thickwig

ok, I wrote this some 3 years ago. Sad to see, I never went anywhere with this. Would like to continue this. Just tell me what these initial words make u feel like. Is it worthy enough to continue? And such..

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I'm sure you've felt that feeling before. That naughty excitement, a curious elation and ounces of stupidity. That feeling; when you know, no one is listening to you in a room ful of people; when you can say anything you want and it wouldn't make a difference, atleast not to them. And once you've uttered the unthinkable, you realise, you infact had an audience all along.
In my case, it was a little girl (who I later found out wasn't really as "little") with a rainbow popsicle. Our eyes met. One pair had a schemozzle of guilt and embarassment; the other had the acute and pure joy exclusive to sadism. Our feet moved; mine shuffled, hers tapped. Our tongues swallowed - hers, molten colours and perky taste; mine, gobs of rushed air into my hollowing-by-the-minute stomach.
One doesn't intend to get into situations like these. One endeavours to get out of them unscathed. Words are exchanged to resolve the matter at hand.
"Do you like your lollipop, dear?"
"No."
One feels a little too conjusted to think. One blurts out the first thing that flickers in the empty of the mind.
"I like your dress, it's so pretty! I really like frills."
"I'm not wearing any frills."
"I like them anyway."
"I don't. My mom forced me to wear this idiot dress."
"Ya, I know. Moms are like that. They don't care about what we think. My mom, you see, always made me wear these really tight pyjamas at night, and I couldn't sleep because they caught my...you-know...ok..maybe you-don't-know...and she wouldn't understand I was getting bigger and it was really embarassing to explain to her and my dad was never home and I finally got used to it and now I always wear tight stuff and it forms this curious lump, you see, and it gets me all kinds of looks and sometimes I welcome such looks form pretty ladies, because...you know how it is...or maybe you don't, but the problem is, most of the times, it's not a pretty girl, but some haggard old woman and that really turns me off in parties like these."
One speaks freely about things that are dear to one's heart caring less about the censorship that one tends to implement, when common sense is not on a holiday.
One waits anxiously about the kind of questions that would arise due to such an outpouring.
"What is 'haggard' ?"

.........

"Look I'll get you a better candy and a better dress, if you don't tell anyone."
"Don't tell what anyone?"
"Don't tell the things I told you or anything you heard from my mouth this evening."
"I'm very bad at keeping secrets."
"I'll teach you."
"I'm a bad student."
One tends to get a little edgy and loses his tact.
"Well, then you are a very bad girl, aren't you?"
"Huh?"
"Sorry, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it that way at all."
"Which way did you mean it?"
"Oh, please do forget it."
"It's hard if you keep reminding me about it."
"Oh, I really like your dress. What pretty frills, it has got!"

I was never really good at negotiations.

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Thanks for reading people! Your input is very much appreciated.

thickwig

variousitems

It is definetly worthy to continue! Your style shines in this one, you should keep it. It's got that amusing tint that seems consistant in your work, and It's easy to read. The only problem I have with it is that I'm not sure the age of the characters, there seems to be mixed signals there; the lollipop, the talking about mothers, the boy later offering to buy the girl a new dress (is he a rich kid, or old enough to have a job?) and the accidental sexual refrences ("Well, then you are a very bad girl, aren't you?"). The things they talk about identify them as children, but the way they speak makes them seem older. Overall though the humor is well executed, and your writing flows well. Great stuff thickwig, keep posting it!

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History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.
-Sir Winston Churchill

A Simple Man

ya mon'. don't stop. bring more.

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I sense. I feel. I think. I write. In that order, occasionally.

Raging_Hopeful

I loved this piece with its rambling and yet poetic turn of phrase. I could actually visualize the exchange. Beautiful. The candid attitude of children and the unpredictable results when they mingle with adults. You should definitely take this piece somewhere.
Cheers,
Linz

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thickwig

thanks a lot ppl! I will sit down and work on this one then
I don't know where I'll go with it, but that's part of the fun.

And variousitems, it's actually a man old enough to have a job, talking with a small girl. I'll write it better to make that more clearer.

Thanks for reading!

thickwig

thickwig

ok, guys so I guess I post the continuation here. I wrote some more, and I guess it is enough to make the first chapter along with what I posted above. Tell me if it is good enough. I have never posted works in progress before. Ooh! Naughty me.

