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Short stories

Aloe dripping it’s oils.

Soiled, poured, drained, seeded; and I birthed.

Apparently, the porch I reigned for all these weeks had had people organise gatherings, take out time for life, under the yellow lamps and cigarettes and the meat. Not anymore.

I am an aloe plant, I’ve been fed with healthy nutrients while they read the advertisements every Sunday morning which said, ‘discovering Europe in Flanders 20 nights|21 days’. But reality is so liberated to let us seek on the higher path of truth and expansion.

In their exquisite time, the correspondence reached to my companions for the thorns of rose were hurtful but mine. As I tend to extract a tang out of the dull human wear on their face, the bushes asked me about this very excursion. To which I responded as, human is the most powerful race I believe, they construct and produce progressive thoughts on the planet and beyond and they’re the ones who subject themselves to the scrutiny that stands tall out of the destruction they’ve caused. When this happens, everybody acknowledges the activities but have their stubborn minds wander in shame when the connotation that it carries is stripped naked in front of the audience. They need to cleanse through the pores and present themselves confident, and the plantholder chooses me, an aloe to do that.

The bushes, suffer from a sudden outburst of dizziness for the aloe had principles-unnecessary, unwanted.
Weeks later, when an applicant who found me mucus-y (like she said), was unwilling to have the faith in me; disowned me, off I get dumped!
(Imagine the terror.)
The herbs, mocked at the principles and values I’ve had for the span. Had it bothered me, I would’ve bent down and taught them it was all about witnessing a transition!
It was out of their league anyway. I continued to grow, to produce more nutrient substance.

Just like the humans, I had my freedom to depart from my own narratives.
Watching the young owner at age 17 to today, at 30, when my time has come to get churned with the dead weeds to serve the very herbs as a fertiliser myself. Not everything I wanted to convey, reached to the plant kingdom. My life might not have been long enough to make others believe in me. Even I’ve had sharp edges to protect and strengthen my fragile core. It didn’t protect me enough though.
How contradictory can ones theories get sometimes? Thoughts can be morphed into any form as an extension of ones creativity.

Why is recognition important then?
It didn’t occur to me until I died with plan A, not everybody has backups. Not every success story is acknowledged by readers and breathers. I guess I was one of those.

With me, was dumped an empty refill(ed) pen, apparently the one I saw her signing with in her visa documents.
The advertisement had been brought to life, she’s flying off to Europe for 20 nights|21 days.
I had my last words conveyed to her, ‘have a safe flight’.

 

-Ravi Patel.

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