I Dread Today

I Dread Today
By Pallavi Kidambi - March 21, 2008

I Dread Today

I dread today. I dread everyday really. Everyday just seems exactly the same as the next. It’s the same routine over and over. I wake up and brush my teeth, shower…etc. I drink a cup of coffee, eat a bagel, read the paper, watch the morning news, get a brain scan, and I’m off to work where the annoyingly pastel walls with their peeling paint and guffawing circus animals continue to jeer at me. I’m off to work where I am forced to welcome screaming infants and spit-drenched bibs. No one likes going to the dentist. I’m off to work where my only peace is a fifteen-minute lunch break where I get to drink cold powdered coffee, eat a soggy BLT and dread the next few hours ahead of me. Thank god I have my music to get me through the day, and maybe I can watch a bit of T.V. in the hallways. I’m so glad they put TVs in every room now, and the hallways too. It makes life just a bit more bearable. I don’t want to have to think about those little brats with their rotten little teeth. I’d rather just pull them all out. Get rid of the mess.
Well today there was an especially rotten little boy around the age of four that was bugging the hell out of me. He kept spitting in my face every time I tried to drill his teeth. I felt like suffocating the little bugger but I had to immediately vanquish those thoughts, for I didn’t want to get caught. So I put on a fake smile and told the kid that it wouldn’t hurt one bit. This of course was a total load of crap. I didn’t even numb the little bastard. He deserved it. The next thing I know the Alarms went off and the Catchers were surrounding the achingly pink operation room.
“You’re under arrest for the thinking of harmful thoughts. You’re stricken of rights as of Class B dangerous thinking. Come quietly and maybe we won’t kill ya.” This statement was followed by much laughter from the other Catchers. Oh great, I thought, this is the third time this month I’ve had to go into questioning. But I kept my mouth shut and allowed myself to be taken into custody.
I was brought to a high-ceilinged domed courtroom, now known as thought-questioning rooms. There was a tired looking judge and a couple of the Catchers that got me. They sat me down on a single wooden chair in the middle of the room and immediately cuffs mechanically attacked my hands. I was trapped, but I wasn’t worried, for this happened to me many times. I guess it’s just another routine in my life now.
“Well, Miss Simms, this is the third time this month we’ve held you for questioning. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” The judge boomed.
“I keep the same argument from all the previous trials.” I had to keep my cool. Even though this was standard procedure, I had to remember that my life was on the line, but then again, it always is.
“You have been charged with violating Thought Decree number 23: Thoughts of violence toward children. This is a Class B dangerous thought; if found guilty, you will be sentenced to death by electrocution.” I hadn’t realized what I thought was so dangerous. Sure, it was a Class B thought, but to DIE for it?
“Your honour, May I ask why I am being sentenced to death for a Class B thought?”
“It is simple, your thought was directed toward a child. That is intolerable. You must be executed.”
“But, your honour, it was not a serious thought! It surely couldn’t be anything more than a Class C?”
“Your scan indicates that your anger levels were at Classification B.”
“Please sir, can you re-check it? Or perhaps, scan me again? Don’t I have the right to a re-scan?”
“Class B’s have no rights.”
“Please sir, could you find it in yourself to give me a re-scan?”
“I haven’t anything left to find Miss Simms.”
“I swear to you it was a Class C! I’ll take a fine! However much! Please!”
“Well, alright we’ll issue a re-scan and take up the case once the results are re-checked.”
“Thank you, your honour.” I was then taken to the waiting room to sit with the other 200 or so re-scanners. There was a woman sitting next to me that looked utterly mortified.
“This your first time?” I asked her.
“Yes.” She answered quickly.
“What did you think?”
“I got in a fight with my husband.”
“Oh…well, those things usually work out in Our favour.”
“I threatened to kick him out of the house.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry miss. I hope your children didn’t have to watch.”
“No, they’re all in prison.”
“Temper tantrums?”
“Yes.”
“It happens to the best of us. Hey, at least they have television in your cells.”
“Have you been?”
“Oh sure. Dozens of times.”
“Miss Simms!” A Catcher called out.
“Well, here I go again. Goodbye…and good luck with everything.”
“Yes, I suppose everything depends on luck now doesn’t it?”
“Sure, if you believe in that sort of thing.” Luck wasn’t something I believed in. It seemed too good to be true. If there was a such thing as luck, in this world, it would never be on your side.

