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.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tags: Gender-reassignment, Magic, Transformations

Apr 20, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Original Poetry

Djinn
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 20th, 2013

Today, an imp found residence
in a strange place: my lamp-mind,
which needs polishing.

And it chatters, natters, patters
ceaselessly, unceasingly, incessantly,
because it wants out.

It wants to be let out, it says.
Out it wants to be.
Can’t you see? it says.
I need to be.
If you let me out,
I will be your slave.

For my mind is the lamp that
holds it captive, and all I ask
from it is three wishes.

But that tosses me
On the precipice
Of my conundrum,
Which yawns open below me:

How can the container
ask a wish of the thing
 It created, and which is
contained in it?

~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: #NaPoWriMo, conundrum, creation, Creativity, Djinn, Imp, Magic, magic lamp, mind-chatter