The lines read “Winding road in the desert was unending. My mouth was totally parched and a tranquil lake in front beckoned. I ran across sand dunes only to find it to turn into a bloody mirage. And alas! I woke up profusely sweating. It was a nightmare. Again! ”. My first impression was little Miss Barbara Holmes was too much caught up in Twilight movies and her writing style though very persuasive was still bit childish, which was of course natural considering her to be just around fourteen and studying in ninth grade. She pressed me on to give my opinion and I said it was really good piece and complimented her by further adding that she has all the geniuses to be a great writer in future. Her face blushed and eyes sparkled with my comments. She became so ecstatic that she nearly overturned the hot cup of tea and upset few saccharine cubes into the parqueted floor which eventually induced swarm of ants to creep up through the small cracks thus invading the entire wooden cabin. All the racket however didn’t seem to have any effect on the vultures in cage below. They looked stoic and were somber as usual.
I ran into Barbara at the Café Sundae which adjacents the zoo. The place is newly renovated house that boasts a fine porch which overlooks the bird section. With its low arch and wall engraved with fine stucco punctuated by beautiful murals the entire place is exquisite. Besides, the straw roof and hanging rafter that nested bevy of little swifts, gave the picturesque room a dose of inexplicable irony. At the end of the corner a low recliner stood, lying on which one could glance into the bird cages below that stretches to the far west corner where a dark silhouette of large Ostrich lumbered to and fro. As I spoke, hundreds of birds under the captivity, on a futile attempt to break free, were flying within the cage in Sisyphean manner. Inside one of the cage a starling was peering out venting a melancholy air perhaps with longing of murmuration, meanwhile nearby a golden pheasant was stoking a twig probably looking for some left over grains. Being a Sunday afternoon the place was not that crowded but it still harbored enough yelp and cries of little children to perturb the roosting aves. And in the middle of all there stood a tree with its overbearing nonchalance towards captive birds. It was showing no emotions and exhibited same countenance as it had shown several years before.
As I was watching the scenes unfold, Barbara and two of her friends Jason and Alexa entered the room. Jason, a freckled face boy holding a crib of A4 size paper, screamed at top of his voice pointing at bald eagle-“Look at that grumpy old fellow “. Alexa, a girl with braided hair and pointed nose, who seemed to be his sister, admonished him not to scream in front of strangers all the while squinting towards me. Meanwhile Barbara, a tall blonde girl with blue eyes glanced around indifferently and quickly reclined into a nearby couch followed by her friends. All three children were carrying textbooks and had a school bag with them. A waiter came along and took order for some junk food consisting of Nachos and Cheese Burger and they started to chatter again. With the presence of three kids the solitude I was looking for disappeared and place turned into a bedlam. In particular Jason was using a lot of colorful languages and was swearing at Earnest Hemingway for writing such a story as “Big Two hearted river”. Even Alexa who was disapproving of his behavior nodded and interjected saying-”How the hell a guy fishing relates to disenchantment towards war?” Being a huge Hemingway fan I couldn’t tolerate three snotty kids ripping him like that and proceeded to explain to them “Iceberg theory’ which was completely against my grain. The kids were astonished at first. They might have found it weird that some stranger lecturing them on English literature but after a while they came around and became friendlier.
I learned that they were actually students at Lincoln school and were children of some diplomatic attaché at US embassy. Apparently, they were doing an assignment on creative writing which included an essay on Hemingway and in addition a short story of their own. They were at the café trying to get some fresh air that can stimulate their mind allowing the creative juices to flow. Upon my imploring they showed me the manuscript of text they have so far written. Alexa had written a story about a city girl trapped in the enchanted Dolce shoe that she bought in Wal-Mart. The narrative was fantastic but suffered from many plot holes. On the other hand Jason had written about a mercenary sent by CIA to fight Bolivarian Intelligence at Barquisimeto, who later is jailed in Carcasses. His knowledge of geography of the country particularly Andes Mountains, was impressive and without my further inquisition he told me that he had been to Venezuela several times accompanying his father and has even shaken hands with Hugo Chavez. Perhaps, future Fredrick Forsyth I pondered. Barbara, meanwhile was a shy girl. She was reluctant to show me her writing but upon everyone’s insistence finally she gave me her story. With her high cheek bone and large eyes she reminded me of someone I used to knew. Her cursive handwriting was beautiful and the best thing of her writing was proper use of punctuation mark. And the frame narrative she used is not something you get to read in contemporary literature.
Creative writing can be a daunting experience for anyone. To let your imagination run wild and at same to have a rein of control is akin to stepping on two boats, syncretizing which requires a skill that only few possess. It is said that through the means of creative writing one can gaze into others mind. For instance in Virginia tech massacre, Seung-Hui Cho, the psycho who perpetrated the heinous crime is said to have written several menacing essays that delineated his troubled mind and in the hind sight of the tragedy many of his teachers and peers were disappointed for not seeing the warning signs. Coincidentally Barbara’s story, entitled “Nightmare again’ also detailed all the blood and gore, despite that it didn’t occur to me at all, that she too had cultivated misanthropic tendencies. But in that surrounding the thought that all the lowlights in the society are at large while freedom loving birds were caged was a night mare indeed.
As the food was brought in, all three of them jumped into the plate gobbling it up with total disregard to the manner, thus abruptly bringing an end to our deliberation in English literature. Kids being just kids I guessed. I too lost interest and again started to look towards the zoo. I saw a little boy being accompanied by his parents watching intently at jackdaws. Nearby a young couple were lost in their own world oblivious to the surrounding. Entire circle of life could be witnessed in that single frame. Kid comes to zoo with his parents, later with his girlfriend and afterwards with his own kid. And the birds are simply ancillary that becomes part and parcel of it. All the while the tree watches everything without passing any judgments. Just like it did in distant past, when a swing was attached to it and someone beautiful was swaying in the wind with the entire majestic. Believe me it was not a nightmare.
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