I’ve been writing for years. I remember journalling from my teens. When I reinvented my career, I supplemented my personal writings with commercial assignments, most of which I have enjoyed. I’ve written narratives, aborted novels, ads, scripts, plays, short stories, poetry, social and political commentary, history, animations, digital books, prayers, all sorts of genres. I do it because I love to write.

I often go back to my past writings. More often than not, I cringe when I read what I had written. Sometimes because my thoughts were immature and sometimes because of basic language and syntax errors I had made.

Sometimes I cringe when I read what I had written because my perspectives have changed so much as I matured that what I felt strongly about, no longer matters to me. Other things have taken greater importance.

Some five to six years ago, I wrote a series of very (very) short stories called “Micro-fiction”. These are stories that are usually less than 200 words. I wrote these to convey a message in an extremely succinct manner. I had intended to compile a series of these, get them illustration and published.

I wrote a piece called The Masquerade Party which I revisited last night. This is one of the rare pieces that I still like very much reading it years after it was written. I edited slightly though, because I didn’t like some of the syntax and spotted an error.

So, here is The Masquerade Party, revisited 2013:

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“Do you think I’m being selfish wanting to be alone”?

“Huh”?

I regretted starting this conversation. What do I do now? Bail out and pretend it never started? Or…

“What do you mean”???

It was too late to wonder.

“Well. I feel I have love to give but I don’t know how to give it. Even worse, I don’t know how to receive it”.

We were sitting in the bright sunshine and suddenly thunder roared, startling us both.

“You’re an idiot”.

“Yep, you’re right”.

It started to rain.

I was shopping for a moisturizer for my delicate and sun beaten skin when I noticed a familiar face I hadn’t seen for years.

“Linda”! I cried out excitedly, “Wow, haven’t seen you for ages. How have you been? You’re looking fabulous”!

She really was looking fabulous. I meant it.

“Hey Judy, it’s been a while”, Linda replied with obvious and sincere delight.

“So Linda, you still working and hanging at Hard Rock Café”?

“No actually I’ve joined the church. I’m working full time there”.

I was momentarily stunned. Was this the same Linda whom I knew who was a major party goer with sometimes questionable morals?

She registered my shocked and smiled gently at me and said, “Yeah, I’m with the church now”.

“What happened”?

“I witnessed a miracle”, she said simply.

Wow, I thought, what a dramatic shift.

I was curious.

“Did you see someone get miraculously healed from an illness”?

“No”.

“Did you see an apparition of sorts?”

“No”

“Did you see a sudden turnaround in a bad work situation”?

“No”

“Were you miraculously healed from a condition”?

She shook her head gently.

I was getting desperate to know.

“Did you see a sea part”?

“Did you dream a prophetic dream or have a brilliant vision of something”?

She kept that smile and shook her head. She would tell me, I knew that but I wanted to guess what that miracle was that turned her around so radically and seemingly for the better.

In slight jest (which I regretted later) I asked, “Did you see water turn into wine”?

She said no.

I gave up. I had to ask.

“What miracle did you see, Linda”?

She looked at me with the same gentle smile and said simply, “I gave birth to a baby girl”.

At 7, they recognized the child prodigy.

His future was made. Set. Bright. Sorted.

Ten years later, he sold 7 million records.

Ten years later, he threw up after every meal.

Ten years later, he loved coke.

Ten years later, he was divorced.

Ten years later, he had a stroke.

Ten years later, he found God.

Ten years later, he lived forever. 

Danny really, really, really wanted to go to that masquerade party. It wasn’t fair, he thought to himself, that mommy and daddy get to dress up in costumes and go out all night playing. Why do they get to play and not sleep until late? This was just not fair. Going to costume parties should be for kids, he thought to himself as he grumbled inside while playing with Ruth, the babysitter.

Finally, Danny grew up.

One day, he put on his mask and went to that masquerade party.

The mask never came off.

The party never ended.

 

 

The papaya was depressed.

He thought to himself that he’d grown up so fast but nothing to show for it.

It’s hard being a papaya. If you think human lives are hectic and stressful, try living the lifespan and the predestinated career and life path of a papaya.

Sure, there are some variations.

Let me give you some of them from the top of my head:

          Rot on a tree

          Ripen on a tree and get eaten by a crow/bat/other random fruit eating bird/animal

          Defiled early and made into a Thai salad

          Plucked upon ripening to be used to tenderize meat

          Used to help homo sapiens have a crap

Yep, the papaya had good reasons to be depressed. He had very good reasons indeed.

Until that is, the papaya met a pair of really, really, cute 5 year old young fraternal twins (a girl and a boy) from a broken family, drunk father with lots of money, a drug addicted mother, and without religion.

The papaya’s perspective changed forever.