The Fast
He looks at it for a while when it is passed on to him. He can relate to the smoldering paper, dying a quick death. The thick mush of smoke that is witness to this short-lived existence. He brings it to his mouth, and breathes in as hard and as long as he can. The smoke fills his lungs, and he tries to keep it there; a tear trickles down his left eye. He needs the smoke to find the nesting place it needs in his lungs. In a bout of coughing, he loses it all. It dissipates with the thicker mush. He does, however, note that the colors are different. They merge.
…
He swims deep beneath rolling waves. He is lost in the labyrinths of coral caves. He is also hunted by the echo of the distant times. In his case it isn’t just a singular echo. He is the tyrant, the abused. He is what is, and what will ever be. He is beyond all his quantified failures, but also beyond reprieve. He is both master and slave. His focus drifts to the music. He grabs on to his favorite note. Holds on to it for dear life. The note plays on repeat in his head. The song moves on. He has finally held on to something.
…
His pants are unzipped. He looks around and he is castled in white marble. He looks down, and he sees the commode. He closes his eyes to get his bearings. He can hear Jimi violently strumming his guitar. Yes, it’s a jam. A jam back at the house. He wants to be in his house. He wants to be at Woodstock. He needs to be among the few who never made it out. He wants to be the rain that nearly ruined everything. He comes back to the moment. Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. No towel. His friend’s mother’s bath robe would do. Shirt tucked in. Belt buckled. He walks out.
…
He passes it along again. The symmetry maintained. Like the two-part circus. Puff. Puff. Pass. He looks at her now, and he can hear the cracks in the perfect facade. She’s wearing too much makeup. Her perfume suddenly suffocates him. The jasmine smell is a thick cloud of Nitrogen around him. Chilled to the bone. He needs to get out.
“Where are they?”
“They’re looking for the toad.”
“The toad?”
“Yes, it jumped off the marble slab, and into the rose bushes.”
“Should I go help them?”
“They’ll be back soon. They’ve already uprooted most of the bushes.”
“Yeah, I guess it can’t hide for much longer.”
…
His mind drifts back to the note. The realization that he let it slip away. Again. It’s all sand. It’s all getting out now. He needs to let it all out. He needs to throw up. He tries to get up. His knees buckle. He grabs on to the waste basket. Kneeling into it, he let’s it all go. Wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His mouth tastes of vomit. He collapses back on to the futon. His insides hurt. He needs to prepare for the Chem ATP. What was supposed to happen to the litmus paper? How do you control the production of ammonia? How is she preparing for the exam right now? What is she wearing right now. This was a bad idea.
…
His throat is dry. He can feel cracks opening up. He will never be able to talk again. They will find him. They will take him. When they take him, he won’t be able to call for help. Who would he call for help. Behind the cap of music, he can hear something. A distant call for prayer. It keeps knocking down his silent wails. He can even make out the words.
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar
…
He needs a drink of water before it’s too late. There are bodies scattered about him on the futon. Deep, oblivious slumber. The human stench overpowers him for a moment. He is almost thrown off balance with an urge to hurl. He already did that. He manages to get up. He looks around in the illuminated darkness. The bottle in the corner of the room. He uncorks it. He takes in a large gulp. He needs to quench his thirst once and for all. The dry gin burns up everything inside him. He feels it ripping through. It is his Barium meal. The Barium meal you could feel, but not see. It’s not a Barium meal at all. It is his last meal. Supper. He collapses.
…
Slowly, his eyes creak open. Like the back door to the havaili. His head feels heavier then usual. His clothes stick to his body. He can’t feel his arm. Slowly he flips around. He can feel a million needles sticking into his arm. He likes it. He feels alive. Taking support from the wall, he slowly gets up. His legs don’t give way. They are good legs. They are true to him. He thinks of the old man. He thinks of his sea. Cursing his left arm for not being as true as his right arm. A smile works its way across his face. He walks up the stairs.
…
“Sleeping Beauty finally got up! Come on, we got breakfast from Niazi’s.”
“Oh…I’m fasting…”
I wasn’t too sure if I should put this up. Let me know if this offends, and I will remove it.
Oh shit! was my reaction to the last line. Not in a bad way. In a oh-my-god-i-didn’t-see-that-coming sort of way. Very effective. I liked it a great deal.
