The Falling Apple

Urooj Murtaza

Urooj Murtaza

Urooj Murtaza currently resides in , Pakistan. She is a 38-year-old stay at home mother. She did her masters in International Relations from the University of . She started working much before completing her intermediate, i.e Grade 12th. She worked with different prestigious institutions along with few banks. She has a for writing; it helps her go on in .
Urooj Murtaza

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In this surreal piece – a prose- – Urooj takes us into a different wonderland.

A dark blue was kissing the skies of Kensington… tiny stars disappearing in the mist of moon, making it all look so dreamy!

It’s 5:00am and I am all set to drift into the wonderland, where there are lots of Cheshire cats waiting for me.

“Scratch scratch scrooootch,” I rub the tiny mole on my and see the red apples hanging from the tree like oversized rubies.

I try to close my eyes and this voice sings: “1-2- 3-4 Taby’s in the dance floor, 5-6- 7-8 she can’t take a step straight, 9-10- 11-12 she wore the clock like a jewel…”

The voice continues…

“Hello, I’m trying to sleep here,” and suddenly a man with a bright face and long wavy hair appeared from the other side of the tree.

“Oh Raphael!” I sat up in .

“Rapha… who?” He asked with a raised brow.

“Raphael, the famous painter,” I was smiling now.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m Isaac. I am a physicist and mathematician.” He was bright as the .

“Eh! But you look like him…” I went back to the grass bed and he sat beside me.

“So, what do you do, girl,” he asked casually biting the red fallen apple.

“I … errr… write.”

“Hahaha Lord, what a big thing… you write!” He said with sarcasm dripping from his tone. “I can write too,” and with that he pulled out a paper from his pocket with some alien language written on it.

“And what do u write about,” he continued with his questioning session.

While he scrubbed the poo of his shoe

I gave him a disgusting look. “I write about the moon, the sun shine, the laughter and pains of love and rejection…”

I was literally struggling with sleep in my eyes.

“Sshhh!” he suddenly placed his ink smeared finger on my lips. It smelled of ripe apples.

“Perhaps you may write about the plight of epileptic people.” His gel-like eyes filled with clear water

and a whole world of seizures.

I sat up.

“I sure will.”

My sleep had vanished…

“I will wait, Alice,” he was standing up tall near the and began to walk away.

“Hey, I’m not Alice,” I yelled from behind.

“But you sure live in wonderland!” He looked back and gave me the liveliest smile I had ever seen.

I sat along the trunk… counting the fallen apples like the sins of Eve.

And myself to write for the pains in the eyes of Isaac that were left unseen!

©Urooj Murtaza

Pix from Net.