I Regale you with a Tale....
i feel like writing a story or something....my life as i know is terribly boring and full of work work work...i want fiction....maybe some fiction will be appreciated....
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�For one so abandoned as I, there is no recourse but to leave. Be an outcast, a recluse, a veritable vagrant of society....�
This is what Howard wrote on a clean page of his appointment book.
It had been a long day and a horrible one at that, which was still continuing even as Howard was writing his woebegone soliloquy.
Howard was a pseudo-optimist and quite a fantastic one to boot. Able to convince himself that almost any awful occurrence had a time and place under heaven. Much like Superman could leap tall buildings in a single bound; you would think this feat impossible, that is, until you met Howard. Never had a man plunged himself so deeply into forced optimism.
The nasty downside to this was while Howard�s exterior looked so peacefully Feng Shui, his insides were as brittle as maple candy.
On this particularly grim afternoon, Howard was falling under the awesome suspicion that he was about to go crazy.
His brain had been flea-hopping all morning and he constantly felt like jabbing a sharpened pencil into his own eye and rooting around in his head, if only to relieve the pressure build-up which had left his brain feeling thrice its normal size.
He felt the low hum of cranial activity within his skull every time a thought blossomed. He felt like ripping his head open and bouncing his brain across the grey-tiled hallway, outside his cubicle. Oddly enough, this thought left him chuckling to himself. Once chuckling, he moved on to sniggering, then to muted laughter and suddenly, had a loud and indecent episode of guffawing.
Many people came a-running at this sudden burst of joyful yet disturbing noise. By this time the tears were rolling down Howard�s face as he pounded his clenched fist repeatedly against the flimsy wooden surface of his desk.
It took him a long time to stop braying with laughter at the thought of his bouncing brain. Finally, hiccupping to a stop, Howard noticed several bemused co-workers standing around his cubicle.
��Sup�, Howard greeted, straight faced.
Wide-eyed and with no apparent explanation forthcoming, they shuffled back from whence they had come.
Howard glanced at the wall clock. He did not own a watch. He thought they were fascist. It was..... as good a time as any to take a walk.
Central Park hid many secrets. One of which was Azeem. He supposed his name wasn�t very original. But then again, he didn�t have much to go on, seeing as he was trapped in a bottle for hundreds of years. A little more than five hundred years by his tally.
Azeem was a Jinn. A being made of smokeless fire that could take any form he so desired. A thing of beauty and grace, made by Allah, the Mighty One, the Beneficient, the Merciful, worthy of all praise. Azeem was an obedient servant of Allah and of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). In fact, he had been around at the time the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), was spreading his message of total obedience and submission to the one God, Allah. Of course, he loved Them as all good Muslims should. But lately; only for the past hundred years or so, Azeem had begun to doubt.
Little niggling doubts ate at his mind day and night, till Azeem began to pace with worry inside his cramped but plush quarters.
He knew that Allah did not give his servants more than they could bear. He knew that he should not deny the favours his Lord had already given him. Long life, the one immediately coming to mind.
But......and Azeem saying �but� could only lead down to a disastrously rocky road! But..... why did Allah keep him in this wretched bottle?! What purpose could it serve that Azeem was trapped in this miniscule space, alone, for hundreds of years. Long, lonely years with only his own voice for comfort.
Azeem had been tricked into entering a bottle during a contest concerning a love rivalry. Azeem realized that being duped into a bottle made him look like an ass. On most days, when he thought about what got him into this sad predicament in the first place, he felt thoroughly dim-witted.
�From a family of scholars, my smokeless ass!� he would mutter darkly.
Today was one such day of mirthless reflection. With a sigh, Azeem threw himself on his velvet divan and flung his arm over his face, ready to take yet another nap. Sleep did not embrace him and Azeem was sour as he sat up in annoyance. He reached for the plateful of Medjool dates on the nearby side table.
Azeem did not know how the food came, from whence it came or even why it came, but he was grateful. Gigantic dates with meaty sweet flesh, fresh, crisp pomegranates, tasty samosas with vegetable, beef, lamb and chicken fillings, roasted mutton and many more Arabian delicacies.
Azeem had racked his brain, and the only thing he could discern was that this was part of the game.
He speculated that he could not be the first Jinn to be trapped in a bottle. And just like any prisoner, he must have food and water while incarcerated. And if he was being given food, he must be kept alive for some reason. The only question was.....for what?! What reason was poor, bored, lethargic, lonely Azeem being kept alive for?
Howard, shuffled along at a snail�s pace, kicking at actual snails now and again, rustling the leaves as he did so. The city was just changing it�s sprightly, green summer dress for a more rustic, splendiferous gown of russet, burgundy and gold. But then again, Howard never really noticed such things, especially lately. He was usually too busy keeping himself from falling into a pit of despair and right now he was teetering on the brink of that deep, black hole.
So he kept walking, shuffling really, and kicking at the leaves like the little boy he wasn�t.
All of a sudden, a wave of exhaustion came over him, and he decided he could not walk, or stand or move for another minute! He needed to change position now! Howard looked around for a bench. Any defaced old, wooden weathered park bench would do. But alas! Howard found none.
He was coming to a little bridge now, which was nothing more that a slight raised curve, over a fairly large pond. The pond seemed to be choking on weeds and dead leaves, no ripples apparent on its cluttered, polluted surface.
�Ah�, Howard thought to himself, �what are the chances that I come across a more natural metaphor for my life?
�I am as choked and polluted as that pond. Yet not even an emotion ripples across my face. Stoic position, calm nodding head all day long. I think I�m going to drown myself in this toxic pond�.
That last morbid thought just slipped out of Howard�s mind, calm, complete and ringing with a finality that was perfect in its horror and simplicity.
Before Howard knew what he was doing, or more truthfully, before he could come to his senses and stop himself, he clambered aboard the bridge railing and swung his legs up and over. His arms were hooked onto the railing and all he had to do now was let go. He looked down into the murky waters of the pond bemused and contemplative over the intricacies of the human mind, when given half a chance really, simplified the most complex suicidal thought into quick precise actions. Up and over, that about summed up Howard�s suicide.
A burst of hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of him and threatened to erupt from his vocal chords and disturb the quiet, rather pathetic atmosphere of the park. Howard forced it down and prepared himself to let go. The distance he would fall was laughable. Less than a storey down and then he would plop into the muddy water. He would probably have to bury his head deep into the detritus so that when he really started to drown, it would be difficult to pull his head out of the muck for air. Howard hoped he could fight against the instinct to breathe. Which when you thought about it, was impossible. But, of course, impossible was nothing to Howard. The man who forced the sun to shine everyday on his mundane existence.
He wondered what had kept him alive all these years. Was it sheer hopelessness? God, he hoped not. Then he would be just like those religious fanatics who whipped themselves up into a good �ole pre-apocalyptic fervour.
Howard yawned and then suddenly, without taking in another breath, let go of the railing and fell with a splat into the mucky pond below.
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