It was finally here. The call to arms Vasilis had been waiting for since he’d been inducted into the army as a lad of seventeen. And boy, was it beautiful: the usual black-coffee-baritone of the General now closer to a treble in his emergency shouts, the comrades he’d been having his lunch with until about fifteen minutes ago now taking up their positions in the bailey as if gathered by some automatic force yet to be invented, and most of all— the stone curtain. Oh, what a queen, that towering wall devouring all light that fell on it as though it was its only sustenance, that majestic piece of art running all around the citadel that sat within.
For the uninitiated, Wrinkles is my brain.
Wrinkles: No it’s not.
Me: I’ve already opened your dialogue tag with that. And I have no plans to change that.
Wrinkles: You think it’s a clever and taunty name for me, but it’s not.
Me: Hmm. Maybe I should do like an anagram of the word ‘Brain’. How about Brian? Top marks for not tryin’?
Brian: Pot, kettle, black.
Me: Brian, being, racist.
Brian: See, this is what you keep doing in every one of these: you pretend to take an idiom literally and then it’s like hahaha, so funny. If anyone’s “not tryin'”, it’s you.
Me: Oh, hon, I don’t need to try to insult you. You just inspire mockery by virtue of your very existence.
Brian: And so, by definition, do you.
Me: Oh my. Look at that. You’re agreeing with me on something. I can feel the historicity of this moment radiating like a museum’s.
Brian: If disagreements piss you off that much I don’t get why you even bother writing these ‘conversations with my brain’. All you ever write in them is me judging your bad life decisions and you trying to be funny by humiliating me.
Me: You judging my life decisions and me humiliating you isn’t restricted to the written word.
Brian: To be fair, that was only the last one’s pattern. All the others are practically me annoying you and you annoying me in return.
Me: A proper symbiotic relationship indeed. And as a gesture of good faith I will start retitling your dialogue tags.
Brian: For real?
Me: Hey, I don’t say things I don’t mean. There you go. Continue reading
“Okay,” Angie cracked her knuckles. “I got this. I’ve done this every year, and I’ll do it this time as well.” Her nimble fingers were poised over the keyboard, ready to strike as soon as an idea presented itself.
Indira walked over to the workstation. She was a bit older than Angie, but they both seemed to be the same age; not just in appearance, but, as Angie liked to say, in their heart and soul as well. She thought ‘heart and soul’ sounded cool. Indira huffed. Anything was cool when Angie said it.
It wasn’t that they hated each other— far from it. They were practically siblings. It was either ‘hey I’ll help you bury the body’ or ‘yours is the body I’ll be burying.’ There was no in-between.
The second was what Indira was feeling today. Since the past few years it’d always been Angie, Angie, Angie. At best, she was riding shotgun. At worst, she was forgotten in a corner of the house. It wasn’t fair at all— she was a grown woman, she had been the first one here, she was the one who opened every single door and window. She loved Angie, true, but not at her own cost. Today presented a perfect opportunity for confrontation.
“Can’t think of anything?” she slurped her fennel-cardamom chai loudly.
“I- I don’t know, it’s just—“
“Sabe que tu corazon conmigo tu hace bom bom, sabe que sa bebe esta—” Espina was skipping around the house singing— no, shouting —the rap part of Despacito for the third time. In an hour.
“Maybe I could if someone would stop screaming lyrics they don’t even know the meaning of!” The walls felt Angie’s frustration, but the little girl, barely three, didn’t seem to take a hint. She continued rapping at the top of her babyish voice.
“Tsk-tsk. She’s just a child, Ang dear, who you enabled.” Indira sat down on the empty chair, crossing her legs. “You seem tired. Maybe you should let me take the lead today?” she tried not to let her desperation show.
“No, I—” Angie put her fingers through the handle of her coffee mug. “I’ve gotta do this. It’s my job. I can’t let Her down. Not today.”
“Oh, please. You’re overworked as is. Besides, you do this all the time, and today’s a special day. If you do it, it won’t be anything… different. It’ll be just as usual. Take a break. Let me help you, Angie.” Indira seriously hoped she wasn’t sounding like one of those thinly-veiled Bollywood femme fatales.
“No, no, no. You don’t get it, Indu. You haven’t done this in, like, forever. You’ve done this, what, a couple of times in the last six, seven years? I do this at least every couple of months or so. I’m meant to do this. Besides, even if you do it, we both know what’ll happen. She will get tired, She will think it seems too…” Angie paused. She didn’t want to trigger the woman sitting in front of her. “…unlike Her. You’re best at the more sociable part. Why don’t you do that?” She smiled, hoping that’d clear any hints of an insult. Nobody wanted a pissed-off Indira.
The smile did not help.
Yep, you read it right –the Factory is now the proud owner of 200 followers!
(Owner? That sounds wrong. Maybe you should say… caterer, or something?)
(Shut up Wrinkles this is not your post.)
(I said Shut. Up.)
No, Wrin dear, I am not changing it to ‘just My Brain’. And no, the title’s not too long.
Well, hello there. Three days ago, it was C&C Fac’s 3rd anniversary, and even though my 12th board exams are literally starting in 17 days (yes, I counted), I’ve come out of this blogging exile just for this anniversary post, which is basically the only tradition over here.
Once I was seven years old,
A ball pen did I hold and
On a half-used notebook wrote a story
Once I was seven years old.
Yeah, yeah, I couldn’t find a good enough rhyme for ‘Walt Whitman’ that would also fit the theme of this parody, so, bear with me. But did you not read that properly? It’s a parody, folks! (That too after nine months, like my brain was pregnant with it and has finally birthed it today- get it? I’ll just see myself out).
Now the reason why I’ve decided to write a parody after such a long time is that I’ve completed a hundred posts on the Factory. *Shower of confetti* *Fountain of Appy Fizz since I’m not old enough for champagne* *Virtual applause which is the only kind I’ll get* You see that featured image, folks? That’s what it means.
This is my hundred-and-first post, and I wanted to do something which was both special and enjoyable (so a letter to my first-post self was out, which was my initial idea). Today I’ve parodied Walt Whitman’s ‘The Voice of the Rain‘, which is a wonderful poem (I mean, come on, it’s Walt Whitman) and which is also in our English textbook this year. You should go read it if you haven’t. Now, on to the parody:
My Brain (singing): I’ve been a liar, been a thief, been a lover, been a cheat-
Me: Oi, liar and cheat, stop singing and help me out with a blog post.
My Brain: Oh, how annoying you are. Can’t you ever go help yourself? Type out one of the stories you wrote last week.
Me: I am annoying? Oh, look who’s talking. And is the mind palace I created after I watched Sherlock of no use? It’s the One-Year Anniversary of my blog.
On the fateful day of December 18 2017, history was created on this place in the blogosphere I’ve come to call my home- Charlie and the Cerebration Factory, which has confused many a blogger into believing my name is Charlie, while it is just a spin on the title of one of the most famous books written by my first official ‘favourite author’. I once thought of changing it to ‘Nerds of a Feather’, but never came around to doing it.
On a completely different note, I don’t even know why I’m typing in italics.
Today I’ve reached a milestone- a small one, I admit, but important nevertheless. After all, millions of droplets together make an ocean.
Okay, hang self-control now – I’ve reached 10 followers! Yay!