Sound?sound fascinates me. It makes me feel--calm, anxious, worried, and sometimes, crazy. But, never angry.

The first time I noticed sounds around me was when I was a baby in the crib. The leaves of the cherry tree out side my window whispered to me. When I cried to be picked up at night, I heard angry sounds--my parents fighting. The flower vase crashing onto the wall and breaking into pieces that sprayed into my crib. Then, I'd hear my own scream penetrate the night. I'd pause for a moment just to hear the lack of sound which I?d then break with another piercing scream. My parents seldom interrupted their own noise to pick me up. As I exhaust my lungs I'd hear another rhythm rising out of my baby chest. Yes, I listened to the sounds of my own heartbeat that raced through the pitch blackness of my crib. My heartbeats gave me a steady momentum. It was the only thing I could count on among all my erratic movements: chubby, flailing arms that waved like antennas of a sea anemone--arms, which often boxed me with clenched fists. Fat legs that kicked in protest desiring to run away from those angry sounds at night. But, it was the whispers of leaves which wafted into my crib through the open window that lulled me to sleep. Even the humidity of my room did not disturb me as I lay in sweat soaked blankets.

They told my mother that I was different. I was slow, slower than children of my age. I am five years old. The "test lady" told my mother that I was a three-year old inside my five year old body. I know it's not true because I am smarter than my three-year-old baby sister, Maggie. No one knows this. Although, she did show me how to button up my shirt straight up the front of my belly, right up to my throat. I have fat fingers that act like melting butter. I can?t hold pencils, crayons or buttons "correctly". My mother told me I needed to hold tight until I'd get a good "correct" grip. I don?t know what that means.

Color dominates my actions. Red paint, red nail polish, red cloth, red crayons and even red lipstick make me react. My mother smacked me for eating her red and orange lipsticks. My teacher punished me for biting bits off the red crayons she had sorted for the children to draw a sunset with. The "talking lady" told my mother that I was "oral" and that I would outgrow it. But she does not know me. She does not know the power "red" has over me. She has not seen me jab my finger with a paper clip until red oozes out. A slow trickle, first and then a welling of red--bright- ruby- red, pigeon-blood- red as it runs over the dent of the jab. While I watch, the first drop falls in slow motion as it splatters onto the concrete in a perfect circle with jagged edges. Almost like a small setting sun. Through practice I have learned that the angle of my wounded finger makes the splash a circle or even an oval like a rain drop. "Oval" is the shape I learned in school. Oval rain drops, oval tears, and oval blood drops. Then, with a small stick, I trace red shapes and stick figures of my mother, baby Maggie and me. I know I can hold a paper clip correctly when I draw red. But, I don?t draw my father.

...............To be continued

.........Continued

My father, he died last year. We don't talk about him. I found him in the bathroom with red spilling out of him like someone had accidentally tipped over a bucket of red paint. I didn?t care too much about my father but the red spill needed to be put back into his body. That was all I knew. My mother found me trying to scoop the red with my hands and put it back into his mouth where it had spilled from. "Stop!" "Stop!!" "Stop it!" she yelled at me as she dragged me off the tiled floor. The police and the ambulance took him away. We don?t talk about him. It?s ok because I never liked him. He made sounds I could not understand. He banged doors, crashed over furniture, threw pots at my mother and shoes at me. He talked loud. Every word slurred into another until his talk sounded like loud nonsense. The sounds he made always smelled of something strong, mixed with vomit. I never liked him. But when they took him away, my mother cried--a soft whimpering sound that choked her as she put me on her lap while she cleaned my finger nails with a paper clip, making sure all the dried up red came off from under my nails. Her soft sounds usually were wet. I know wet sounds as they soak the back of my T-shirt when my mother buries her head between my shoulder blades. It is a cry of a puppy which nuzzles its mother for warmth. I know this because I saw puppies do that at the petting zoo, when we went on a field trip. I also know, my mother knows I am not her mother. But, I pretend sometimes and let her cry her wet sounds until they stop. She pretends too --sometimes when she catches me with a paperclip stuck deep into my finger. It is then I listen to her heartbeat and match mine to comfort her.

The sounds my sister makes are always demanding. Her sounds make me rush to her. It?s strange how the red from her body always makes her scream. I never scream. My father never screamed. But, she is different. She is a baby--a baby girl. She wears bright colors in her dresses. I wear jeans? always. Jeans,-- at times too large for me. Large ones are the ones given by the "talking lady" from the school. My mother washes them in the tub when she does not have money for the Laundromat. Then, she folds and pins up the extra cloth snug onto my waist. The pants usually need a belt because of my round belly. "Baby fat" is what my mother calls it as she tries to attach an oversized pair of jeans on to my body. She kisses me and I smile. I like the sound of my mother's kiss. These days she has the time to kiss me and Maggie goodnight. I no longer wake up to angry noises at night. Her kiss is usually cool on my hot forehead. Her lips are soft and her breath is warm. She smiles an approving smile as she comments "No red from your fingers tomorrow. Ok?" I smile back at her. Our smiles have no sound.

