was disappointed that her enthusiasm spoiled the toils of someone else. To make up, she started spending more hours of her own in between Dawson Hotel and Hurtshire Station. She took photos of changing faces of the beggars, of their ringleader in rainbow hairband tied like a rag in false carelessness, in earrings and necklace of rainbow beads, in pink lipstick.

Some more months passed. No new camera was installed. Mary continued creating a dossier with clear identities of every peddler feigning beggar, their ringleaders, and customers with the photographs she took. She shared her findings with her commanding officer Bob Smith. Smith studied Huxley’s work for some time. Then he instructed Mary, “Make the arrest.”

Hence, Mary Huxley appeared at the obvious scene of crime, caught the peddling beggar by surprise, by the camera blind North-eastern corner of the sandstone building. The peddler pulled a gun from his shopping bag. So did Huxley.

Her team was around, was armed and was targeting the peddler and scanning the surroundings for peddler’s aides. Yet, dying Mary saw that her team was fumbling to shoot her killer, the peddler, who disappeared in the crowd. She realized on death the numbing effect of stigma for upholding the law on rigorously trained police reflex. Her last sigh was on just unmasked initiation of destruction of the criminal justice system.

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Word count: 1000 (one thousand, with hyphenated words, without hyphenated words, 996 [nine  hundred ninety six)]

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Looking forward to your critique….

 

 

 

MOTHER and Son @WEP #Grave Mistake

Precursory Note on Draupadi: 

Draupadi was the daughter of king Drupad reigning over Southern Panchal. Southern Panchal was a fictional territory and different from the Vedic Age state of Panchal. Southern Panchal was situated in present day Uttar Pradesh province of India, spanning from the Ganges in the north to the Chambal River in the south, to the Nimsar forests in the east and to Delhi (National Capital Territory), Haryana and Madhya Pradesh provinces to the west.

Arjun, the third Pandav of Hastinapur, (Hastinapur was situated around current Delhi region) won the archery competition at Draupadi's swayambar. Swayambar is an event attended by potential grooms invited by the bride's family and, often, presented with a challenge of wit, wisdom and strength about weapons. In this event the bride used to choose her mate from the invitees. The most preferable choice used to be the winner of the challenge of swayambar. Etymologically, swayambar is made of two roots, swayam meaning self and bar meaning to accept.

Draupadi chose the winner Arjun, though, at that time, Arjun and his two half-brothers, Yudhisthir and Bhim and twin stepbrothers, Nakul and Sahadev were in exile along with his mother Kunti, devoid of throne or territory under their reign, rather surviving on alms of mendicancy. On Kunti's order Draupadi entered into a polyandrous relationship with all five brothers, having Arjun and his half-brothers and stepbrothers for her five husbands together, simultaneously. This instance of polyandry can be interpreted either as liberation or as exploitation.

In a game of royal gambling Yudhisthir lost Draupadi to his cousins, Kauravs, after losing his throne, his earthly possessions, his brothers and himself. Duhshason, the second Kaurav, dragged Draupadi to the royal court by her hair, from her resting chamber. In the court they tried to forcibly take away Darupadi’s clothing, calling her a prostitute for having five husbands instead of one. Lord Krishna, being Draupadi’s friend, saved her honor by wrapping her continuously in clothing. Vyasdev, the poet of the Mahabharat, described that Draupadi’s humiliation was extraordinary since she was menstruating when this event of molestation by Duhshason occurred.

Draupadi kept her hair untied till Bhim tied Draupadi’s hair with his own hands wet in Duhshason’s blood after Bhim avenged Duhshason in the Kurukshetra war.

From: The Mahabharat

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 Mother and Son

Mother was startled, “What!? Is there a dearth of girls in your college?”

He winked, “None’s willing to play Draupadi. They don’t support the event of vastraharan. It’s an epic example of molestation of a woman in hands of in-laws.”

Mother interrupted, “Is that what you think?”

He quipped “Yes.”