In an Aeroplane Over the Sea

In an Aeroplane Over the Sea
by Pallavi Kidambi - September 27, 2007

In an Aeroplane over the Sea

My eyes had trouble adjusting to the sunlight. I had just opened the window beside me and it was quite a contrast to the darkness of the airplane’s interior. I gazed outside and daydreamed of sleeping on the fluffy cumulous clouds that were before me. I wondered if clouds felt like cotton candy, or were they freezing cold wisps of condensation? This is a question every child asks themselves among others such as “Where does the sun go when it disappears at night?” These questions have scientific answers, but children love to make up their own fantastic explanations.
So these questions I pondered while in an airplane headed for the land in which I so desperately yearned to escape. This land to my mother was called “home.” I am headed to her home. I wonder what it will feel like being in the place where my mother lived, the place where she cooked and cleaned and suffered in her last days on this earth. Would it be scary, seeing this place just as she had left it? This was a painful thought. I had not seen my mother in 3 years. I barely remembered what she looked like. But what I did remember about her was how she would scream and scream about how the world was out to get her. She would sob continuously about absolutely nothing at all.
When my mother first started throwing these fits, my father and I thought that she was just overly sensitive, but then her fits started to get worse. She started throwing things across the house and destroying anything she could get her hands on. We were worried so much. So my father and I decided to take her to the hospital and get her a mental evaluation. The doctor diagnosed her as “psychotic.” That is when it really hit me of how dreadful a situation we were in. My mother was psychotic.
We tried to give her medication, but she couldn’t admit that there was anything wrong with her. This was a huge predicament because she couldn’t calm down or get any better unless she took her medication. The odd thing was, she was fine in public and when she was at work and when she was talking on the phone, but when she came home or talked to us, she unleashed all the emotions she bottled up inside of her. There was once a time where she grabbed my arm and dug her fingernails so deep into it that I had blood dripping down my arm from the torn flesh.
The worst part of the situation was that the idiotic government required her consent for her to be taken to a mental institution. Of course, she wouldn’t admit she was insane, and seeing how she would only go crazy at home, we couldn’t have someone catch her in the act. I was the only one keeping our family together. I’m sure that without me, my father would have left my mother. I dealt with this problem for eleven years, with my only help the Riddilin I had to sneak into her food.
My father and I were a bit apprehensive about sending my mother to a mental hospital, because my mother was a bona fide genius. Really, she was a brilliant scientist and she came very close to winning a Nobel Prize for her cancer research, but that was when she started to go crazy and lost focus on her work. She moved down a rank, and was so outraged by this, she would work 14 hours a day to gain something of what was left of her work before.
After eleven years of putting up with my mother, I found myself a senior in high school. I then realized I had to go to college, but with the situation my mother was in, I was contemplating not going at all. I remember thinking to myself, how could my mother do this to me? How could she become like this? Because of her, I might not go to college and I might not get a good job or be able to support myself or even a family for that matter! But my father told me to go. I had helped this family enough. Even though my mother kept me up until four in the morning on school days, I still managed to become the top five percent in my class. I could get into any college I wanted to.
My father told me to leave and he would take care of my mother, so I left. I went to college in California, which was 3000 miles from my mother. I never wanted to go back there. I didn’t want to ever deal with my mother again, and now I won’t ever have to. I was a coward. I am ashamed of myself. I couldn’t do anything for my mother in the last years of her life. I couldn’t comfort her, or hold her hand. I couldn’t even tell her that I loved her one last time.
My mother took her own life and my father and I don’t know if it was because of her insanity, or because of the hurt she was feeling because her own daughter didn’t even want to see her. I will never know, and now, I have to get off of this plane and face my biggest fear: coming back to the place I so desperately yearned to escape. I was coming back to apologize on my mother’s grave. I was coming back home.

