Tag Archives: story

Knitting.

A new hobby would be the best thing. Creating warm and comforting things after her warm and comforting thing died whilst it was being warm and comforted inside of her. Knitting, I suppose, she thought. Knitting, just because her baby is gone does not mean that there aren’t plenty of other babies in need of warmth and comfort. The house was so big, so empty. A room, a new room was built to serve no one and she would ensure that it never will. The other creature left, leaving a draught in its wake that spread to half of her bed room. The most movement the kitchen saw were the shadows gliding over every surface as the stars and clouds danced with each other, serving a reminder of how stunted our perceptions are. They are not dancing, and they do not know each other. They are millions of years apart, falling together in line for our entertainment.

Are we then omnipotent? Do we see all we are meant to see but are simply cursed with this stunted perception? We know nothing but we see all, don’t we?

Her footsteps around the house left small and apologetic prints in the dusty snow. The whole house was full of this oppressive snow. The whole house would be full of life again because she is the giver of life. The draught doesn’t contribute to the life that could have been. It didn’t to begin with, because that life was not.

She wanted to knit a sweater out of her intestines, and fashion the cross stitching with her veins. She would package them neatly in her womb, and that would be her gift. A gift for whom? How would she do it? Sadness occurred, for her mind could only burst forth with ideas. She had no sterilisers to dissect herself and make this gift. The thought counts.

A cupboard stood in the corner of her grandfather’s room. There was a blizzard inside, enticing her with the promise of suffocation. There, at the bottom, she saw it. Her stomach drooped over her cave as she bent, her tendons working furiously to support her weak frame. She bent, allowing gravity to take her, but not too far.

You’re meant to bend your knees and lift with your back to prevent injuries at your own risk.

In her grandfather’s room in her house by the coast, all he left was this bed space. His green bedroom. He wanted to complement the shifting colours that were given by the ocean but only created an insulting clash that caused injury to the external setting. Maybe to someone prudish, but she liked the green. She liked how it separated them from the outside. There was no deception. They knew where they were.

Without blurring boundaries the truth proved to be ugly.

She read somewhere once that green complements brown. She felt her numb self melting as she sat on the green bed holding this box that had what she needed inside.

Wool. Knitting tools. Her creation would be complete. She is the gift that would keep giving.

Moving from green, to dancing shadows, to door, to the salty air and harsh winds, she moved further up hill. She moved further up until she sat down by the cliff where she made love to the draught and achieved loss. Now she would make love to herself, looking forward to the never ending horizon instead of loving at a wet brown body lying on top of her.

She finished moving and sat on the cliff. Her house, the draught, the green, the dancing shadows were behind her now. She could only do and not think.

Spreading her legs and replacing the emptiness with the box, her feet floated a mile above the smooth wet rocks being licked by the ocean’s children.

She knitted brown and green to finally hold up to the sky and laugh. I am not submitting my creations in accordance to you.

She knitted until there was no wool left. A shapeless scarf that required more warmth and comfort. So, pulling on a thread of her long yellow dress she continued knitting. Each click was a welcome and a goodbye. Each click would be heard by her failed creation, by the house, by the draught.

The winds licked her legs and attempted to comfort her vessel to make up for the space left by the discarded box. Wet drops from the clouds above kissed her layered stomach and life giving breasts as her dress was hitched higher and higher. Her hair was so dense due to the length getting confused with the threads from her yellow dress. The threads of her head became one with her attire, she was becoming one. A foot of jet black mingled with the shapeless green, brown, and yellow.

She was being made love to by her surroundings as she became altered with her hands inching up herself. Her unrelenting hands. Her fingers came closer, pulling on her skull as the clicks became louder. Deafeningly loud. She had never heard anything so close to her.

She was now a puppet, with her hand made strings pulling her spine forward into the oceans embrace. She joined her floating feet and swooped down the chalky cliff, clicking along to every heart beat she wanted to give warmth and comfort. She clicked, finally clicked with it all. Her soft stomach gave a click as it welcomed the knitting needles upon greeting the wet rocks entwined with the oceans embrace. She clicked.

She is the gift that finally gave. She gave back.

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A Pakistani walks into a bar…

After a tedious sermon at a mosque somewhere in London, cursing the drinking and homosexuality the western nations have obviously embraced, the Pakistani hasn’t got enough time to go home and get dressed. She has a late lunch date with a friend and has some issues to clear up with her, so she goes straight into the city wearing traditional South Asian clothing. On the bus, so far so good, nobody has passed a comment on the Pakistani’s appearance; it’s hard to find a girl wearing odd clothes and speaking perfect English on the phone. One middle aged woman complimented the vibrant colours imprinted on the fabric, which was gratefully received. It was a hot day so the Pakistani took off her coat and scarf that she had religiously worn inside the mosque but there was no one here to judge her, she though, so it would be alright. Off the bus and onto the underground she had never felt more relieved that she wasn’t wearing her headscarf, half the people in the carriage might’ve died of heart failure upon seeing a Muslim on the tube.