Then he further explained, “Yet, unlike the girls in the college, I don’t blame Vyasdev of misogyny. The ancient poet merely depicted his contemporary society. The girls have hung posters about it and has been marching all day protesting the Mahabharat and our play.”

Mother sighed; then, commented, “Overly politicized.”

Further she asked, “When is the play?”

He replied exuberantly, “Next week. Wednesday. That’s the foundation day of college.”

Mother suggested, “I’d like to do your make-up”

He blushed, “Ma! I’m in college now. My friends will laugh at me.”

Mother bargained, “Can I come and watch the play?”

He agreed reluctantly.

Following days his mother kept on showing him all the sarees. She begged him with each Silk and brocade saree, “Look at this. This one will do. I know. What do you say?”

He made faces and said, “Nay.”

On one of these days, after some hour-long exercises with the sarees, he confided, “Ma, your sarees are beautiful. But I don’t need them for the time being. The foundation day play has been sponsored by the college authority. So, we’ve rented wardrobe for all the actors.”

His mother quit the display in disappointment.

The whole weekend he remained busy at the rehearsal. Following Monday was the day of the dress rehearsal. It was his opportunity to make Ma happy. He borrowed a silk saree woven moderately with brocade. Ma became elated. She always wanted to have a daughter. Her husband died when her son was only five-month-old. She never had another child.

In a passion for raising a daughter, she used to dress her son like girls sometimes, till he protested, after attending puberty, during his entire adolescence. She used to be ecstatic thinking of her son meddling with her lipsticks and sarees, though she never had any hint of her son conflicting with the gender of his birth. She was proud of their mutually transparent lives.

She was taken aback by the scene of her son suddenly trying her sarees, probably due to prevailing debates about gender and sexuality. She, for a zillionth of a second, surmised that her son might not be willing to see himself as a male anymore and he might have been learning to become a woman.

After her son spoke about the drama to be held on the college foundation day, her confusions waned away. Moreover, she felt happy that he had been chosen to play Draupadi and she could see him as an adult female in a fully public view.

During the dress rehearsal, the son’s look as a woman reminded the mother of her youth. She loved her son wearing her saree, in make-up borrowed from her. As the scene of vastraharan started, small brick bats started to be flown to the stage. A group of females started shouting from a dark unidentifiable corner of the hall, “Don’t touch her pallu.”

The stage manager appeared to be naturally persuasive. She begged everyone to watch the complete show before opposing it. The protestors paid no heed. In basaltic determination, they invigorated the ruckus. It appeared to the mother that the protestors were beyond reason and, hence, were not capable of relinquishing hitherto planned sequence of their activities.

Worried, Ma ran along the isles to rescue her son. Reaching backstage, she found that a meeting was going on, about the safety and the security of the performance and the performers on the foundation day of the college. It zeroed upon putting requisition for enhanced police presence during the show.

On the foundation day, she could not believe from the appearance of Draupadi that it was her son. The play ended successfully amidst applause and standing ovation for the performers. The son received an award for his portrayal of Draupadi.

The mother returned home and readied her treat for the son. He was about to return after attending the success party.

Yet, the night rolled gradually towards getting very late.

A phone call around midnight from a police station informed Ma that her son was hospitalized. At the hospital mother found that her son was raped reportedly by a group of vigilantes about protecting the sacredness of the epic. All Ma found that her son was bleeding, enduring pain.

The son murmured in his final breath to his Ma, “The girls from the college avenged my audacity of being instrumental for enacting the epic molestation. They punished me for I, being a straight male, dared exhibiting a woman’s humiliation. Ma, all I tried was to live through Draupadi’s agony, to honor a woman’s resilience overcoming atrocities. I tried to celebrate spirit of Draupadi.”

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Word count:  820 (eight hundred twenty) words [including hyphenated words, else 826 (eight hundred twenty-six) words]

FCA

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This is from my book "Ghost Runners & Others"

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Halloween Plus

After reading Renée's post at WEP on October 1, 2020, I was inspired to compose following mini saga constituting only fifty (50) words.

After-ghostdom

Ghostverse became congested. Ghostpedia reported the reason being a virus.

