colors

DAY 30 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “why does the color of my…”

“Why does the color of my skin matter less than yours?” asked Roe to her friend Edger.

There was not any emotion on her face. She did not look sad, angry or frustrated.

Her eyes looked like the surface of a calm lake which fails us in sensing its depth.

She uttered this line as if she was talking about a pizza slice.

“It is sad but true. And it is not just color, the texture of your voice, your entire existence matters less than a white person’s. The word of a white man values more than a person of color. And it would remain so for coming decades.” Replied Edgar.

“I know,” responded Roe.

“But we can’t let it remain the fact,” added Edgar.

PS – This is the 30th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

sorry, truth is often not sexy

DAY 29 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “Sometimes I feel…”

“Sometimes, I feel why do we keep our conversations truthful, when it has largely gone extinct from our public lives. I mean what do we get day in, day out from our government, public officials, or for that matter any person holding a microphone, if not a pack of lies…,” Shea asked frustratingly from her friend, reading a news article about the upcoming presidential election.

“For god’s sake, there are professionals who makes millions of dollars each year for crafting better lies for public at large. They are called public relations champions. Leave alone public officials, this virus of untruthfulness in conversations is increasingly seeping in personal conversations from friends, colleagues and sometimes even from our partners then what moral obligation do we have to keep ourselves truthful and honest in our conversations?” she added.

Her friend listened to her patiently and let her finish her thought.

“Well, I feel that you speak truth not for others but for yourself as with each lie you deliver; you distance yourself away from your true self, your own soul. For some, their soul isn’t something to cherish, nurture our strengthen. For some, nothing is precious than their true self.”

PS – This is the 29th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

abandoned children

DAY 28 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS ‘THERE IS A SAYING…’

Jeanne Moreau in paris of 1940.

“There is a saying that it takes a village to grow a child but what happens when the village decides to abandon the child…what happens then? who takes care of the child?” she asked the young waitress, sipping her coffee, looking across the street through the glass window of the café.

“Sorry, I didn’t understand, Ma’am!” waitress replied, feeling confused.

“No, it’s nothing, thanks!” she replied.

“Alright, ma’am, give me a call if you need anything.” replied the waitress and left her with coffee.

The waitress had heard the question but still decided not to answer.

She had learned with her experience that often such questions are not asked to seek answers but for the sake of asking them. As sometimes our ability to ask questions gives us the feeling of self-control even when we know that we aren’t.

The woman was still looking across the street. Her eyes were still blank.

When she saw the waitress again, she looked at her as if she had the answer to her question but decided not to share.

“It’s the street…, ma’am!” said the waitress.

“Sorry? what?” asked the woman.

“The street takes care of the children who are abandoned by the village,” replied the waitress.

PS – This is the 28th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

page number 53

DAY 27 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS ‘ON A COLD SUNDAY MORNING, SHE LEFT HER HOUSE…’

On a cold misty Sunday morning, she left her house.

Three days later, when her parents returned from a work trip, they found the front door wide open with a thick layer of dust on the floor.

Feeling confused, they called her daughter. They haven’t been able to get in touch with her for last three days.

Their stress was increasing with each step. They peeked into the kitchen where they find that the pan was still on the stove. And a book, opened on page 53, was placed upside down.

It was like as if she was there, the previous moment, making the curry and finishing the book.

PS – This is the 27th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

agents of peace

DAY 26 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “IT MAKES MY BLOOD BOIL…”

“It makes my blood boil, when I see young people, with no visible interest in knowing or understanding their worlds, become journalists and begin talking about saving democracy and civil rights before learning basic things like filing a news copy. I mean it makes no sense, at all.” Soy said frustratingly to her colleague.

Soy has been the editor of an international news organisation for last 13 years.

He joined this organization as a trainee, worked as a reporter for many years & then handled desk for many more years before becoming the editor.  

He was what others call ‘the idealist’ of his newsroom.

And probably his idealistic thinking helped him maintain a distance from all ideologies and good men aka messiahs of the political landscape.

It was his belief that it’s not possible for one man to change the world for others. 

“I also don’t understand why these young journalists become the unpaid agents of this political party or that political party, this cause or that cause, before understanding what they are defending. They speak more, on social media, than listen to people who know these things. I am all for freedom of speech, youngesters should be able to tell what they feel but I feel bad for them as they kill their early years on their phones on something they don’t understand.” replied his colleague.

PS – This is the 26th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

a meaningless life

_{DAY 25 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS ‘“I didn’t like it…” he replied to her}“

“Why do I feel this urge to do something meaningful?” she asked her mentor.

“Well, I think it’s because of who we are as a species. We like finding a meaning in everything we do. It gives us the reason to go on, to suffer and keep living this life. but why are you finding your job meaningless?” replied her mentor.

She has been a working journalist for more than a decade.

Lately, she has stopped seeing her work as a meaningful job.

She responded, “It has been increasingly becoming a monotonous job for me. I basically create contents for internet users like somebody, in the illegal drugs business, pack packets of heroin for drug users. They don’t care if the person consuming the drug would live on or die after consuming that very packet. If they care about anything then it’s their drug business. All considerations towards quality and care is to ensure that the business should not be negatively impacted. The large portion of Journalism has become something like that. We don’t care for the reader. We don’t care if our stories would kill them or empower them. All we care about is the business. It’s from top to bottom. Everybody cares about their business, not the users. This way we are like the drug cartels. We just sell words.”

“Well, it’s true.” her mentor responded. “But what’s the solution?” asked her mentor.

“The solution is simple – go out and meet people in real life, sit in their homes, go for coffee with them and think of them before you publish anything.” she responded.

“Can you do that?” asked her mentor.

“Yes, I think. I can.” she responded.

“Then go and do as long as you can.” her mentor responded.

PS – This is the 25th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

why this blog?

Hey folks,

I hope you are doing fine in your lives. I sincerely thank you for coming over and starting a conversation. It means a lot to me.

The reason to start this blog is to have meaningful conversations about love, life and lost dreams.

The purpose is to create a space where we can have conversations without judging each other, without hating each other, without hurting each other.

The idea is to tell stories that we often delete because we think the audience and space aren’t right.

So, here we will try to be the audience that we wish to get for our audience and tell our stories that are close to our hearts.

Feel free to share your story at thedeletedstory@gmail.com or just post in the comment section.