Thursday, May 21, 2009
He noticed that she had precisely 108 kinds of moods and matching smiles. She wore her silver watch on the right wrist, instead of the traditional left. Her plain gold ring-band shifted fingers on her right hand, while her left hand was left beautifully un-ornamented. Her favourite colour changed everyday. He knew, without ever being told that she dressed her best when she was most upset. She vehemently argued over the mundane and silently endured the extraordinary. She loved children. Friends were her life. He knew her better than anyone else ever could. Still, they were just friends.
Friday, May 08, 2009
A few months back, I discovered the beauty and challenge of a drabble. A drabble is a work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length (title of the story included). As Kris made me understand, the purpose of a drabble is brevity, and it is a real test of an author's ability to express [hopefully] interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. I had promised to try this out and here is my first attempt.
The two sat on a red cushioned chair. They ordered two cappuccinos. They discussed politics, places they wanted to see, several friends, a few foes, films, music, books, weather, past, future, nothing important, everything trivial. Once or twice he flirted, she blushed. He teased and she pretended to be angry. Failing to put on an act she burst into peals of laughter. The waiter brought the steaming hot cups to the table. They stopped talking for a few seconds as if they were keeping a secret. Once he left, they resumed the never-ending conversation and spoke of everything, except…