Anxious about its remnant family, Bhootiya searched Ghostverse neighborhoods. Its attempt to communicate with the Universe failed due to frequency and wavelength mismatch. 

By this endeavor Bhootiya broke Ghostcode. It was ousted from Ghostverse and remained hung permanently at Nonverse.

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*****Durga Puja Bonus

(Another One hundred twenty-two [122] words)

Standing Alone Standing up

It would have been easier

If I could stride

Along the tide

Of pandemonium of the hour

Hatred inside clenched fists

Voice syncing loud

With the vibes of the crowd

Marching along the streets

Yet I dare speak my mind

Though unheard 

Mauled by the herd

Seeking revenge, unkind,

Unjust, parochial as congregation 

Driven by a notional fad

Craving for a pie scrap

Moving in a suicidal motion

Under a spell, in a trance

Of kinsmanship 

In brinkmanship 

In pursuit of harvesting chance.

Still I chose to stand alone, aside 

Abiding by adversity

Withstanding atrocity 

Refuting refuge in amassed cowardice.

You can call it my grave mistake

Yet I chose to fight

The current's aggregate might

Even putting my existence at stake.

*****Durga Puja is the autumn festival of West Bengal coinciding with Navratri festival of North India. Durga slayed Mahisasur and, hence, became a symbol of power and strength. Mahisasur was an ambitious asur, son of Rambha, an Asur king, from a buffalo. Mahisasur was tired and disgusted of being beaten by the Gods of heaven. He went through penance for Lord Brahma's blessings. Lord Brahma awarded Mahisasur that Mahisasur would never be defeated by any man or God. Empowered with Lord Brahma's boon, Mahisasur put humanity to his Asur clan's servitude and then he ransacked the heaven, dethorned Indra, king of the Gods and the heaven, ousted all Gods from the heaven to exile. Autocratic anarchy of Mahisasur made humans seek help from Gods who were rendered helpless themselves. Then, on Lord Brahma's counsel, Gods empowered Parvati, a woman, wife of Lord Shiv and the mother of Lord Shiv's four children, with their weapons and other objects. In a nine nightlong battle, Durga slayed Mahisasur and restored rule of law on the earth and the heaven. 

Originally, Durga used to be worshiped during the spring. Seeking Durga's blessing, Sree Ramchandra of the epic Ramayan, worshiped Durga during autumn, before going to battle with Ravan. Since then Durga worship has been celebrated with grandeur during the autumn, instead of spring.

Kirtinagar – The City of Deeds @ WEP Entry # Long Shadow

When Ernest Hemingway used "Thou" and "You" in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" to imply respectively "Su", formal and "Tu", casual second person salutations in Spanish, he earned severe negative criticism for using and mixing an obsolete (English) form with modern forms. Hemingway was native English speaker. I am not. Educational and Testing Service (ETS) have recognized my writing prowess, though [ My seven year old ToEFL score card, photo of which is shared herewith, is the testimony.] After all, grammar is, from linguists' view point, codified usage of language by people belonging to defined geographies. 

Language is my tool for storytelling. In order to bring the feel to the reader I play grammar (don't search for "with the"; [Neither I am a child nor the grammar is a toy] I 'play' grammar like playing people, politics, race card, linguistic group sentiments, sexual orientations, genders and victimhood.), fiddle punctuation, doctor spelling to elucidate pronunciation, engineer words to carve impressions. For uncrossed t-s and undotted i-es or preposterous prepositions and awry articles inattentive proofreading is to blame. Storytelling is my passion, proofreading - nay.

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Kirtinagar – The City of Deeds

Ruh was watching Prajuktipur’s shadow on completely deserted, gradually waning Kirtinagar, sprawling over thousand hectares, through Eastern panes of her sixtieth-floor office.

Ruh’s mother Seema commented from behind, “Gloating?”

Ruh replied reluctantly, “Measuring, scheming…. the endeavor, the expenditure required to remove Rathin Gupto’s mess on the marsh.”

