Aug 21, 2015 Original Short Story, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Red Pill, Blue Pill.
Choose! (A Short Story)
©August 21st, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
On Tuesday morning last week, I awoke with a hammering heart. I had waited for this day all my life. After showering, I buttoned my white, poet’s blouse with shaking fingers, pulled on a pair of stylish, deep red slacks, tied a dark blue ribbon in my long braid that swung down my back, and pulled on silk stockings. I stepped into my red pumps, and shouldered my long-strapped dark-blue mailman’s bag.
I surveyed myself in the mirror. Sea-blue eyes stared back at me, shining brown hair caught the sunshine of a bright June day. I applied lipstick lovingly, lavishly, then, smacking my lips, I stepped back, and admired myself. Not bad, I mouthed to my reflection. Perhaps, my eyes needed a touch of shadow? Liner? No, I don’t do well with those — I tend to rub the corners of my eyes (lack of sleep), and they would get smeared if I did. I looked closer at my reflection, and frowned — there was a shadow above my lip. Damn! Well, Sally Hansen could take care of that … and she did.
I took care to feed my cat, Jazzy, who looked a little startled. Usually, I look like me, not a stylishly dressed lady. Now be good, I telepathed to her, and she stared back haughtily. What do you think I am, a dog?
I soothed her hurt feelings, assured her that I’d be back for supper, and left, clattering unevenly down the stairs. I’m unused to pumps, you see.
I took the Number 77 bus all the way into Cambridge, switched to another bus, and made my way to a dingy building somewhere in Boston. I won’t reveal it, for fear of causing trouble, so don’t bother to find out where it is, all right?
I pushed open the door to No. ____, and went in. The place was enshrouded in darkness. Nervousness returned.
“Anybody there?” I said in a false, higher-pitched voice, the better for … him to hear me.
A light came on. I saw a dingy couch, a threadbare Oriental carpet, some tattered armchairs, and pictures on the walls of beautiful women posing in various alluring attitudes.
A man in a long, purple cloak (A cloak? Where in the world was I?) emerged from another room, whose doorway had resembled a bookshelf.
He surveyed me with distaste, and said in a deep, low voice which dripped with disdain, “Yes? May I help you?”
“I … er… answered the advertisement — it said something about switching, um …” I trailed off, feeling awkward and flat-footed in my high-heels.
“Oh,” he said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“I thought it would be, like, a clinic, with a surgeon, and all …” I finished, lamely. Internally, I was slapping my forehead. Why did I answer this advertisement? It was a hoax, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t, said a voice in my head.
I looked up. Another cloaked man had joined this one, and obviously had more authority over him. His cloak was a royal purple, edged with blue-gold and red-gold threads.
And yes, it was I who spoke, he added in an amused tone.
“So, what should I do? Do I need to be examined? How long will it take?” By now, my heart was hammering in a strange blend of excitement and fear. What if everything went horribly wrong?
“Come into the other room with me,” he said, now speaking aloud. The other man curled his lip, and went back into the recesses of the room beyond, and the one in authority went in behind him.
I followed.
The room beyond was clinically bare, except for two pictures on the wall — one of a man, looking quite handsome, and one of … his twin, a woman, looking stunning.
Below the man’s picture was a blue pill. Below the woman’s was a red one.
“The order in which you choose will determine the outcome,” said the man in the blue-and-red-gold-threaded purple cloak.
He asked me a few questions. I answered them. He wrote them all down, created a copy, asked me to sign both, gave me the copy, and told me to choose.
Panic suddenly flooded me. What if I didn’t like what I got? But it was too late to back out now.
I chose.
An hour later, when I stepped out into the street, the door which I’d shut behind me vanished. There was nothing there.
I, however, was changed. The panic was gone, replaced by calm joy.
I was All-Woman.
I was free to be me.
I hoped Jazzy the cat wouldn’t mind.
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Tags: Gender-reassignment, Magic, Transformations
Aug 21, 2015 Ramblings and Musings
I love the woods near our house, and so does our dog, Holly.
We’ve taken to walking there in the blazing heat and quiet of mid-day, when no one else is around. The air shimmers, but once we enter the trails, heat falls away, and the trees shed cool, green shadows around us.
Sometimes, we might meet a man and his dog. I hold on to Holly’s collar, and call out, “Is your dog friendly?” for Holly has sometimes been nervous around bigger male dogs. Usually, the answer is “Yes.” So, I release her, and she walks over to his dog, while his dog trots up to check her out. She and her new friend flirt happily, chasing each other, barking, play-inviting and dashing through the bushes.
When dogs play, it’s a poignant reminder to us about what we’ve lost — pure fun, with Time as a distant, banished entity. Today, I watch, wonder and nervousness intertwined — for dog-play can turn deadly with the least little provocation sometimes — but all is well. The man’s dog now trots up, grinning at me, wanting love. I pat the dog’s head and praise him. This one’s name is Polo (“Not after Marco?” I ask. “No, after Edgar Allan Poe,” replies the man. Ah, a literary dog-owner. Nice!) We watch our dogs cavort. When I explain about the two times that Holly got besieged by an aggressive dog, hence my nervousness at first, the man says his dog would rather make love than war. This makes me happy, of course. Meanwhile, Holly is barking happily at Poe-lo, who answers her, and they chase and chase and chase each other.
