Story of a lost journalist

January 21, 2007

Neena’s secret

Filed under: Fiction — Cris @ 04:41

Hi Mr Diary,
I am Neena and I am almost 9 years old. This is the first time I am writing a diary. So I feel kind of odd. Its like talking to a chair or something. But Mamma tells me a diary could be a girl’s best friend. I dont have a best friend now. I had one till yesterday. Her names’ Glory. From yesterday evening we are not friends anymore. She is always talking to Annie. So I told her Annie is her best friend now and not me. And she said I talk to Tina so she could talk to Annie. Stupid girl.

So you could be my best friend. It still feels dumb and I am not going to tell the girls I talk to a book. They’d think I am weird.
Oh I want to tell you about my sisters. Diana and Lilly. I hate both of them. They are always together and shoo me away when I go to talk to them. They think they are big and smart. Giggling all the time. Glory and I tried to do the same. We kept secrets. But they didnt seem to bother. I know they are crazy about boys. Yuck! I hate boys.

Now that Glory is not my best friend I will tell you our secret. We have a secret hiding place at the back of my house. No one goes to that part. We dug a hole there and kept some stuff buried. That looks so neat and secretive. I felt proud. There is a bigger secret. Glory does not know it either. It happened yesterday.
Its a really really big secret you cant tell anyone. There was a man there. I saw him yesterday when I went to dig our hole. He sprang to his feet when he saw me. And when I was about to yell he smiled at me and said hello. Now that should be a nice man. I asked “Hey fellar what are you doing here”
And he said “Sorry Miss is this your land”
And I said “Oh you can bet it is Mister.”
And he said “Can I sleep here for the night Miss I will be gone tomorrow”
And I said “I dont know Mister I will need to ask Mamma about it”
And he said “Please Miss your mother will ask me out. I have to stay here just today.”
And I said “Alright then. But dont dig that hole.”
And he said “I wont Miss. Please dont tell anyone about me”
And I said “Wow thats a secret then. I love secrets, whats your name”
And he said “Call me Georgie. Whats your name ”
And I said “I’m Neena”
And he said “Thanks Neena”

We talked for a long time. Of this and that. I told him our secret place’s name. Hiders.
Now comes the strange part.
Mamma called me and asked today morning “Neena havent you ever wondered what your Father looks like”
And I said “Lotsa times but you’d shoo me away when I ask”
And she said “I know. But its ok this time. We are going to see him today”
And I said “Oh boy oh boy thats cool”
And she said “It isnt actually. Hes met with an accident. Hes not well. I should have let you girls see him more often..”
And I said “Is he going to die”
And she said “Dont you talk like that Neena!”
And I kept quiet. Then she asked “Do you want to see his photo”
And I said sure and she showed me a picture of his.
Thats the strange part. This was the man who came to my secret place yesterday. I forgot its a secret and said aloud “But this is Georgie”
Mamma looked angry. “You dont call him Georgie Neena he is your Pappa.”
George was my Pappa’s name too.

I was confused Mr Diary. My Pappa is sick in a hospital and he came to see me. He looked well to me. I really liked Georgie. I didnt tell anyone about him. But when I went to see Pappa I told him and he smiled and said “We will meet at Hiders again Miss” and winked at me. Oh boy now this was our secret. Pappa’s and mine. I still dont know how he walks when he is sick and I told him this. He said his mind takes him there and mine takes me. I dont know what that means but I dont mind. I really hope My Pappa will live Mr Diary. I wont need another best friend if he does.

Neena Elizabeth George

January 1, 2007

Joy didnt come in pennies

Filed under: Fiction — Cris @ 14:24

The sky looked dark. As I looked up I felt a raindrop fall on my face. It seemed the perfect time to whistle. So, I did whistle. And coincidentially, everytime I whistle I get this weird feeling someone is listening to me. I turn back and forth expecting to catch an unsuspecting listener. So what do I think I am? Someone worthy enough to be admired? Sheesh a secret admirer for me? No way. This was just my imagination. Noone would bother to listen to me. Me a street boy! A 17 year old in his worn out jeans and torn jacket! Geez I havent got a penny on me!

As my hair fell on my face, I stopped whistling. I decided to sit down and mourn for a while – you know what people do when they feel life is stuck at a point. Yeah I do that kind of thing every evening. I have chosen a spot to sit and do the mourning. A deserted bus stop where no bus stops. No one notices me. Well as long as I am in the streets that is. Enter a hotel or a shop and I have got all kinds of suspecting eyes on me. They seem all ready to fall upon me the minute I lay my hands on something. Well I dont say I have never robbed. But hey I am not a small kid anymore. I know my right from my wrong. Hunger or death or what come may, I am doing no robbing!

One day, just one day I’d like to show them. I am not going to dawn on white handsome clothes and appear all rich. Nope. I will be the same self, except I’d have money in plenty to throw at every little thing my eyes would fall on! I have seen Pretty Women like 18 times just to watch that scene where she tells those girls “You work on commison rite? Big mistake! Huge”. I have framed in my mind the exact same lines to tell one day to one of those dumb girls giving me that look.

Rain started pouring heavily now. This roof isnt much. I am getting all wet. Boy do I love it! I went to the road and let my hair fly in the wind. I could feel tiny drops trickling through my slightly unshaven face. This was an occasion to smile. And smile I did. I faced the sky, eyes closed, mouth wide open. I felt I could stay like this forever. Whoever said money was everything had to watch me now. They’d know how wrong they were.

As I walked back, I could get the same weird feeling of being watched. I’d like to imagine these were angels watching me up from heaven. Those saintly white creatures pouring their purity over my head. Maybe I should be a writer. They say all you need to be a writer is to know to dream and imagine. Thats all I do!

It is getting darker. I should find some place to sleep.
As I was about to cross the street, a speeding car came from the wrong direction and knocked me down. I lost my consiousness.

Some time must have passed. I dreamnt of heaven and angels and all good things. I opened my eyes to see a fellow in white coat. The doc! Oh darn back to the real world. They would know I have no money and throw me out of the hospital. But hmm they didnt. Maybe the car-hitter was a kind man. A tall man wearing a funny cap came to my bed. He must be the hitter. Poor fellow. He didnt have to apologise.

“How are you feeling”
He asked.
“I am alright. Thanks”
“Charles Daven.”
“Chris Dawson”
“What do you think about acting in a movie?”
Alright so I havent woken up yet. I started pinching my left hand.
“Haha dont do that. This is real. As I came out of my car to take you up, I saw this bright light on your face. Now I dont know how that happened. You looked perfect. You looked like Jesus! Well a very young Jesus! And I am a director. So well.. what do you think”
I tried to express my gratitude.
A 1000 things went through my mind. The Pretty Woman scene. The money. Everything that would solve my problems. But I felt I’d lose something. I was surprised to hear my own words as I said
“No Sir, thank you so much though”

I was back on the streets. I started to whistle. I could feel someone listening. I looked up and put my thumbs up. I said “Thanks dear angels I know you are behind this but I wouldnt ever want to miss this! Nothing could replace the kind of joy I get with you up there and me down here. I just want one listener and thats you!
I love my life the way it is! Thank you so much!!”

Years later I became a writer. I made money too. But I never said those Pretty Women lines. I made sure I never lost my listener as I whistled, as I wrote. I must be mad but I am happy. And yes, I do still believe in angels. I dedicated my first book to them. My first book – Joy didnt come in pennies.

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