Imaginary Numbers

Imaginary Numbers
by Pallavi Kidambi - September 28, 2007

Imaginary Numbers

I scratched my nose and stared blankly at the split ends in my hair. The room was so hot. The sun beamed onto my desk and its reflection twinkled on my watch. I looked down, only 35 minutes of class left! Woo hoo! I found it incredible that there was someone in class that could actually concentrate amidst the humidity and brain estrangement that everyone else was experiencing. I couldn’t focus on the numbers. 2 + 2 = 12? I couldn’t focus anymore. My thoughts were gone. My thoughts were cruising down the 101 of daydreams and there was no traffic to stop me. The only thing I had to worry about was the highway patrol smacking my hands and waking me up from my daydream delight.
My teacher started to talk about rational and irrational numbers and my eyes started to unfocus. I wondered about those imaginary numbers that no one really talks about too much. Imaginary numbers…I wonder what they would be like. Would they be like imaginary friends? Would they be like imaginary fantasies? Or would they be like “the numbers” that are so significantly brought up in LOST? Whatever they, were, they got me dreaming, and when my thoughts go, they’re gone.
One thing led to another and I found myself trying to make up an imaginary friend. I once read that children make up imaginary friends so that they could make an individual that would fit their standards. It would be some one that would accept them for who they were and would “play” with them when they had no other friends. This imaginary friend would be the perfect and ideal friend of any child. So I felt that at that time, I wanted to make an imaginary friend.
The first image that came to mind was of a giant number 5. A number 5 like the numbers on Sesame Street. The man inside of that suit would almost always be a man who would go to the ends of the earth to get paid, so he would degrade himself by dancing in a giant red number 5 suit on television.
His name will be Five and he will chew 5 gum and he would only teach you things about the number 5. He didn’t seem to be the ideal imaginary friend for me, but he was the ideal imaginary number and his qualities would suffice for the duties of the imaginary numbers.
We would go on many adventures together. Our first adventure was trying to find Mr. Five a date to the imaginary numbers reunion. We were trying to pick some one out of numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42. Mr. Five finally settled on 8 because he liked her figure. I thought this pretty low of Mr. Five. He shouldn’t be judging his date on their looks! He argues that in the short amount of time he had to choose, look were the only criteria he had that would make the judging process fair.
So Mr. Five went on his date with Miss Eight and when Mr. Five cam back, he said that it was likely that he and Miss Eight would be married. So Mr. Five and Miss eight got married, and soon there came little Thirteen. Thirteen had horrible luck, especially in her teenage years. She got dreadful grades, she had no friends, and everyone that associated with her seemed to vanish. Her only friend was her little black cat. That cat would follow her everywhere making sure that no one would harm Thirteen, but everyone stayed away from thirteen anyways. They didn’t want their bad luck to grow and grow until the point where they would become as miserable as Thirteen was.
Thirteen had many more problems when she was older. The only number she could marry was old Six-hundred-sixty-six (666 for short). She decided not to because every other wife of 666 had mysterious and brutal deaths. His previous wife, 87, was divided 986 times and died in the process. Poor Thirteen died alone at the young age of 27.
Mr. and Mrs. Five were devastated. Their only child died of a broken heart. I told them I would mend it by imagining up a brand new number for them, but they insisted that no one could replace Thirteen, not even Twenty-three. Their sorrow was so great, that it made even I increasingly depressed. Then all of a sudden I came to a screeching halt. I was caught by highway patrol.
“Miss, this is not pre-school. Nap time is over.”
By the time I realized that the numbers were all a dream, class was over. I wondered whether I would ever see Mr. Five again. Would his pain ever cease? But I knew that wherever Mr. Five was, he was grateful that I was with him to ease his sufferings. No one believed Mr. Five when he told them about his friend who would keep him company. They would say that it was impossible for humans to come to life and be friends with us numbers, but Mr. Five needed a friend around in those rough times and no matter who it was, that friend help him. The friend just happened to be an imaginary human.

