True Stories

[decon_blue]

Stories? Can they be true. How do we prove it? With more stories, words, ideas meanings, things written, printed on paper, on walls, on billboards, in minds of little children regardless of choice. What choice, tomorrow, we are going to go out in space and give our story to others.

I belive there is a little 'diplomatic' message bag on the Voyager. I remember Carl Segan on television telling us about a gold disc on some rocket blasting off on space - something to do with it having a beatles song on it. I also believe that we like burying time capsules with all kindsa things in it. Tho' I only came across it in early Archie comics. Any verification would be welcome:confused:

So set, I intend to start.
Here's a story. I hope it grows.


Well, the idea has grown. I have no clue about the story. Just like I have seriously no clue about life.
A bit about myself, maybe (*'that too, maybe'). I know which bits of this story are true. You don't.

Take a scroll through my posts. I am gonna commit my self to writing this. Needless to say, from the subject matter, love, relationships, heartbreak, citylife, are all there to see and are mine. What I have been stumbling over is my insistence on refusing to do a cathartic :blush: cliche and try and take the story somewhere out of my life. I belive both of us should live.

Might fly, might crash, might run out of fuel in mid air and never return for R&D. I'm just on the edge; hey any mountain will do. Weanmhile, check out this story and tell me which bits are true

Trust me, I know this is stranger than fiction but then these are strange days.
"Comment all you view"




[Shucks! I miss the beach!]

[decon_blue]

Popa Chubby played in the background as diamond-heart, lead-head Sam stared at the rim of her glass, lost in swizzle-stick dreams, wishing she’d left something more than faint traces of red contact. Things swam a bit as he felt the airconditioning swish around his ears and the tinkling, chinkling sound of conversational dinnerware and the thirty odd people around him. There were the usual young cats with their bulky sweaters and loose jeans and goatee looks but he’d done his bit of getting up and following women when they left, so the young dude would just have to carry on conjecturing.

Sam slid a little onto his right elbow and looked through the middle distance for the fellow who could refill his glass. “Pollitically correct, though befuddled,” he thought to himself as he wondered what he had said or done wrong. Probably nothing; was the answer staring at him in the face. Well actually, she was definitely quite gone now.

She left him for another woman. He wondered what to make of it. Tottered around in thought, he fumbled for the paper to sign as he wondered if he could make it to the parking before the numbing loss hit him full force. “Oh, wait Sam! This one will grow,” he fumbled for his keys in all pockets at least three times before coming to a shortlist. “Either I said something, or I didn’t say something. In any case, she said something; oh ****! How do I get out of this one,” he moaned to himself.

The dark steel refuge of the car was welcome as he let his head sink onto the steering wheel. Sitting with his shoulders hunched as he worked the twin trails of tears down between the steering boss and somewhere onto his knees. “She’s found someone else!” The thought stood out in front of his screwed-shut eyes. “It ain’t me,” he fumbled for the keyhole and paused. ‘She’s left him for another woman. Welcome to the big city, Sam.’ The thought kept him going just like the repeat button. The wind cried Mary all the way back home. Headlights misted after coming through the windsrcreen. Unlike the times before when just the rain would hit the glass and inside they would try and …the exit sign gleamed blue and white as he pulled off into the suburbs. He knew there was no point hurrying as he was beaten. He was also lucky with the chances he took getting there. The tired feeling grew till checked by the raw heat from his eyes. Childish replays on memory’s film kept their promise till he was safely inside his room on the third floor. Same old iron chairs, four pots and a cheap wooden rack. Nice lampshade made out of an old LP record he’d bought in the flea market and had melted, warranting a lower-watted bulb to arrest the black plastic tulip from flolding on itself.

[Ain't over yet, folks]

[decon_blue]

A few mechanical actions and he was inside with the universal cup-of-noodlesin his hand. 'Seeded by the progenitors,' as she once remarked in her extra-terresterial reading phase. Hanging with the moon was a cane swinging chair that the old landlady liked to come and sit in the winter sun into which he settled. Sam was smart enough to make sure he dragged his towel off the washing line on his way. With the mechanical drone of the radio in his room spilling into the terraced roof, Sam sat, noodles forgotten by his side. As one by one, like leaves falling off a tree, the evening's events washed over him.

[decon_blue]

Sam loved the beach. He grew up with its undemanding costal lifestyle that began with fishing boats leaving in the morning and any one of the small local pubs that were so common in town that you only had to turn a corner to see one. Just a coconut leave thatch and a television in the corner, tables and a casheirs counter next to the enterance. That was where his dad and his elder brother would dissappear in the evenings. Sam loved to walk down by the ocean side. He loved the sound and usually drifted down the dark coastline till the sound became a part of him. The constant rush and ebb of foam that would turn into a white lipcurl at night, streaking the sea like layers of stratified water feathering at the edges. Sixteen and at sea with his own feelings and family, Sam was ready for life to happen.

Till he grew interested in the usual teenager sports, Sam was interested in the usual boy sports. He loved to play football and go on long bycycle rides with his friends. They would usually end up at the beach on the other side of town, out of sight of any family. Where they would empty their pockets and buy a quart of red wine or the locally made brew, ‘toddy,’ made from dates. Now if I add the staple accompaniment of cashew nuts, you’d know in no time that it’s Goa that I am describing. Trouble was, Sam was also a reader. He loved to go digging in the old school library, run by nuns from a nearby convent, looking for the odd purchase that had no business in a school library. Once, he made the mistake of telling the Sister Librarian about a book he had found in the library. Later, when older, he realized that the affected, adult action that he imagined it would be, only ensured that the books were so throughly vetted that his supply of non-‘kiddish’ books soon dwindled. Sam would scour any house he visited, for books to read. When things were really bad, he would resort to re-reading the copies of Readers’ Digest lying aimlessly around. In fact, he would pay particular interest to articles that told you ’How to make better love to your wife.” Of course, this was before the current glut of women’s magizines advising fourteen year old girls how to gauge their ‘sexual chemistry levels’ or ‘52 sexual secrets to please your boyfriend when he is driving.’ Sam would carefully read the advice of older people telling him how to care and communicate and keep it fun and look for new ways to say you care and about keeping it fresh through the years.

Till the moment he bent over to pick up a book she dropped. Oh, she was cute. Box pleats on her skirts and the slimmest pair of ankles he’d ever seen on a girl. She was slender and kept her hair short. Probably something to do with the lack of decent places to go get a girl’s hair cut. She had passed out of the local government college this year. It was a small town and her dad taught at the same college. Sam met her when his elder brother had to go to college to get some paperwork done regarding his admission in the ‘reserved’ seats that the State-run educational instutions invariably have for small towners and those socially-challenged by their backgrounds. Of course, since there were limited seats, competition was fierce at the enterance examinations to any of these institutes.

She was looking for an idea of where she could do her post-college studies. But Sam was more interested in the book he was holding, Fritzgerald’s Great Gatsby. She turned and saw the book in his hand. Her lips parted in surprise as her hands fled to the pocket on her backpack where she’d put it earlier. Their eyes connected