Frowning Seema snapped, “Do you care about my baba’s blood, sweat, money dissolved in the marsh, keeping Kirtinagar intact?”

Ruh bantered, “In control.”

She added then, "I’ve checked the land records. Guptos used to own the marsh. Then the government put limit on individual landholding. Rathin’s father lost the marsh.”

Seema screamed, “Rathin? Not dadan? Disrespecting your grandfather!”

Ruh laughed out loud, “Clever dadan! If I call you Seema, I’ll end up with Ma….”

Seema reminded Ruh, “This Pajuktipur office, trendy outfits, cars, your snuffs, gadgets – my shrewd baba earned all. The control you’re contorting about… he bought that, bribing politicians… freed the marsh from squatters, from their shacks made of rags and cane on raised bamboo platforms, by buying their non-salable ownership, bestowed to them by the government, for their rehabilitations...”

Ruh interrupted, “Dadan harvested return on investment. The Democratic Government, run by politicians on his payroll, paid him for filling up the marsh and building Kirtinagar thereof.”

She asserted then, “Dadan knew… every construction at Kirtinagar was destined to be corroded by moisture, creeping up through pores of landfill, by water clogging…”

Seema justified, “Drag of developing Kirtinagar inflicted baba with hypertension, culminated into cerebral thrombosis.”

Ruh slandered, “Then his dutiful daughter left fashionable student politics and joined nasty family business.”

Seema reminisced, “I’s twenty-one then. It was fun being tagalong to Mrinal, charismatic campus leader of violent student politics…”

Ruh taunted, “Tagalong? You’re lovers. Though Deepak’s your fiancé then.”

Seema scowled, “Deepak? You used to call him baba….”

Ruh sneered, “Yay, the looser tried hard to be my father.”

Seema recalled, “I approached Kirtinagar residents for converting their damp, friable small family homes to high rises. Then Prajuktipur had just began to grow, unable to accommodate all its workers belonging to several echelons of pay. High demand for low cost housing in vicinity was just about to pop.”

She continued, “Resources were scant then. Baba’s unable to walk, talk or eat. Most residents of Kirtinagar willingly converted their property, accepting compensations, in cash or flats or a combination of both. Deepak’s the lender. The wealthier Kirtinagar denizens were resistant. Mrinal’s ingenious maneuvers….”

Ruh slandered, “Ingenious maneuvers? You’re glorifying how Mrinal burned a few of them alive.”

 She went on, “Your ever-delayed repayments made Deepak look into your books. Thus, he realized how Mrinal was sucking your business, how return on investment was just break even, though sales figures were humongous continuously for ten years.”

 Seema mentioned scornfully, digressing intentionally, “On your fifth birthday, Deepak wished for another child, to help you with the business.”

Ruh laughed and replied, “You spilled the beans…..”

Seema, too, laughed and added, “The look on his face…. I still remember. He took quite a while to assimilate, then surmised, ‘Oh! It’s always Mrinal.’ I abruptly rectified though, ‘Ruh’s from Ashis, the interior decorator, hired for our Prajuktipur office.”

Ruh inferred, “Thus Deepak lived lost, till he succumbed to the road rage”.

Then, she returned to Seema’s initial question, “Not gloating, though nobody’s out there with the leverage of knowing my criminal secret…... of stealing a fatal microbial strain from the college lab, then mixing it to Kirtinagar’s water supply lines, all by myself, leaving no loose end, hence, no risk of being blackmailed, unlike your messy arrangements involving Mrinal.”

Few months ago, Seema alerted Ruh, “Business’ about to collapse, unless we match our stride to catch up with current booming trend in Prajuktipur. High rise buildings comprising dingy apartments, stingy shops, congesting Kirtinagar, like litter, must give way to planned development of spacious well-lit condos, town houses, bungalows, shopping plazas with huge parking spaces, wide drivable roads, greenery, underground sewerage and drainage…. I can’t compensate all the residents of Kirtinagar. Thirty thousand people lives in its each square kilometer, over three hundred thousand people in total, incurring a hundred billion rupees in compensation.”

