For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bran macFeabhail challenged me with “Include a leaf and an electric socket. This can be literal or metaphorical. Go wild. ” and I challenged Grace O’Malley with “My first drop of ink was my last..(Begin your post with these words)”

It is a boring Saturday. There’s nothing much to do, so I head off to meet my friends.

“Everyone is busy or bored today,” I think, finding the roads so empty. A brown leaf falls near my feet as I walk, a spring in my step, thinking of which song I’d dance to when I returned back. Autumn is definitely starting, I think.

I hear the screech of wheels, and turn around to see a black Omni speeding towards me.

“Everyone’s in a hurry,” I whisper to myself and turn back to find someone inches from me.

“Watch where you’re going, moron,” I say and try to walk on, but he holds me back, and before I can react or shout, places a handkerchief to my nose. I fall unconscious.

I don’t know how long it has been since I was last conscious. I feel around for my watch, only to remember that I’d forgotten to wear it that morning. I rub my eyes and stretch my hands.

“This is strange. Shouldn’t I be tied up or something?” I wonder. “This must be their first time kidnapping someone.”

I’m still in the car. I try the door and it slides open. The sunlight hits my eyes hard, and I see lots of people there, and the sound of water nearby.

“Hey! Look who woke up,” I hear a voice and turn around to see many of you smiling at me, sitting on two large sheets, and having a picnic.

“Who are you? Why have you brought me here?” I ask.

“Well, you told us to, actually.”

“Gah! What rubbish. I’d never tell someone to kidnap me.”

“Well, you said so. “The only way my parents will let me attend a blog-meet alone is for someone to kidnap me.” Those were your exact words too,” you say and burst out laughing.

“Leo?” I enquire, stunned, a mixture of anger, surprise and joy that must be evident on my face.

“Oh she remembers,” one of you reply back.

“What the crap! I was kidding and you guys actually pulled it off? My parents will murder you,” I shout, furiously.

“Oh that’s not very likely, Sonu. I texted your mom and she texted back. She’s mainly looking to murder you,” you reply, and I sit down, flummoxed.

“Cheer up, she’s not THAT worried. She called up and told us to take good care of you, lest you slip and go down the waterfall,” I hear you say and (try to) stare daggers at you.

I am hungry, so I just reach for a cream bun from one of the plates and wolf it down. I’m determined not to smile the whole day, but it’s difficult with so many friends nearby who are eager to pull my leg a lot. I break, just after breakfast, and grudgingly smile.

Simsa is a nice place. I’ve been there before of course, but not with so many talkative blog-friends. It’s the first time I’m meeting all of them too, so it sort of makes it more special. Leo, Aarthi, Nethra, Shravan, Senthil and some others who are their friends… I am having so much fun that I don’t notice the time going by so quickly.

By nightfall, I’m tired but I won’t forget the day for sure. As I sit on the couch in my hall, listening to my parents giving me a lecture, my heart is reliving those little moments. I plug the charger into the electrical socket and head off to bed, ready to recharge my energy while my mobile charges too. My mother still follows me, her voice nearly gone from the strain of talking so much.

“Oh leave it Mom, they had kidnapped me, I didn’t go voluntarily,” I offer in a half-voice, falling in a heap on the bed.

“Yeah right… as if I’m going to believe that,” I hear you say but at this moment, I don’t really care.

I’m going to fall asleep and perhaps dream of a day when this day happens all over again.

Sonshu asked me, in my Inspire My Art page, to think from her point of view, and write what would happen if she was kidnapped, introducing me as a character at some point in the post.

so glad to say, “Art – Inspired and Painted!”

(April 19th, 2012)

Poetry & writing are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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