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Frigid - a short story
If you enjoyed the recent film about a child overcoming adversity, you may like this heartwarming story. If you hated that film, you are a misanthrope, and may like this story about the triumph of a child’s will. I would like to thank PFC author Subrat for being kind enough to edit my attempt at short fiction. You will be sad to hear that his retinas have burnt from the effort.
They had a special kind of love. Sometimes, it resembled hate. Most of the time actually. Marriages may be made in heaven but they are stoked by the hate-fires of hell. Aided by the searing passion of hate-fuck, and nurtured through a moment of bliss - as short-lived as a firefly’s life - they were accessories to an act of creation, a beautiful one at that. The knocking from the compressor of the icemaker quietened down to a gentle hum after kicking off another regenerating cycle of chlorofluorocarbons. Watching, as the seething gas liquefied and cooled down. Sated, now that the seed was sown.
This story is about a little girl and her refrigerator.
Her oldest memory was of the big white thing. It was imported. This meant that it was produced in a different country from where it was finally used. A lot of people got rich due to this transaction because in those days it was not easy to import things. No one understood why.
She remembered that everyone in the colony stopped by for cold water from their frizz. It was her parents’ pride and in some way the deal clincher for their union. A “present” from the bride’s Uncle in Singapore. A rich wedding gift for a poor marriage.
People always commented on how cute a couple her parents made. They were cute. Their arguments cuter. It was usually about how much detergent to use or events of similar import. After a few years it turned into this -
“Bitch, bitch, bitch – you aaarr a fucking bitch!”
“Nenu bitch aithey, meeru enti? Bastard. Bleddy bastard.”
But, it always ended like this – “aah, aah, aannh.” That was cutest.
And so on it went mellifluously, as their sweaty bodies thwalped into each other; sliding, plucking and clashing, as their symphony climaxed with the refrigerator watching conducting.
In some sense, Mahira had always felt its presence, even when she was cocooned inside her Ammi. She would always remember the first time It tried talking to her. That was a rare day of peace at home. It may have been the only time she saw them smile. Daddy had asked her to fetch an ice cream from the bedroom.
As she walked down the long corridor that connected the living and sleeping rooms, she felt the blood rush to her stomach, and farther down. Gravity and biology working in harmony. Every step echoed, and she could hear the faint sounds of the night. She wasn’t even walking, simply gliding, like iron filings to a magnet. Clearly, the bedroom was designed for adults since the light switch was at the other end of the room forcing one to wallow and grope in darkness.
The fridge had a green glow, like gossamer moss, one that she had never noticed before. It didn’t really coat the surface or stick to it. It sort of hung in the air around the fridge. Catching what little light it could, making its presence felt. Then It spoke.
They were gentle hums and knocks at first. She held her breath, waiting for it to pass, but they only grew louder with determined vehemence. She rushed to the refrigerator, and yanked at the door, but it wouldn’t open. The compressor kicked into a new cycle and the gas molecules collided and pushed the piston. Then, that knocking! Like skeletons dancing on a tin roof. She attempted to overcome the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
She fled the room, desperate to get away from the malevolence of the green noise. She told herself that she was being childish, and it was only a refrigerator. She would come back armed with daylight.
But Daddy would have none of that. Tantrums were not tolerated in his house. She couldn’t possibly tell them that the fridge was alive, if that’s what she thought. Was It haunted, possessed, or was she being delusional? Of course, none of these adult thoughts had crossed her mind at the time. She had only felt fear, at its purest, nakedest; cold fear that made her innards grind and the bile defy gravity. But, there was something else, something new; a tingling in an unexplored corner of her body-temple.
As she trembled back to the fridge, there was none of the ghoulish racket again. Just the eerie glow, eyeing her, lurking. The refrigerator reluctantly opened its arms to her, and let her reach in, deep within, to grab the ice cream. She felt the cold mist caress her, and the green enveloped her and that tingling was back again. This time in company of moistness.
