Posts Tagged ‘men’


It is 5 minutes to midnight now. I was in my bed, trying to sleep only if I could stop hearing screams of the Judge who was angry and awake in my head.

“No, no…that is not porn…it is not pornographic at all…something isn’t quite right!” No, it is not matter of right and wrong but what is it that is burning my gut in the middle of the night?

“So what is porn Uncle Google,” I asked when I sat at my desk, millions of bugs in my mind, the Judge still staring at me in its back yard.

“Pornography is the portrayal of  sexual subject matter for the purpose of sexual arousal,” answered Wikipedia.

“What does the girl in this image do to cause sexual arousal?” asked the Judge with no gender.

bacak aramda

“Nothing, she seems to have been undressed forcefully…which is why she is looking down with shame,” I replied.

“Exactly! What kind of soul can get sexual arousal from such image?” asked the Judge.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed. The Genderless Judge looked happy…no not because s(he) made me feel sick but s(he) managed to teach.

“Have another close look,” said the genderless judge. And I looked at the image below which was the book cover of my first poetry book.

“Yeah…I mean she is not human is she…she is a robot…and made by a man,” I whispered to myself and looked back at The Genderless Judge.

The Genderless Judge smiled and disappeared.

Now I am asking you, was The Genderless Judge right?

Should I create another cover or should I insist on using this one?

I am going to bed now.

By the way, the content of the book is nowhere near pornography…it is all about gender war…

I am going to talk to the stars in the balcony for a few minutes just to miss my warm bed…otherwise I won’t be able to sleep…unless they say something to oppose The Genderless Judge…Oh God!

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He left and it rained but not because he left. It just rained. I thought I was upset because he had left, but I was not…not because of that. He said he was my friend and I agreed with that….at least for a few moments a day…or something like that. I then got a severe headache…no not because he had left but because how I felt after he had left. And it rained. Something felt fake when I waved at him from the balcony… something was still fake. Was it something in me or in him, I did not know that yet.

I hated his beard for the first time. He, too, admitted that men with little manhood tended to grow big beard in this land where minarets were more potent than most of them. Was it his beard? No, not completely that. He smelled like a hell and he did not seem to know that. No, no…don’t get me wrong before I even began. I did not even touch him, he was my friend. Just because he wanted to…but he was too primitive…too manishly man…too shallow…too proud to have a little extension between his legs…no he thought he was but he was never my friend…and I never cared. Wasn’t I dreaming like everyone else? And it rained…I love the way soil smelled…a big white bird opened her wings and flew towards me…she seemed to have known how I felt.

red and blue pill

What pill would kill the pain a fake friend left in my head? I opened the cabinet and took the blue pill. I poured water into a thin tall glass, put the blue pill in the middle of my tongue and pushed it down with water. The pain seemed to have disappeared as I walked towards the mirror. My face seemed different to me. There was disgust and regret even when I stared like a newly made statute or dead. I felt more sublime when I was a statute, insignificant and sad when I pretended to be dead. Then I got scared , no I did not want to be dead…but I did not want to be fake either…I began hating the mirror after my friend…no he was not mine…he was just a friend …

He told me how he stabbed a man…he was proud of that because that was very brave…that was the only reason why he had become  a friend in my conscious sphere…I knew how sorry he and all the other men felt sorry for me for not being a man…I felt sorry for him for not having anything else apart from the little or big extension between his legs.

“Have you ever thought that you are smarter than me?” asked he. He knew the truth, I knew the truth. I still had to pretend that I did not know the truth…because I was not a man…and I could not stab a man…but I think I am going to have to, I said to myself…I am going to have to pretend to be mad…because I know that is going to be less painful and more real…I am going to be a mad woman, shooting the minarets…cutting the throats and cocks of men who made me fake…who forced me to pretend, I promised myself. No, Buddha would not do that…because he was a man…he, too, would not understand…nor would Mohammed…he would laugh at that…

“Sit down! Stay down woman!” he would exclaim, stroking his big beard.