The Music Box

The Music Box
By Pallavi Kidambi - September 30, 2007

The Music Box

“What should we do?”
“What do you think we should do?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Hopefully a valid one.”
“Well it isn’t and I demand satisfaction!”
“Oh you want to duel eh?”
“To the death!”
“If death is what you wished, you could have had it hours ago my friend.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that the ‘situation’ you faced earlier could have left you to the birds, really.”
“Oh, well if THAT’S what you think!”
“It damn well IS what I think!”
“If you hadn’t…”
“Hadn’t what? HADN’T WHAT?”
A hooded figure appeared out of the midst.
“Oh WHAT are you going on about NOW?”
“Hello Thomas! Well you see here…erm…well…I...I…I’ve damn well forgotten what we were arguing about, really.”
“Well then I suggest you two shut up then! Can’t a person get some bloody rest around here without you two arguing about stupid things your brain can’t even have the hopes to remember?”
“Sorry mate. We weren’t thinking about other people.”
“Yeah that’s the fault of this whole damn world.”
“So did you just come here to tell us off or are you here for a reason?”
“I’m here on official business actually.”
“Official business?”
“Right, I’m delivering a package here addressed to a Mr. Finley.”
“Mr. Finley? You mean that strange bloke who lives up Wither Lane?”
“Yeah that’s right. I may finally get a chance to look the old bugger in the eye.”
“My cousin went up to old Finley’s place once. Never saw the poor bloke again. They say he knocked on Finley’s door and a hand came and up grabbed him in broad daylight and everything!”
“Do you s’pose that’s true?”
“Naw, I think old Finley wants people to be scared of him you see.”
“Why would he want people to be scared of him?”
“So he can be left alone of course! I bet I’ll be the first one to visit him in oh…about seven years.”
“Seven years? Has it really been that long?”
“So what do you s’pose is in that package? Money? Jewels? Killing utensils?”
“No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. It came from a company that manufactures instruments.”
“What kind of instruments?”
“Instruments of torture?”
“God I hope not. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if you know what I mean.”
“Oh no Thomas! You aren’t really considering going up there are you?”
“I have to! I’ve been looking for an excuse to see old Finley, and here’s one right to plop on his doorstep!”
“So you’re going to go then?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Well then, nice knowing you mate.”
“Yeah, so long.”
“Oh come off it! I’ll be back before you know it!”
* * *
Early the next morning, Thomas quickly made him way up Wither Lane with friends bidding him farewell along the way. Thomas didn’t know what to think. Was Mr. Finley really what everyone said he was? Or was he just a cranky old fellow that just wanted to be alone. Whoever he was, Thomas was going to find out soon enough.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Thomas rapped on the door several times before a faint noise was heard behind that door. Then a voice came. It was coarse and raspy like it hadn’t been used in years.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Post. I have a delivery here for a Mr. Finley.”
The door opened and Thomas finally got a look at Mr. Finley. He was a cheery looking fellow with chalk white hair and wide rimmed spectacles. His knickerbockers went up to his chest and he carried an air of satisfaction of the world around him.
“A VISITOR! For ME? Come in! Come in! Oh this is delightful! No one EVER comes to visit me! I haven’t got a clue why! The last time someone visited me was about seven years ago and he loved this place so much he decided never to leave!”
Mr. Finley let Thomas inside his mansion. Every inch of the walls were covered in fine art of the rarest kinds. He had the most expensive hand crafted Persian rugs and marble floors. Whoever Mr. Finley was, he was very rich indeed.
“Is that my package? Oh my heavens! I’ve been waiting AGES for it!”
“Erm…yes it is.”
“Well don’t just stand there! Please, sit down!”
Thomas was taken back. He didn’t expect Mr. Finley to be this nice after all the horrible comments he had heard about him. Why, this man was a very nice person! He felt comfortable in his presence. Mr. Finley opened the parcel. Inside was a tiny music box. Mr. Finley turned the side of it and the music started to flow out of it. It was a melancholy tune with minors and majors linked in a bittersweet harmony. Thomas was nearly moved to tears when he heard it.
“It’s a pretty tune isn’t it?”
“Oh yes sir it is.”
“Come with me son I want to show you something.”
Thomas followed Mr. Finley into an enormous circular room with high ceilings. There were shelves and shelves covered in every kind of music box imaginable. There was a table on one side where Mr. Finley would construct his own music boxes and a model of a music box so you could see the inner workings of the magnificent machine.
“This, is my collection. I’ve gathered music boxes from every nook and cranny of the world. Each one has the most unique and beautiful melody I could find. It’s been my passion collecting music boxes ever since I heard my first one when I was a wee lad. This one you delivered me was particularly difficult to get my hands on.”
So Thomas and Mr. Finley sat by a roaring fire and listened intently to the marvelous music boxes. Thomas could finally appreciate the music of these little machines. There was a wonder to them. Each one of them spun a tale of adventures long forgotten. Mr. Finley kept him up into the wee hours of the morning engaging him in stories of his travels to find various music boxes and Thomas happily sat and drank every word and music note in.
* * *
When Mr. Finley finally passed on, Thomas made it his mission to finish his music box collection. He would never forget the joys and wonders Mr. Finley had taught him. Thomas just hoped that someday someone could appreciate the beauty of these machines as much as the old bloke down Wither Lane did.