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“Oy, Kishor! What you doing standing by yourself? Come here.”

The voice of my hero beckons. I’m free from this awkwardness!

“Ah, I see, you’ve met the sweet little Amulya. Come here dear, tell me all about your new school.”

The man was a preposterous villain! I guess it’s in their blood. You know, the boss coterie. I think the syndrome is more developed in the lower ranks than the higher ones. You know how it is, you just joined the National Pussyfooting Club. The oldsters are standing in the corner, in the dark. You don’t even have the benefit of catching glimpses of the whites of their eyes as they are glaring at you from behind plastic goggles. You have to prove yourself. You are only given six minutes before they go about minding their own business and pleasures of the feet and pussies. So, you unzip and bring the pussy out. 41 seconds. You calculate the angles. 62 seconds. You realize you have made an error in judgement and get your shoes wet. 129 seconds. You look around and find a pink spotlight has now been focused on you. 248 seconds and you are a guy in an underground establishment with pink lights and black plastic furniture. You are getting desperate. Unzip your clubbing bag and bring another pussy out. You juggle, you kick them, you pleasure them. 364 seconds. You have finished pussyfooting. The figures come out of the dark. Unfortunately, they don’t look too pleased. The oldest, most probably the gangleader, calls for the assistant to pick up the molested remains of those bonny cats. You wouldn’t say they are molested, they’ve been enjoying it for the past six weeks, when you practiced on them. When you first heard someone say “pussyfoot” in a movie or tv or radio. You dreamt of footing so many pussies. This mother of three then, the big boss, takes you into the corner, and elucidates the intricacies of their ventures. And though, that funny language of English, had given you some tangential ideas, you are given a pat on the back, for the first bit of fun they’ve had in a long time. You would suppose, teaching young gentlemen how to avoid young women’s advances into wedlock, would be interesting, in the least. What with all the drama that surely follows. However you reflect, that after going through maybe 1000, 10000 cats, you’d grow inured to the novelty of it too. Now of course, you can’t have a three-hundred word thought such as this and keep track of the conversational beacons being thrown at you by your over-eager boss trying to impress the only child of his lesser eager boss.

“……yes Kishor…that’s what I thought…that is the tune of that movie I was talking about.”

You can’t expect one to daydream of pussyfooting and middle-aged women and not have a background score. It is simply not done.

“Haha, you hum it well. Quite the entertainer, he is, eh?”

Now, I don’t know why he was being so chummy with me. My brain dangling back from pink pussies and black feet, er no, pink chairs and black lights…..or something like that, was still reeling at the realization that I was still at this abysmal party. Perhaps he thought, I was her friend.

Amulya looked amused and agreed that I was funny. She gave me that spine tingling look that only little children with adult secrets can give and nodded her head. I don’t know if she nodded for that silly sliver of air that escaped from my vocal cords during my pussyfooting adventures, or the sillier still plethora of gibberish, some time back in our tête-à-tête.

My immediate boss was pleased enough with her response and slapped my wrinkle-free bottom and went away to get some more nuggets to munch on.

So there, I was stuck again with this brat of a thing, looking for an escape route, when thankfully, the lights went out.

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There is something to be said about a pack of humans in the dark. Especially around strangers. There is release. So much of it. Shouts, whispers, groans, moans, yelps, laughter, subdued laughter, silence and heavy breathing. And of course, there is the groping. Anonymity brings out the gallant in people. They are not scared of anything. They break the manacles of society and give in to their true calling. They grope around. A higher poet would have put it in a better way, I suppose, but I was busy in my own thoughts.

They were fleeting - these thoughts. I was presented with options here. I could finally walk away from this very taxing night into my single bedroom apartment with thin walls and sounds of things going bump in the night. Or I could stay and still hear the voracious bumps that were going on around me. I followed my heart and went looking, with my highly skilled hands, for the buxom secretary of my immediate boss.

The lights came back on, of course, when everyone had settled down. And I was still….. in the process. Needless to say, I made up the clever excuse of scatting away to the nearest exit. The fact that I then found myself in the presence of my constipated immediate boss cursing those nuggets, digested my predicament into one of those never-forgotten, always exaggerated tales told in the coffee breaks and lunch breaks and even when not in break.

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thickwig