It rained…it rained regret all day… and I took one more blue pill…it rained revenge all night… and I took another blue pill…

 

 


Critiques of Dick

He was tall,big and known to be bold. His name was Dick. He used to write gossips about girls and boys for a magazine in the past. Back then, his journalist friends called him Dick Hardy.What they really meant was that he was impotent, weak, little guy inside. How some knew about his impotency and weaknesses did not bother anyone. After all he was officially gossiping about everyone.

And one day he resigned; he resigned from his job unexpectedly. He moved to another city and detached himself from everyone.He decided to be a new man.He began writing reviews for a national newspaper.He wanted to feel a little more important and potent, but he knew he wasn’t.

the big little man 33

He reviewed plays, novels, movies for a well- known newspaper. Six months after he began his new job, his editor realized that he was he was harsh on female novelists, playwrights and directors but understanding and soft to the male ones.

“Dick, I decided to study your all the reviews you have written for us so far after receiving unpleasant letters from readers,” said his editor in his late 40s when they sat in his office.

“Unpleasant letters?” asked Dick.

“Yes, many of them,” replied the editor decisively. Dick could not believe him.

“No, that has got to be a joke, it cannot be real,it must be a smear” he said to his editor without a word.

“I studied tone of your reviews and your critiques… I discovered something amazing,” said the newspaper editor.

“What is it?” asked he, unsure what to expect anymore. “Before answering your question, answer me, do you have some issue with women?” asked the editor.

“No…no…I mean…why would I…did you find any sexist expression in my reviews?” asked Dick, holding the arm rest of his chair firmly.

“No,no it is not what you say actually it is what you don’t say in your reviews suggests that you might be misogynist.” replied the editor frankly.

“I strongly disagree with you on that!” replied Dick, feeling tense.

“I understand your defense perfectly well but this is not my opinion only,” replied the editor wisely.

Dick looked at his right side and the left; he did not see what appeared in his sight.

“What do you suggest?” he eventually asked,feeling frustrated.

“I suggest you should analyse your own thoughts and feelings towards women, even your own critiques…and I will let you be off for two weeks for that,” said the editor.

“Paid or unpaid?” asked Dick immediately.

“Unpaid,” replied the editor.

“Okay, but I am not misogynist, if you want to blame anyone, you should look at the society! Don’t you think we live in a misogynistic society anyway?” he asked angrily.

“Don’t you think we are here to reform the society?” asked the editor.

 

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She got out of the tube station and turned right. That’s right, she was always told to stand on the right, do right, say right and be right and yes she loved turning rights without knowing why. Who was she anyway, she was told to think. She was in her bloodiest conflict when she accepted it, she was attacked and frightened when she didn’t. Yes she was belittled like every other feminine soul with a hole, she was no one, she was small, she was insignificant, she was nothing. Hence she always wore the highest hills to feel a little significant.

hilly heels 3

She passed by some shops, some appeared and disappeared around her. People seemed to be forbidden to look at each other when they walked on this street and on every other street in London; the city that was in love with itself, the city that sold pride to those who lacked it at the cost of their smiles.

There appeared two men; they saw where she was and what was happening inside her hilly heel;no they could not smile either. Her feet were pulsing in her head now. She looked at them, could not see them but fear them. She began walking faster on her hilly heels.

“Beauty has a high price,” a woman whom she admired exclaimed in her mind. She walked on to the known, feeling pulled by her unknowns.

“No you should not go!” said her mother.

He was there, standing in front of a book shop. She saw him and walked back to the tube station.

“Yes, you should go and have fun,” said the woman whom she admired. Her heart breathed for a few seconds.

She walked back to him.

“You are nothing more than a little hole, no matter what you in this world!” shouted her father.

She hated him, she wanted to go and punch the young man in the face.He was waiting for her in the cold and dry weather. She felt ashamed of what she felt; ashamed of what she wore, ashamed of being there. Her feet pulsed in her head, she was not here and she walked back to the tube station again.

Hello everyone, thank you for your ingenious replies to the last week’s story. You have just read the “Inside Her Hilly Heels” which explores the love-hate relationship between women and their heels. You know what to do next. Complete “Inside Her Hilly Heels” with your unique insight as creatively as you want as part of the Magic Book Writing Project.

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