Dandelion Dreamer

Dandelion Dreamer
by Pallavi Kidambi - September 25, 2007

I regrettably opened my eyes. I did this slowly, with a manner of loathing. I did not want to wake up that day. I had no reason to. Why should I get up, when there is an option waiting for me to sleep the rest of the day? I can drift away in dreams of peace and bliss. But somehow, I must have overlooked that option, for I had chosen to open my eyes and wake up to this harsh reality I now have to face.
As soon as I “woke up” (I still felt as if I was sleeping), a spectacular vision was held before me. I had no idea where I was. My only guess was that I was in a foreign land that imitated paradise, for there really is no such thing as paradise. I have heard you can look for paradise your whole life, and all you will find is disappointment and detestation of the real world around you. So that is why I call this place an “imitation” of paradise and not actually paradise.
I awoke in a field full of dandelions. Sure, dandelions are nice things, but all in all, they are weeds. Their seeds will burst everywhere and achieve nothing more than to occupy space and clutter the beauty around you. These dandelions are like the people in the world who do nothing more than to exist and reproduce children who just exist. These people are useless and clutter space (like the dandelions). If they were radiant aromatic flowers, then they would find excitement and actually do something with their lives.
So I was in a field of dandelions. I always thought it somewhat childish when people would make a wish and blow the seeds of the dandelions. I always thought it did nothing more than create false hope in children. My assumption was that this was the dandelion’s major scheme. It would trick humans into strewing their seeds everywhere so they could reproduce faster, and then dandelions would take over the world! But people like me could see through that plot, and we realized that our wishes would never come true.
So just for kicks I decided to wish upon a dandelion. I thought it would be a pleasant joke. This of course was for my own amusement, for there was no one else around. So I picked up the nearest dandelion and thought of the silliest wish I could and blew. All of a sudden, 50 dandelions sprouted out the top of my head! I was appalled! How could this be! I had just wished for this to happen! Could my wish have come true in this foreign land? Perhaps these dandelions were magical dandelions. This brought me back to the question “where am I?” I plucked the newly grown dandelions from my head and made another wish with one of them. I wished that there was someone here to keep me company, and at that moment a rabbit appeared!
It was soft and furry and kept me amused for quite a while before I realized that I had woken up in a field full of dandelions that could grant wishes. After that I had started wishing for everything imaginable and I had everything I wanted! I had gotten to meet the most famous of celebrities and I had all the money in the world. I was living the high life. Then one day, I was shopping and the rabbit I had met before was running frantically across the street. She was about to get hit by a car, but I lunged into the street to save her.
The next thing I knew, I woke up back in the field of dandelions with the rabbit in my lap sleeping peacefully. I picked up a dandelion and wished to know what had just happened to me. A letter appeared in front of me. It read:
Dear Miss,
You sacrificed yourself to save this rabbit.
You have been applauded for this deed, and that is why you are back here.
I did not understand this letter. It did not properly explain anything. I had woken up in this strange land of wishes. I had gotten everything I had wanted. I had saved this rabbit, and I was back here again and I wanted answers, but then I realized I could answer myself, I just had to start asking the right questions and making the right wishes.

A Start, Beginning...and any other synonyms you wish to include.

Dear Blogging World...and Friends,

Welcome everyone to my humble blog...or whatever this thing is called. I would like to start off by saying hello and thank you so much just for having a look-see of what I've been talking about. This blog does not exactly serve the purpose of venting out my every thought and frustration, but rather gives me an outlet to share some of most precious stories with you all. Yes, I am a writer and I hope that I will have the discipline to continue writing in the years to come. And yes, I know that if I take this on as a profession it would make me very poor indeed. That's not what I think about when I think about writing. For me, it's about sharing my thoughts with you all...I know a bit cliché, but that's how I feel so...deal with it. As more and more time passes by, I will be posting some of my most cherished pieces. I guess I have somewhat of a style, but I see everything I write as vastly different from each other. You may happen upon a story of a girl who awakes in a field full of magical dandelions, or...you may read a story about a person who lives under the constant strain of an overbearing totalitarian government. Overall, I know I'm creative, I'm not denying that...so anything that pops out of my brain is bound to be somewhat interesting...I hope. I would really appreciate it if you could take some little time out of your incredibly busy schedules (oh yes, I'm sure they are) to read what I have created. Some of these stories are from a few years ago, so I might have been 13 or 14 when they were written (just to let you know). Thanks for reading, and feedback is MUCH appreciated.

Your Itsy Bitsy Writer,

Pallavi Kidambi