..............To be continued

............. Continued
But, she does not know the new sounds that shadow me at night. Sounds, from inside my head that crawl out and into bed with me. Under my covers, they slither in tight whispers and stick to me like glue. They are the sounds of my father. "Stupid kid! I'll fu*king wring your little neck if you look at me like that!". Those sounds won't go away. I stick my fingers into my ears and press hard. But the words are all over me--crawling over me---nside me. I pluck at my clothes and throw them across the floor. I scratch at my skin so I can rip off those crawling words from my body. The doctor told my mother that I was allergic to the soap she used on my clothes. One day, she woke me up for school but raced me to the hospital when she saw red liquid streaming out of my ears. I remember shoving my crayons into my ears to push out the sounds of my father, the night before.

My mother thrashed me when I told her that I heard my father at night. That he made noises in my head. She beat me with a switch and screamed, "Your father is dead! Gone! He is not coming back! Stop making up stories!" She was loud. I don't like it when she is loud. It makes me scream like I used to in my crib.

I like shapes. They give form to my red drawings when I use red crayons and markers-- even when I draw in the red oval bloody droplets. I like to touch shapes. I have noticed that triangles have sharp edges. Edges draw out the liquid red from my fingers if I want them to. Circles and rounds don't. My mother and teachers like me to play with round and circle things because they are safe. I don't know what safe means. My teacher once explained "safe" means something that won?t hurt me or bring out the red. But I never feel hurt. My teacher does not know this. And she is nice. She told one boy "to be nice to me. I am peaceful." That is what everyone tells me. I am peaceful. During the day, I am peaceful--but at night, the peace is chased away by noise--slurred, nasty noises in my head. The children are nice to me. They leave me alone. I have watched some boys tease others with loud, nasty laughter--words, I don't understand. But sounds, which upset me. And, I am glad they leave me alone to look for round shaped pebbles on the ground. During the day, I have started wearing hearing aids to school, at night---a helmet covers my ears.

I like to watch Maggie play with her dolls. Her dolls have red dresses. I like the one she calls "Barbie" because she has a shiny red dress. I also like Barbie's body because it is round. Barbie has round breasts like mother?s--only, no nipples. I wonder why. Maggie cries every time I take off Barbie's clothes. She has many shapes. Barbie?s fingers and shoes are sharp ?not safe?. But I like her body smooth and rounded. Very safe. I like putting her red dress back on. "Stop playing with Maggie?s doll. Go and play with your cars and jets!" My mother always scolds me. I don't know why.

One day, Maggie let me play with Barbie before school. I put her in my school bag and went to class. I learned about more shapes and colors. "Sphere", "spherical", "ellipse", "ellipsoid" more safe shapes. My favorite new colors were-- maroon, ruby, scarlet--all which looked like red to me. During recess, I looked around for sphere shaped stones. Then I remembered Maggie's Barbie in my bag. I put the Barbie near a pile of stones as I continued my search.

"Danny is a gi... he plays with Barbies!" "Danny is a gi... he plays with Barbies!" sang a boy behind me. He was pointing at me and laughing. "It's Maggie's Barbie!", I tried to explain. But two other boys joined him in his chanting. I was not angr...but my peace was chased away again. I heard my father"s sounds, "Goddamn wimp! Playing with a doll again! I'll fu*king kill you if I see you again!". I started screaming because I could not hear the children. I could hear only the terrible sounds of my father. I bent over the pile of stones crashing my heard against the noise. The pebbles smudged with my red. Then I took a smooth, spherical, safe stone from the pile and hurled it at the first boy. The sound I heard was a sharp crack, like an egg shell breaking. As the boy fell silently to the ground, I saw maroon, scarlet and red bubbling out of his head. Just like an open faucet of red paint.

They found me trying to scoop up all the muddy maroon back into his broken head. I did not care about the red dripping from my own forehead into my eyes... into his eyes. Like my father, he never screamed. Like me, he never screamed. The last sound I heard before my hearing aid fell off--- was the loud sirens of the ambulance pulling up around the corner.


The End

Hats off!!!

Sitara!! katha lamo cha tara pasaicological cha.. tesaile i enjoyed it. one of a kind cha, tara, PG13 bhanera rakhne ho ki hai..

You know!! your story made me but think,
if you don't mind , i like to paste the link.

http://www.online-literature.com/twain/316/

I agree. Shits happen and the ineffable noise inside your head can even out your customary living. On the up of our sound wakefulness (not getting winded up), sure can boost our knack to tune into the messages that time and again lie beneath emotional still or noise as in hollering, wickedness, disorderly call, hatred etc. The Irish proverb that goes "Listen to the sound of the river and you will get a trout" rings out valid to me. Sound can be puzzling!