She ate the ice cream in silence as her parents rowed again. Later that night, she had a peculiar dream, if that’s what it was. The first of the many to follow. The fridge came to her, accompanied by the sounds of her parents making hate. It entered her, wholly and completely, penetrating every pore of her temple, speaking to her in knocks and caressing her with gentle hums.
She didn’t remember what happened to her at nights, but she always felt differently the next day. It had taken the refrigerator twelve years to learn to communicate to humans, and even then the grammar was not perfect. If ever there was a chance, it was with this little girl, created to bridge man and machine; the inanimate and the living-breathing. The fridge continued the visitations into the girl’s nights, and Mahira took it gratefully, experiencing the womanhood her body was ready for, but not her child’s mind.
One afternoon, while alone at home, she felt It beckon. There was no controlling the impulse. She emptied the contents of the refrigerator, every last one of them, including the plastic grates, and got in. She shut the door and savored the cold darkness.
There was the same tingling of that first night, but with an intensity alien to an eleven-year-old. The green mist embraced her, and made its way in, taking her savagely. All the pleasure centers in her body were active, neurons chitter-chattering and synapses firing away, and the throbbing ecstasy frightened her.
She tried to get out, afraid where it might lead to, but It wouldn’t let her. Her kicks didn’t budge the door as the vacuum created by the gray insulating rubber held. She panicked and pushed against the door with all the strength her little body could muster.
That’s when the knocking started again. She cried and screamed for help. She vowed to be good if she came out alive. No inordinate demands, no wishing ill of her rowing parents and no sneaking in to watch them make hate. It wasn’t exactly a prayer. A dying girl’s plea to anyone that would listen. None up there listened. There was Nobody to listen. This, she thought, was her comeuppance for all the naughty pleasures experienced.
She rattled inside her cage gasping for the limited air. What was it - the equation for the amount of air occupied in confined spaces? For some reason, along with completely useless information about Avogadro’s number, she remembered the news story about the 8-year-old boy in America that had drowned in a washing machine and another little girl in Poland that had charred in an oven. She knew what they were doing in there.
And it got worse. The frizz was torturing her, laughing at her. The blood came out shyly at first, in little drops, and then with great enthusiasm. Hell had opened its gates through her, and she was going to bleed and suffocate to her cold grave. And then that dreadfully familiar knocking!
It all ended just as quickly and quietly as it had started. The door flung open as her limbs flailed and she tumbled out of the refrigerator.
She wiped the fridge clean of all evidence and replaced the plastic grates, and the food. She washed the menstrual blood off the face of Daffy Duck on her underwear. Of course, her parents learnt nothing of that afternoon.
Familiarity is a numbing force. Even the most horrific seems innocuous when cloaked in its dreary garb. Life went back to its charming dullness like before with two minor changes.
In the outside world, three wise men had to pledge the country’s gold to a foreign bank to prevent insolvency. Suddenly, anyone could bring anything into the country affordably, and everyone could start a business without a license. Very few people understood how all this was possible and nobody understood why it had taken so long.
And at home, her parents did not sleep together anymore since they had stopped rowing. Hate is a special emotion to humans. It can be used to turn brothers against each other, enslave souls, and impose the will of one on several. But, like everything beautiful, it must be nurtured. The refrigerator had limited understanding of humans and ignored Mahira’s parents. It would cost the fridge dearly.
Those were the best days of her life. There was calm at home. Not the fragile peace of early mornings, but the unruffled tranquility of the comatose. The fridge came to her every night, but she never remembered it in the clarity of light. During the day, It tried talking to her but she never understood, language barrier and all. She continued being naughty, and was punished for it every month.
Her parents separated shortly after. A child didn’t question those big adult decisions and no reason was ever given. It wasn’t fair to a little girl. Then again, to expect fairness is a human frailty.
She went to live with her mother at her grandfather’s home. She visited her father’s house, the house that he won along with Ammi, the house she grew up in, every weekend; and the refrigerator waited. And so it went on, very cutely.
It would have all been rather unremarkable had she not attended the last day of school that year. Having taught all the chapters, her Science teacher elaborated on the application of all that they had been learning. He picked the Morse Code, and played a sample of the dots and dashes, as radioed by a lost sailor from the high seas.