Very soon, I feel Time turning the earth like a wheel. I need to move on. I call to Holly, and she comes reluctantly. The man and I say polite goodbyes, and we go our separate ways with our dogs. The friendly anonymity of people with dogs in the woods in the daytime is a social fact.
Holly and I crunch on. Occasionally, I see a deer dashing away in the distance, a brown and white blur. Holly senses a disturbance in the force without actually seeing the deer, and runs in its direction, but at my call, “pup-pup-pup-pup-puppy!” [sung in a five-three intervallic chant, or pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-ga (shuddh) to Indian-music folks], she comes bounding back, tongue hanging out sideways, a grin on her face, and her tail flag-wagging. I realize I don’t need to have her on an actual leash (except that in the city, where traffic, scared people, and squirrels might pose a risk) – she and I are connected by an invisible one.
We make our way up rocky trails and mossy ones, with pine-needles soft under our feet, and wild blueberry bushes lining some paths, and reach our favorite lookout spot, an outcrop of rugged rock jutting into the sky. We sit quietly and gaze out, two beings in an envelope of stillness and contentment. Our communion is absolute. I wish I could read her mind — mostly, it’s empty like mine, I imagine. She shifts around, and settles closer to me on the post-noon hot rocks. Somehow, this heat is not unbearable. It’s the heat from the roads that makes summer awful. When the earth herself gives off heat, I don’t really mind, as long as there’s some water and shade nearby.
And that reminds me — I pour water out for her to drink and she lap-laps it up gratefully. A dog lapping water is one of the sweetest, most musical sounds in the world (humans glugging water, on the other hand — actually, those aren’t such bad sounds, either, just not as musical). Done drinking, she turns her head away, and pants softly, checking the air for … wolves? Wolverines? Deer? Foxes? An ancient monster? These woods are tame, really. The most we’ll find here are rabbits, snakes, deer. I’m sure there are foxes and raccoons, but I haven’t seen any. I look at her nose quivering this way and that. The sight fills me with tenderness, gets me wondering about her. Holly’s nose is her most mysterious feature. What odorful wonders must present themselves! The landscape must look like some sort of aromatic version of a topological map to her, and she must be mapping out terrain in ways I cannot imagine. (Hmmm … Strange, four-legged animal, herbivorous? Mark it here, here, and here. Small, jumping, large-eared creature with small droppings? There, oh, and there. What’s this? Oh no! Not this! Better draw a nasal boundary around this — better not to mess with it.)
Shaking myself out of this silly train of thought, I look into her bowl, and notice there’s some water remaining. Not wanting to waste it, I wash her paws, which I imagine might be hot from all that dashing about. I toss some of the last droplets of water into the heat-curled blueberry bushes. The blueberries are long gone, but earlier in the summer, we sometimes go blueberry picking. I didn’t this year, but my daughter and husband did, and came back with small, ripe blueberries, nothing like those monstrous, cultivated ones in the supermarkets. These were sweet and tart, and delicious. Next year, I shall go, too, and pick them. The woods are generous.
The earth’s heartbeat is gentle here. In the far distance is the hush of traffic. We listen. Cicadas shrill in a rising wave of sound. A hushed bird speaks into this chorus, somewhere. After a little while, we know without speaking that it’s time to head back. She leads the way, and I follow, she leash-less and contented, and I unleashed, at peace.
When we reach the main trail, I put the leash back on, just before we reach the once-full pond, which is all sludgy now anyway, with the ragingly hot weather. I prefer my dog non-muddy. As we walk by the mud-clogged water, I yearn for its earlier state — there used to be ducks, even swans sometimes here. Frogs would chant loudly, too. I wonder where they are now. I wonder whether they’ll return. I mourn the passing of things with an intensity that I didn’t know I had.
Turning away, we head back to the road, with shimmering heat-waves emanating from the tarmac, and cross over the over-pass to the street that leads to our house. Holly’s step quickens. She knows home is imminent, and her whole aspect sings, as she pulls forward. She loves the woods, but she loves home even more, I think. When we reach home, she dashes up to my husband and my daughter, and lets them know all about her day with her flag-tail. Then, she flops down heavily, and rests.
Turning away, we head back to the road, with shimmering heat-waves emanating from the tarmac, and cross over the over-pass to the street that leads to our house. Holly’s step quickens. She knows home is imminent, and her whole aspect sings, as she pulls forward. She loves the woods, but she loves home even more, I think. When we reach home, she dashes up to my husband and my daughter, and lets them know all about her day with her flag-tail. Then, she flops down heavily, and rests.
And so do I. I like this simple life. And I’m glad to have a dog who shares her talent for joyfulness with me.
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Tags: #Ramblings