Sunday, June 19, 2005

Spellchecks and Cherry Blossoms

How I hate being wrong. She stares at her screen and outside her barred and shuttered window, little pink flowers grow.

She had heard that they were cherry blossoms, loved in Japan for their ethereal beauty and another quality. Dangling precariously from their slender stalks, they are ‘Here one minute/Gone the next.’ Transition. Beauty. Impermanence. There is a lesson to it all, only if she could see it.

Her moist eyes switched back to the screen. Much of what she was tied up in there and there was one last thing she had to so before she left for the day. The walls were closing around her, and the silence was an oppressive blanket. She thought she heard a whisper, but it was the wind, urging her to hurry.

The corridor was dark, and along a row of identically cubicles, only hers was active. Another glance she threw to the trees as her hands continued typing, confident of making no mistakes. The soft pale green leaves, young and fresh and totally unable to fend for themselves reached longingly towards the cherry blossom that laughed and flirted.

It would not stay long now, soon a gust of wind would come and blow those light faced creatures away, and the leaves, being what they are would be none the worse for the loos. They would grow strong and dark and would continue their function of old age, who had ever heard of leaves pining away?

But the blossoms died everyday, and she knew it.

One wayward lock tugged free from the knot of the hair and drifted slowly to her face. The dying rays of sunlight caught it at an angle and made the brown hair appear reddish. She did not notice. Absently, she tucked the strands behind her eyes as her hands stayed busy at the keyboard.

Again she looked around, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for a reason to stop, but there was no one and nothing, only her feeling uncomfortable. There was something that bored a hole into her back, and she felt she was being watched. A guilty conscience, she was sure. She completed her typing waited while the spellcheck pointed out numerous errors. That was because she always switched letters around when she wrote… but she did hate being wronged. The tips of her fingers beat an impatient tune on the table as she waited, and then she stopped. She wanted, and needed the silence though it unnerved her.

Her sun tanned hand moved with the quick grace of long practice to pick up the CD that popped out of the drive. She cocked it in her hand, the index finger through the central hole and the thumb on the rim of the slim cylinder, the shiny reflective surface tucked in towards her. She pushed her chair back and it rolled obediently. Her other hand reached for her bag, and she put the disc in with a lot less concern that what she should have had.

She glanced around the cubicle, ensuring that there was nothing there that could incriminate her. There wasn’t. With a firm step and a “clip-clop” every time her shoe heel came in contact with the marble flooring she left, scurrying outside the building at last. As she left, it seemed to her that something watched. She stepped under the tree outside her window, on her way to leaving forever, and there was the evening breeze again. And cherry blossoms danced around her all the way out.


Blogger Kini said...

"They would grow strong and dark and would continue their function of old age, who had ever heard of leaves pining away?"

Elegance personified.

I related to this piece a lot, seemed to follow my thought process each step of the way.

Write more often. Ignoring a gift is quivalent to mocking it.

Feels nice to be the first one to comment on your blog. Have replied to your comment on mine.

P.S: It isn't called stumbling on a blog if you've read it earlier.:)

12:05 pm GMT-7  
Blogger Kini said...

Late questions...

Does it count as fiction if you model the lead character after yourself? Btw, it was this sentiment in your piece that i could relate to.

Switching letters is one thing, is the rest of it you as well?

12:20 pm GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

*bows* We live to please.

What if you had forgotten all about something and one fine day, found it while doing something else? Would that be stumbling? If it isn't, then I'm bad with words.

If it didn't happen, it's fiction. Even if the lead character is you. Most cases, my leads are modelled after me. Easier to write and relate to. Sometimes. Sometimes it's more difficult than anything else.

Answering your question ~ Most of it is me.

Thanks for dropping by. *grin*

2:36 am GMT-7  
Blogger Kini said...

Yes, point well made. I guess that does count as stumbling. Writers do live to please, but then again without an audience i wonder who the target is... the self perhaps?

Modelling the lead after yourself is a writing aid that i use much too often. It was fun at first but now I think its curbing my imagination. It's a habit that I'm trying desperately to break out of. Maybe changing the sex will work? It remains to be seen.

oh and yes one more thing... I shall quote one of my friends on anonymity when i say

"I am nobody, but yet everybody, and in this cycle I still choose not to be somebody you know."

Care to move the veil a bit?

3:31 am GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

Maybe changing the sex will work for you, it doesn't work for me. I need a clear visualisation of the other person/lead if I want to stop him/her from becoming me.

Otherwise, it just normally does become modelled on me, and it sometimes gets nasty and tells me stuff I don't want to know.

You can probably guess, but for now...
Shrouded she lurks unknown
Comfortable in clear darkness
Perhaps it hides the flaws.

7:37 am GMT-7  
Blogger Kini said...

I haven't a clue... but this i shall admit, you have piqued my interest.

If you should choose for the shroud to remain, then so be it. There is a certain rush in the unknown.

"I am the terrible curse that plagues the curious mind.

I am safety against attack, yet shielded against the love that it could deserve.

I am interpretation that precedes reputation, love that forbids reciprocation, and hate that defends individuality.

I am anonymity. And I bring you many gifts."

Perhaps you subscribe to the view.

9:51 am GMT-7  

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