Ruh sarcastically added then, “Ask Mrinal to drop a bomb on Kirtinagar, though he’ll bleed the business white for the job, wrenching you for never marrying him.”

A week after this conversation, in wee hours of a weekday, Ruh went live on social media, sharing her stray dog feeding endeavor amidst the crew of Kirtinagar Municipality, at one of Kirtinagar’s water supply maintenance sites. Instantly, she earned compassion of the crew. Keeping the crew busy in front and rear of her camera, Ruh, stealthily, added the microbe colony to the city water supply. In a few weeks, some unknown infection wiped out population of three blocks of Kirtinagar.

Ruh’s video of dog feeding went viral. Banking upon hugely compassionate public mood, she buzzed continuously against nexus of corrupt politicos and construction farms, holding them responsible for fatal infection at Kirtinagar.

In tandem, the mainstream media sensation machinery narrative held Ruh a hero, a scion revolting against her own people. Also, their reportage terrorized Kirtinagar residents of imminent death. Within weeks, Kirtinagar dwellers vacated the city, voluntarily.

Ruh’s explanation about her modus operandi silenced Seema. Ruh asserted the forward plan, “You must soon announce my engagement to Prama.”

Seema reacted, “The cement baron Dutta’s daughter!”

Ruh ignored, “It must be ostentatious. It’ll bring you to the fold of sympathizers of marginalized persons. It’ll steer clear all bad press about redevelopment of Kirtinagar”

Seema fumbled, “Even last night your orgasmic moans were from Soham! What’s about him?”

Ruh snapped, “I’ll keep him in the closet. Until open relationship for bisexuals or promiscuity in general becomes fashionably adorable, or sexual straightness starts to be ostracized….”

She digressed abruptly though, “Wanna get rid of Mrinal?”

After three months, Mrinal succumbed to heart attack, without prior heart complaint. Ruh posted a photo of Mrinal on social media explaining how he inspired Ruh. 

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WORD COUNT:  995 (nine hundred ninety five) [Including all hyphenated words, else one thousand (1000)] 

FCA – FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE

React directly.

Speak your mind freely.

August is our, the Indians', month of freedom. 15th is the Independence Day. Let's celebrate.

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Blurbs of the Entries to #WEP June 2020 Challenge: Urban Nightmare

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An Apparition @ WEP Entry # Antique Vase

My days start with pots and pans. As they roll further, I push 'l' after 'p' and cook stories. :)

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“If you dare break the glass around me, dare peep inside …… beyond the pride, which you call luster ..…. beyond two and half a millennium - stashed, trapped, within my pores … born of clay, burnt of fire, touched by a few twigs ..… I’m all Memory …... of decays of my long-gone siblings and clan .....”

Through this outburst she confided for the first time. In a summer afternoon. I was sitting before her, appreciating red and black figurines on her lustrous black surface. At Northern Hall in this Villa de Papyri replica. Off duty.

If lucky, my post on duty used to be her. Else, I used to spend awhile with her after my shift. That “awhile” used to range from half an hour to hours, depending on my other jobs and family engagements, since my first visit here, half a decade ago, to reconnect to my Mediterranean roots.

Since that summer afternoon she used to sprinkle at me bits and pieces of her ancestry. Her passage from a Mediterranean island to this Pacific coast in New World.

That summer I spent several afternoons with her. My son was camping North. His mother was doing afternoon shifts at one job and evening on the other. I had only day and evening shifts in all my jobs.

I started here anew doing odd jobs since I had fled a military coup d'état, more than a decade ago. One of my jobs was at a Gas Station on Sunset Boulevard.

Mr. Benenio Klavan, my rescuer, used to be a regular customer there. He visited Turkey several times on journalistic assignments. He used to talk about home a lot. Once he suggested, “Why don’t you visit Getty Villa on PCH, Rafiq? You might feel at home. The ancient odor of life that you miss here, you may feel that there.”

Therefore, there occurred my first visit to this repository of ancient Mediterranean life. I still have my first five-dollar parking stub.