Nice Read.

Ashley!

I hate sounds Sitara, most of the times it is the sound of my own cacophonous mind, despair and uncertainty rumble, dreams and reality bicker, spite and lust drool... almost making a hiss....a sound of a serpent.....ready to plunge on a rodent. I hate hisses, it is the pits of all sounds....with malice....

I love colors....they do not speak...do not make a sound...do not wake me up.If you say red Sitara, then so be it...I would have chosen blue instead, the unfathomable blue, high into the sky and deep in the ocean...the same blue....of a little siberian eyes...which would see life past arid plains in the years to come. Blue....so serene and so tranquil.

Red is so conspicous.....so blatant it gives me a hard-on, makes me jittery, makes me sweat...but if you say so... I would like it, but blend some blue in it....make it dilute, make it purple, add some white, make it lavender....wear it...wear lavender, wear a lilac...it is not striking as red...but it shows its subtlety..refinement...delicacy. My friends call it a vagina color...sounds again....I hate sounds....can they stop talking?? I wear lavender.....I do not have a vagina....wish I had one....just to stop those freaking sounds trying to make me a homosexual.

Oh how I hate sounds....

Hi Sitara:

Wow, what a great feeling to have with three senses, hand-on-hand together. I like the way, you put those three senses, namely, sound, color and shape- whispers of leaves, red lipsticks, and the oval tears.

Awesome imagination....

By going through one-by-one, I was thinking the kid was a girl, until I reach the end point. I found it "Gothic", but I like it.

Waiting for next, Sitara....

HD

मैले केहि भनिरहन पर्दैन जस्तो लाग्छ त्यहि पनि प्रशंसा का दुइ शब्दहरु राख्दछु ।

Sitara Dee( can i call u Dee?) ...Whenever i read ur writing then it makes drift in life pratically.I simply adores the way u jot down ur guts into words.

i love to read more and more from u .

sitara sis
great one:)

sitara jyu,
Although occupied and indulged .. i was just reading these days and could not help writing when i read your piece.

Its an art that u have created. I believe it depicts a common family with a father who has lost track of his priorities.

anyway my kudos 2 u for creating such a masterpiece.

good job and congratulation...

===================================================
once again reverting to my old saying
what else do i know (o:

The first sentence

"The first time I noticed sounds around me was when I was a baby in the crib."

of the story inhibited me to go further in your story. Then i started reading here there as a cursory.Who remembers hearing sounds when you were still in the crib? I do not refute that the baby in the crib doesn't react to the sound at that age, it doesn. That kid must be f*cking (borrowing your own word exceptional

Dreamz, Pundit, Ashley, Saina (you can call me Al if you want! :), Badarnikt, and Thapa P, thank you for taking the time to read. I appreciate it.

Marich ji; thank you for the link. Mark Twain eh?

John, wow what an extension ! Lavender is the color of confusion for adults.

Humdrum; you hit it right on the nail. The story was written from the subconscious of a child. It'was to be a sensorial experience for a child with delayed development.

Prem ji; Ah but you give up too easily, if the first sentence deters you. Yes, the marriage between fiction writing and child pschology can be pretty gruesome. At least, you've heard of Nietzche (Ashu's thread!). Well sire, I am flattered, you've dropped in here.

arey sitara behen kata hara bhaneko to ach pura khalli lekhi rakheko rahecha......

very well written as usal .......

what happend to our lunch at your place .... home cooked meal na khako kati bho ring me up when u free pheri ma ta 95 ma 95 ko speed ma aauchni will bring some sajhaites along :P

Sitara,
Beautifully written. I know and work with children who suffer similarly. Unable to share, overwhelmed with their experience ... and surrounded by adults that fail to understand them at every turn.
I love the way you have reached into the child. Could I use it (the story) for my Sped class?

Sel Roti

Hi shaq;

Darshan! Summer bhari kata gayab ahiley kaam shuru bhayepachi chahin lunch re! Ani, ani, how are you? We'll have to get CARZ to get together one of these days. Thank you for reading this piece.

Hi Sel roti;
Thanks for the compliment. It is impressive you work with Special Ed. students. Mine is only an inclusive school. As for using the story, can I ask you not to as this piece was prepared soley for a fiction class at my university. However, you do honor me with your request. Thank you!

SITARA,
No problem. Just wanted to read out some bits to my Special Ed college students...but I understand :).

Keep writing
Sel Roti

Sitara!

Finally got chance to read it.
No word to describe.

Beauiful. It would be a good fit for movie.

Thank you for understanding Sel roti. I will continue to write.

Dhanyabad Jira. Movie bhanera tyo killer satire hanya jasto lagyo, malai.

:)