the short story project


Arpit Sharma


12 july, 2005
HE WAS ONE OF THOSE autistic kids in the school, ironically alone, instinctively most acedemically inclined. Most teachers never even cared to know his name.  Pupils just saw him as a  “Guinea pig’ to torment. All that hatred is taught and learned in those “A grade” schools, where sons and daughters of “prima donnas” came to study.  While Defining ethos and values on individualistic grounds, they refrain from teaching kids to be a bit more friendly to the doomed.
“Why are you sleeping in my class? You twit last bencher!!.” The math teacher shouted.
A lethargic face rose in the farthest bench, symbolising the sudden inconvenience as the deep reverie broke into bits. 
“Yes sir, Sorry sir!”. That was all he managed to mumble until the grim-looking average “indian teacher material” type man was actually standing just adjacent to him.
“Stand outside of the class for three days!..go out now”
A rebellious himself walked past the fannyheads with contempt  filled eyes. Such punishments were kind of regularity for him.
He paced towards his bicycle just in the instant the last bell tolled. The excitement of reading the conclusion of, rather mundane, “The alchemist” was built while standing outside the classroom. Books were the only escape for him, Besides Internet. 
Behind the screens he was a different person. A more extroverted teenager with same introverted traits. Maybe a ambivert.
Scrolling past the “people he may knew”, a gaze at the topmost name made him do a quick contemplating gesture, as this name happened to be a name he definitely knew.
Irrespective of the supposed further adverse  consequences, he hit the “send request” button. He decided to distract himself a bit, while waiting for the other to reject his appeal. ‘Alchemist” seemed to be a perfect option.
The ending really bored him to the core. “What a way to waste people’s precious time,” he thought while logging in to his account. The book is meant to guide people who’ve lost their path. For someone like him, it’s plain wastage. Absolute nihilism was so deep rooted in his mind. “The author must’ve  been a superfluous overthinker”, He concluded. He would’ve been a bit more skinny, if he lost calories every time he jumped into conclusions.
Rather decisively, he checked for notifications, planing to retire in the bed if nothing pops up, while Robert Plant screaming into his ears about some random girl searching for a “stairway to heaven”.  A melody that resembles and separates  people like him from that usual atypical herd searching for their “stairway to heaven”, maybe the greatest irony since the guy who wrote “Alice in wonderland” was also a renowned mathematician.
To his surprise, the request was accepted. Sometimes, when something unforeseen like this happens, people like him tend to take bigger risks.
What persuaded him for his next action is outside our realm of understanding. He typed a “hello” and hit the send button. A “hi” showed up from the other side.
3 May, 2016
The hills were the perfect place for tired youngsters to spend a blissful evening in the serene penumbra of the day bringing star, but that’s not what the cliffs were only famous for.
Two exhausted silhouettes appeared from behind the bushes, ironically climbing for their ultimate fall, unignorant that their almost a decade long romance has came to end. A farrago of arguments is what followed next.
“We must’ve been discreet about our relationship.” He said. “Now, our families would disown us. We have no choice but to do it.”
That day another gay couple ended their lives. A culture founded from oppression won. 
“Mockingbirds” are just made to make people laugh. 
I might not be the same, but that’s not important.

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