The Pakistani had been to so many of these sermons that it was replaced with white noise in her mind, much like a mother can blank out the irritating cries of children in a café after having four herself. She thought nothing of it, nothing of the statement “homosexuality will be the downfall of our nation, now we have welcomed it wholeheartedly into our government.” Aside from the economy, violence, rape, and murder of British citizens, being gay is most certainly the reason for the third world war… Off the train she stood outside the station, enjoying a cigarette, checking the time. She was early. She wandered off into the bar, sending a text;

Babe, I’m actually early, sorry for the miscalculation. I’ll see you in ten, meet me at the bar, top floor. X

Ordering a drink, sitting at a table with the view of the city, the Pakistani thinks about her father. At the mosque she is a Pakistani; to her friends, she’s seen as more of an Indian, she’ll settle with being a Pakistani right now. Normally impatient, the sermon was still ringing in her mind, stinging her face like a tight slap passed across it. All of her efforts for her family were thrown back in her face and now she’s sitting in a bar, drinking, waiting for a girl she’d previously been involved with. A major cluster fuck western intellectuals would drool over the prospect of debating. The Pakistani just wanted a drink and a chat.

She scoped out her friend amidst the slowly growing crowd, thirsty for release after a hard day of work earning money in the city on a Friday evening. Suddenly the Pakistani grew conscious about her attire. Her friends loved her in it, her friend in question preferred her in it, but she herself felt odd, misplaced, out of order; defected, almost, as if her attire was a silky “FUCK UP” label branded across her body. She finished off her drink and stood up with a glossy smile over her face to receive her friend. Both pairs of arms outstretched, both faces with smiles, the brown one subtly swerving in the other direction of the white ones lips because god forbid two girls were to kiss in public. The Pakistani’s friend looked bewildered at the rejection for a moment, but shook her face into politeness again, how-are-you’s and this-one-time-I-was-so-drunk’s were exchanged and laughed about. Drinks were flowing; money was no object, the crowd getting larger around the intimate table for two. The sun was setting over London and the bar was getting warmer, the Pakistani placed a hand over her friends and the got closer with the alcohol. The conversation was broken with an unwelcome remark of “interracial lesbian porn, nice one. Get that paki in a hijab.” She was was a bit confused, because I thought lesbian pornography was pornography containing two lesbians, not two girls who were holding hands over a table sharing gentle conversation. Either way the Pakistani’s friend bowed her head, her cheeks flushed. The Pakistani didn’t know how to handle the cat calls and wolf whistles entirely well so she stupidly went off outside to have a cigarette, leaving her friend there, alone.

Smoking outside, her head spinning slightly, the Pakistani was approached by a fellow smoker, as the smoke hovering above their heads had joined them together, and introductions were prompted which took the form of “your dress is really nice, you don’t see much of that in the city.”

“Why thank you, my mother made it for me…”

The elderly gentleman was wearing an expensive suit and looked well-travelled, like he’d seen and heard it all before, easing the Pakistani into comfort, allowing her to talk about her family and life in other countries. But before they knew it, the cigarettes had ended and she was walking back up to her friend, instilled with confidence to have a good night. She’d missed the last step and jumped onto the second floor, and bounced towards her table which was surrounded with yuppies in their mid-twenties, talking to her friend. As she drew closer she heard what they were saying, “come on, get it down you, we were nice enough to buy you a drink… it’s not like you don’t like getting a bit naughty, it’s obvious, we can get your Indian friend involved, happy days!”

“Actually, I’m Pakistani, and I’d appreciate it if you leave us alone, we’re in the middle of something.” There was a tremble in the Pakistani’s voice as her dress became moist with a nervous sweat. Whoever told you brown people can’t blush is a damned liar.

“Whatever you’re in the middle of, my man would sure like to squeeze in between,” the classy and original joke had caused howls of laughter and knee slapping from the group. The Pakistani’s friend got up and tugged on her friends arm, muttering, “Let’s just go,” and they both walked out of the bar, defeated, followed by a chorus of more wolf whistles and cat calls.

Outside, the night air cooled both of their faces down and they wrapped coats around themselves. The Pakistani felt shit for leaving her friend alone, girls aren’t meant to be left alone in bars, that’s how they get sexually harassed; Pakistanis aren’t meant to go to bars, that’s how ignorance is conceived. Anything queer has to be left in the bedroom, that’s how fetishizing and homophobia comes about, because we’re so damned selfish we can’t keep those things to ourselves and we have to flaunt them in everyone’s faces. The Pakistani thought she’d make it up to her friend,

“We could go to another pub? There’s one down the road which seems quite nice.” Met with refusal, the Pakistani couldn’t blame her friend, the same thing would only happen again. If only she’d spent half an hour going home and pulling some jeans on, this wouldn’t have happened, feck’s sake. “Just come back to mine?” Met with another rejection, again, not that the Pakistani would blame her friend for never wanting to see her again; so they had an awkward hug goodbye and went their separate ways, the occasional like on Facebook not really cutting it for communication for some reason. She doesn’t smoke that much anymore, anyway.

A Pakistani walks into a bar, and would like a Desperados, please and thank you. 

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