childofthewild

He called her a whimsical fairy. "To live with you, the person needs to be a lot, lot patient baby," Sam used to say. Sam was nothing like a friend philosopher guide to her. At the same time, he was all of it and much more than that. Somebody she could swear at for no fault of his. He never yelled back at her…at least, he didn't yell back at her for the way she sweared at him. Most often than not, he was the first person she thought of every time something good or bad happened. The only person she completely trusted. Not that she used to walk around doubting the so-called well-wisher's advice…. just that she knew Sam would never let her down.

What are the topics that one can possibly write about? To begin with you can perhaps talk about how one fine day you sat down to with your laptop wondering what to do next and it dawned upon you that probably you could put your gift of gab to some good use…just frame relatively coherent sentences, preferably in sequitor to the previous sentence. For a beginner, that you can frame a coherent sentence itself is a good start. What rubbish am I writing? As of now, this second, I'm thinking of the people who might accidentally chance upon reading this. What would this piece of literary gibberish come across as? On a higher level how does it matter

She hated complex sentences because they were the most difficult to dissect during her grammar lessons in her graduation days. Yet, if she was to be defined in one word, it would be 'complex'. Not only did it sound cool but also that was a fact as loud as Rohit Bal's gay status.She said she is not all that perfect. He said, let me decide that. She wanted to say, "…so that you just walk away later when you discover this face of mine…the one where I throw temper tantrums and PMS is not even an excuse, when I just give you a silent treatment for no 'obvious' reason, when in spite of being known for my 'I-Care-Two-Hoots' attitude, suddenly I deci

She hated complex sentences because they were the most difficult to dissect during her grammar lessons in her graduation days. Yet, if she was to be defined in one word, it would be 'complex'. Not only did it sound cool but also that was a fact as loud as Rohit Bal's gay status.She said she is not all that perfect. He said, let me decide that. She wanted to say, "…so that you just walk away later when you discover this face of mine…the one where I throw temper tantrums and PMS is not even an excuse, when I just give you a silent treatment for no 'obvious' reason, when in spite of being known for my 'I-Care-Two-Hoots' attitude, suddenly I deci

"Can't you at least pretend to be a nice girl," lashed my mother. I was deeply hurt, I was almost pouting. I'd taken it upon myself that very moment that I'll make her regret saying it. What was nice afterall? A four-letter word with absolute no impact. I knew better four-letter words that have made people wince and look hopeful (depending on that persons then state-of-mind). "So, mommy, what exactly do you mean by 'nice'? Lets see what nice means. Holy cow, there are so many different interpretations to it. Why don't you sit down with me and tell me exactly what degree of nice you want me to practice?" My mother is too naïve, and I am glad

"Can't you at least pretend to be a nice girl," lashed my mother. I was deeply hurt, I was almost pouting. I'd taken it upon myself that very moment that I'll make her regret saying it. What was nice afterall? A four-letter word with absolute no impact. I knew better four-letter words that have made people wince and look hopeful (depending on that persons then state-of-mind). "So, mommy, what exactly do you mean by 'nice'? Lets see what nice means. Holy cow, there are so many different interpretations to it. Why don't you sit down with me and tell me exactly what degree of nice you want me to practice?" My mother is too naïve, and I am glad

You are in the train, listening to Alanis M scream out the most obvious thing in the world about men and their narcissistic tendencies. In your head , for the thirty-ninth time, you sing along with her, reflecting on all the instances when you've felt that the not-so-fair-sex (quite an irony, considering my chocolate brown complexion, I still belong to the fairer sex) couldn't get less self-centered (SOON I'LL BE WRITING A 'I-AM-NOT-A-BRA-BURNING-FEMINITST', just to remind myself that I AM NOT ONE). Then the phone rings. Unidentified number, says your cell phone. You click on the respond button. "Hello!"- in a sleepy, axe-murderer voice