Leafing through War and Peace while licking the choco powder on the flat dish, that I love tasting without utilising spoon whenever I taste reading in my room where no light from outside peeks except this tiny bulb seldom blinks, I have been just sitting over my desk arranging all the books on shelf alphabetically, an imbibed habit since childhood that I am very cautious about everything in order and neat and proper, uncompromisingly, even I fold my clothes and keep them evenly elegantly in the closet, that too in order, like t-shirts on first row, shirts on the second row, pants and inners on the third row, and place my escritoire and recliner accurately straight to each other like one interviewing the other or like Dryden and Shadwell stare! he..he! which is funny isn’t it? It is not. Ok but my humour sense will tickle a lifelong meditating Monk to laugh out loud frenzily, my batchmates from University used to say like that, but who would go to Himalayas to tickle them. I certainly, definitely, would never ever, like the never-ever ever-ever, think of treading one step away from my room where my entire world is built within so beautifully so lively. I am Tony but I would preferably like you to acknowledge me as story teller. Since I pursued Comparative Literature in the University of Edinburgh from the batch of what-they-trendily-say Inter-War years. Of course, but I love not just reading novels, even an adolescent from third standard could do that nicely, but interpreting them soulfully is what one must acquire. Tolstoy, Tolkien, Shakespeare, Hardy I narrate pertinently, I am the best rhapsode that I can challenge anybody in the world. Generally I do not permit anybody’s glance to dirt my room and my precious collection of great literary canons, which I posess like a mother tiddles her new born, except this one fellow, who resembles someone I can not resist, visit me for stories and listen audiently like an ardent student. Speaking of which reminds me of the horrid quarrel-turned-into-fistfight situation when I caught him trying to touch my possessions, taking advantage of the caliginousness of my room, that led to I heavily trampling on his neck that stopped his blood flow on his face, which was groaning in red, and his eyeballs flipping backward out of oxygen. “Hackk.. Hackk.. Ahem.. what is this giant book left open for?” This must be Where an Peace for the bulky size and the coverpage drawing, which is of my dexterity with many armed soldiers with many raged horses riding and fighting and killing that reminds me of the nuclear holocaust deprived of my whole family when I was not even seven and dropped out of school to make a living out of something. The ineffable fascination towards Picasso, van Gogh, da Vinci drew me close to draw ever since. I am Shyamalan, an artist, famous for the coverpages for almost all the literary works. But My strange hobby is collecting and decorating my room with iconic books which i don’t read, of illiteracy, but the man, who ironically resembles me in every action like clone, visits my room to read and narrate all the stories so passionately to me. All I do all day long is either listening ardently or mesmerisingly staring the coverpages of the books arranged in order on the shelf, like a flawless drawing, by the classy handwork of Tony. “If you do not stop scratching the wall, you will be electrified once again today Ms. Bath” announced Dr. Mubasheer in metalic voice from the corner speaker of my room.

FOR THE CONTEST :

It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Category : short story
Word count : not exceeding 600 words
Style : postmodern
Specific element : unreliable narrator
Theme : alone in the dark room
Title : the writers choice….

Just do it… In style…

Kilk, Apna Tashan…….
👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