I did not find this offensive at all. Although I don’t see why we need to put disclaimers of such sort up about pieces being potentially offensive. We are all writers. We draw our inspirations from sometimes less than appetizing sources. Do we have to be apologetic about our work? I don’t think so. In fact, I am appalled at the idea of someone not acting like an adult (which we all are) and having a holier-than-thou attitude about any of the pieces that have been posted so far. Realistically speaking, there will be something in everyone’s vocab that’s going to offend someone else. I, for one, will never be apologetic about my work, because it’s mine and if people are offended by it, they don’t have to read it. Yeah? I realize you were just being polite, Fraz, but this is my pet peeve. You would be surprised how much this riles me up. I am a person that goes between extremes of being dramatic, angry, and mild-mannered. Hence the rant.
As for the piece, I really liked the progression. No one is ever “in” the toilet. They can be in the bathroom. Saying “in” the toilet is basically communicating that they are inside the commode, which I am certain was not your intention. A little revision?
The darkness in the piece was visual. The human presence was overpowering. Words like jasmine scent compared to nitrogen suffocation, human stench, et cetera just drove your point home. However, at some points in the piece I felt like you were really bringing your point home with a five pound sledgehammer. Some phrases of unsteadiness of the protagonist, visions, and visuals were repetitive. Maybe a little editing?
It was a great read. I really liked it. I am glad that you enjoy Hendrix.
Noor
Hmm…well I put this up on my blog very unapologetically, as that is my own world. Here, I wasn’t too sure and that was because it dealt with drug abuse.
Took out the offending line, but repetition was intentional, because everything repeats itself when you are in the state the “he” is in, and there are breaks between the repetitions. Your comments are always derived from your passion for the written word. So they are always appreciated!
I didn’t want to give the impression that I found something wrong with your polite disclaimer. I was ranting because such things should not be necessary in a creative environment in general. The fact that we writers (collectively) have to explain ourselves says something about the creative suffocation we are living through. However, I really should be counting my blessings, because in 1893, Stephen Crane couldn’t write the word “prostitute” in Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, and had to resort to phrases like “painted cohorts.” I just think there should be no sanctions on writing, and I am a little passionate about that.
I did say that your piece was very powerful. I like it. The only reason I pointed out the repetition is because as a literary piece of substance, repetition can cause it harm i.e. it can make it boring. Your piece is NOT boring, but perceptions are different. Someone else may think it is.
Have you read “Go Ask Alice,” an anonymous journal of a teenager in the throes of drug abuse in the 70s? It actually happened. The girl died after she turned 17. It is one of the most moving books I have ever read. Eerie because I know that the person writing died when she was younger than me, three weeks after she wrote her last entry. However, there was very little or no repetition in her writing. Her entries were more hallucinogenic, otherworldly, creepy is a colloquial word that comes to mind. Your piece is different because it is in the third person, and it is amazing that you have still been able to communicate so much. I don’t do third-person very well. This is great, but introduction of new images rather than repeating some might make it even better. What’s wrong with experimenting, right?
Noor
This actually make me feel suffocated and nauseous. I guess that’s the power of a good piece. I like experiments like these, getting out of one’s comfort zone and you’ve pulled it off well. The darkness is over whelming, and the morphed stream of consciousness-ness works well.
One technical problem thouugh. According to the time frame of the story I presume you’re talking about the Fajr Azaan cuz thats the only one that has this extra line ‘Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar.’ Its not ‘minnan naar’ actually, its ‘minnan naum.’ Naum means sleep so it translates to (Prayer is better than sleep), naar means hell and ‘prayer is better than hell’ doesn’t make sense. But maybe its intentional? The protagonist’s perceptions are warped so maybe its to show that?
The piece wasn’t offensive at all, you need not worry. Also, it was nice to read from you after so many days.
Have you read our discussion on Noor’s previous post? Would you like to join in that daily reflection thing Noor and I would be starting shortly Insha’Allah?
Noor – As long as there’s been written word, there has been censor, controversy, whatever you want to call it. From Dostoevsky to Manto. From some prophet to Rushdie. But in ways I think censor and criticism derived from conflicting beliefs is good in the sense that it eggs you on!
Sidra – Thanks for your comments. About the call to prayer, that was not intentional, and you spotted it right. But as you said, it works with “naar” instead of “naum” as well, so I’ll take credit anyway!
I liked the idea about a nesting ground for sparking brains, and would love to be part of the experiment!
Yay. I am so excited. When can we start?
Noor, I would need the weekend to have my bro set things up and sort a few technical issues. Monday could be our first day Insha’Allah, sounds good?
I’m a little intimidated, where would I get ideas to write about everyday? lol.