Copyright © 2017 Katyaini Ranjan Choudhary
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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I’d tried not to be too sappy or too angst-ridden while writing this story. ‘Tried’ being the operative word. Truth is, too many cans of coke and a lot many romances that I’ve grown an affinity towards in recent days, make it impossible to write in an unaffected manner. If you’re reading me- be warned, my original style tends to be a bit different. As I’ve already mentioned, or must have somewhere, I’m an angst ridden teenager whose greatest fantasy is being able to affect people- in whatever way. Also, my words are simple, nothing memorable about my style of writing except in some spots where I was more interested in writing than finishing this frustrating story. If you’re trying to find something to critique about, check my poetry in the following places:
And well, wherever you might chance upon the poems of mine.
Another thing, I hate selling myself to people. Hence I try being honest but sometimes, honesty takes away the good parts of my work. You can read ahead and form your own opinions to. I’d love to hear your feedback to You can send in something to me too, if you want a reader before you publish.
Best of Luck and may the force…. Sorry, I’ve never gotten a chance to follow Star Wars.
She raises her scarred hands against the radiance of the sun rising in front of her, smiling as the watery glow turns into a fiery red around her fingers, making the burn marks on her arm almost invisible.
She loved fire. The blaze, the spirit it ignited in her- it was the allegory of all her desires. She would have embraced it a long time ago… had it not frightened her so; the idea of getting burnt, of falling deeper than she could manage to get out of.
Angel’s usual routine included getting ready for either school or extra classes and hammering into her head, the most believable but still absurd facts of what made up her studies.
But today wasn’t a usual day. Today was the day she’ll get free.
The sky shone darkly out of the tinted glass windows of her classroom and somehow, she had refrained herself from jumping out of the window but the increasing pace of her heart was making it impossible to stay still.
“Angel, what is meant by an allusion?” The teacher’s sudden question brings her out of the reverie.
“I don’t know.” She lies, trying not to remove her eyes from the window. For past few years, she had been the one to answer every question correctly but now, it didn’t matter anymore. She wanted to think and feel, and not talk.
“A reference; in this particular piece, it is in the ‘Prodigal Son’ where it’s a reference to some scriptural story in the New Testament.” The boy answers, bending over her shoulder so he could take a proper look at the rough notebook lying open on her desk.
“I would have elucidated, if not for the un-Angelic handwriting of our dear Angel.” He declares after a pause, sinking back in his seat.
She shoots him an annoyed look, turning back to the window but not before she notices the stares of others; stares she’d been trying to avoid all day.
The teacher clears her throat and continues the explanation of Father to Son.
“Hey, my definition is better than yours.” The boy -- Snow, says to her in a low tone which he had managed to imperfect with the polish of mockery.
She ignores his whispered jibe. One day’s inflated ego won’t do much harm, not when she won’t be here to handle the brunt the next day.
“Aren’t you excited to see it, Angela?” He whispers from behind her, “To feel the words make your blood burn against your will?”
That year old taunt succeeds in getting a rise out of her. Almost everyone had forgotten the stupid speech she had given all those months ago but he seemed to find it extremely funny, reminding how big a disaster it had been. Half the class had thought she wrote porn and the other half didn’t even understand a single word. Not to say, she had stumbled after the intro and gone mute, right at the podium. Not one of the brighter moments of her school life.
She feels her feet whip back, against the best of her judgment, rewarding her with a pained hiss from him as it makes contact with his ankle.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, will you, Snow White?” She whispers back to him, simultaneously fixing her feet under the metallic support structure of the table.
She needed to have a stronger control on herself if she wanted to go through what all she had planned for the future. An infuriating classmate would hardly matter in the larger context.
“Not in a benign mood, are you?” He asks, recovering almost at once.
She ignores him again, not seeming to notice the look of surprise passing his face as she chooses not to argue.
But a new idea hits her even as she fights the wistful smile spreading on her face.
Would it be okay if she did so?
She decides it doesn’t matter much and puts her hand in the bag beside her chair, pulling out with it a diary with faded cover.
“Snow White” He whispers to himself, a smile stretching his lips as she almost runs out of the class. Others start getting out too as he puts the tiny English book in the bag.
When Snow stands up finally, his eyes fall on the diary on her desk. Had it been any other day, plans to tease her about whatever was written in it would be already in his brain. But it didn’t strike him as a normal day. He instantly feels the concern rise in him, enmeshed with something indecipherable.
He grabs the old thing and walks out of the room. Looking around the hallway he finds her gone.
Seating himself in the usual seat of his bus, Snow looks out at the droplets falling from the sky.
He was named for his parent’s love for pristine white snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas, but no one could deny his love for water. Whenever it rained, their pace seemed to reflect his emotions. In torrents when he wanted to break everything apart, in a musical rhythm when he felt lazy, in a graceful, almost seductive pace when he thought of… his eyes open at once.
He hadn’t even realized when he had started visualizing her face. The curl of her lips when she gave him her wry smile, the twist of her wrist whenever she wrote furiously, forgetting that there still remained a living and breathing world around her already and she need not breathe life into those lifeless dark stains we call words. His eyes fall to the overflowing diary in his hands. Almost at once, he looks back out of the window.
There she is.
He waves to her and she turns from her standing position, gripping onto the headrest as the two parallel busses went over a speed-breaker simultaneously. He notices her shirt sleeves still pulled down to her wrist and shakes his head inwardly. When will she realize that folding the sleeves, in fact, was allowed after school hours?
He raises the diary in front of her.
He must have mistaken the signal.
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She had been burnt. Still, she loved fire. Hated by the people who were to protect her, Angel decides she'd had enough after yet another broken promise. She wants to be free. She works, earns and saves for herself- just to get the freedom she deserves. The day has arrived. Snow is no knight in shining armour. He and Angel aren't even friends. But something makes Angel disclose her secret to him. He finds out about the true girl behind the pen wielding, literature loving spirit he was in like with for almost a year. He decides to be the knight. Just for once. For this girl.