Soon after, I sought employment with them. Because of my Mediterranean memory they hired me.

Then came repatriation. Intellectual property laws were making the vase to return to Athens, Greece.

I got my ultimate opportunity to hold her in my arms. She sighed, “This’ so much wrong...”

I had no time to sooth her. Instead, I started wrapping her with bubble wraps. Then I peeped inside to fill it with paper shreds and met Eutropios, the potter.

In soft light of early morning, Eutropios was offering a prayer to Athena. Euaristos, his son, joined him. After that the father started wheeling vases. The son was drawing and curving on the surface of already dried pots, applying slip on them.

Eutropios left the wheel to knead some fresh clay out of natural pool. Euaristos took his turn on the wheel to scrub off excess mud from previous day’s sundried pots and vases.

Methodios, Eutropios’ apprentice, had just arrived. He brought some natural clay and was pacing towards the natural pool to sink it for getting rid of its impurities.

Suddenly, Methodios threw off the clay; rushed to the kiln, took out the firewood splinters from hearth, splashed water on it. Immediately the kiln was full of fume instead of flame. There were pots and vases inside for first baking. With sudden drop in temperature they all became crudely baked. Euaristos murmured, sticking his eyes on the wheel, “What’s wrong with you?”

Methodios spat his answer, “Wrong you are and your father. All you worship is Athena and Hestia. You must obey Circe. She sent me, Omodamos, to convey her wishes.”

Eutropios listened and asked Methodios, “Take the day off.”

Yet, Methodios stood stubborn by the kiln. Eutropios ignored him, prayed to Hestia, adjusted the flame in kiln and placed next batch of potteries for burning.

Methodios shrieked, “You didn’t pay heed!”

Then, he brought a log from the riverbank, rammed the kiln with it. Fumes started pouring out through cracks of the shattered kiln. Methodios grumbled, “Lesson from Syntribos.”

Leaving all work in hand, father and son started mending the kiln. They were too busy to mind Methodios.

Worshiping Hestia, again, Eutropios ignited the kiln. Euaristos put another batch of potteries in it.

Methodios charred the kiln wholly by airing it too fast and chuckled, “A spank from Asbestos.”

Euaristos ran to the pool, brought pales of water, drenched the kiln to cool it down.

Then, Eutropios asked for Hestia’s forgiveness. Methodios responded by hammering the whole kiln muttering, “Wrath of Smaragos!”

Sun was down. Eutropios called it a day.

Following morning, praying before Athena, as usual, he started working. Methodios pulverized the kiln, shouting, “Sabaktes’ ultimatum.”

Then he ran away.

Eutropios had to, hence, started rebuilding the kiln. Euaristos helped his father by mining fresh mud, carrying it to the workshop, sifting pebbles from finer clay, kneading lumps and delivering them to the building spot.

Once the kiln was ready to use, Circe appeared before Eutropios. She demanded, “Obey me.”

Eutropios denied. Circe turned Euaristos into a mouse.

Heartbroken, Eutropios brought the mouse home. At night, he dreamed that Athena had sent Hermes. Hermes whispered warnings about Circe into his ears and gave him an armlet of moly to ward of Circe’s magic.

Following morning, Circe appeared at Eutropios’ workshop. Before She could make a move, he grabbed her, dragged her to the kiln, tied her up on the hearth, as if he was going to set her afire.

Scared, Circe murmured, “Untie me. I’ll render such carnal pleasure that no nymph could ever render.”

Eutropios remembered all words of Hermes; hence, ignored Circe’s alluring advances. Instead, he made Circe swear in names of Gods, “I won’t further meddle with your affairs.”

Before leaving She brought Euaristos back to his human form.

Worshiping Athena and Hestia, Eutropios and Euaristos resumed turning wheel and burning pots.

I finished packing and sent off the vase towards its land of origin, among its pugnacious ancestors.

Also available at Google Books

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Thank You Denise for guiding me through the details about participating in WEP Flash Fiction Challenges.

WORD COUNT: 993

FCA – FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE
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