Mahira felt that familiar cold tingling when she heard it. It translated to this – SOS…SOS…SOS. It was a distress call, popularly known as Save Our Souls.
The smart child that she was, she quickly deciphered that the frizz had been trying to talk to her, among other things. She also translated the knocks and hums from that frightening afternoon to mean – “Don’t be afraid.”
It was not the agreed upon day for her to see Daddy, but she had to meet the fridge, and listen to what It had to say. Before her father could ask the what-how, she was in the bedroom.
And there it stood. In all its gleaming, red monstrosity. She was informed that It had turned particularly noisy of late. Since good imported fridges were now available for so cheap, her father had exchanged it for something new…and red. Her fondest childhood memory was lost to yet another adult decision.
Mahira grew up to be an unusual young woman. Some might even call her frigid.
74 Responses to “Frigid - a short story”
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Lou-ed it!
Me no misanthrope:)
There is something about Subrat………
@ kavita -
that intro was written long before ur review, so it wasn’t directed at you. but, i may have taken a dig at u, had i read ur review before i wrote it.
if u don’t mind me asking, can u critique it if u can find the time? thanks.
Will do deffy,
Was doing it even before you asked :)
Will send it you shortly saray na…….
Hey Dabba,
I wont be in NY for the Hava screening. But it’ll be great if you write a review about it.
Take some pics too.
Cheers
Partho:)>-
Dabba, good writing there. Much enjoyed.
good one dabba !!!! =d>
Thanks george, navdeep.
now if i can only get more people to read.
Sex. Sex. Sex.
with those magical words you got me to read it again!
pardonez moi,critiquing is serious work, have not got much time since yesterday to give it total attention,
with a rashness that is my second nature:
I promise to send it by mid nite,
K
Dabba -YOu should have named the story such
did someone say sex? wow! cool story.
damn your marketing techniques dabba.
:)) nice try dabba :))
kya likha hai!
green noise, eerie glow, like gossamer moss, eyeing her, lurking…gave me goose bumps, really!
so you don’t like kids? they annoy you…but you write sweet(sad) little stories about them. hmmmn.
by the way, isn’t the girl too young to know about Avogadro
Arrey koi isse review karo.. Mere kuch samajh nahi aya mere sir k upar se nikal gaya … ~X(
WTF??????????? Dabba SADIST hai kya???
@ Neeraja -
I wrestled with that detail for a long time. I liked the sound of it, and justified it to myself by saying that she is intelligent and probably precocious too. I was hoping that my storytelling would engross so much that no one would notice.
You noticed.
Lesson learned.
thanks for commenting.
@ striker -
thanks. marketing to karna hi padta hai, nahin to kaun padega?
@ A just A -
sahi pehchaana.
saralta hum par khoob jamti hai, lekin kalam se nikalti nahin. koshish jaari rahegi.
padne ke liye shukriyaan. Maaf karna, par aapka paisa vaapas nahin lauta sakta.
@Dabba
arey nahi yaar, your story was very engrossing, I take the credit for being extra vigilant :D
“Nenu bitch aithey, meeru enti?”
eta ki? Telugu?
translate madi, si’l vous plait.
@Dabba
Arrey bhai , hum koi paisa wapas nahi mang rahe. Humne paise kharche hi nahi, humne toh free mein padhi hai… :D
Hum ek tuch reader hain, kam se kam kuch vyakhaya toh karo…
Ya toh hum aapse jyada expect karr rahe hain ya khud se, kahin toh gadbad hai… :-?
Neeraja : Kannadiga who needs a Telugu translation!!
” If I am a bitch what are you ”
:d
Interesting story dabba , though i had to read sex among comments to go back to it ;)
the part about mahira approaching the frizzz in dark for first time reminds me of my exp. but it was the hidden things in the room that scared me . ;)
@ A just A -
Mamla gambhir hai.
Dabba, just read the story again.
A Well written,eerie sort of tale.
Reminds me of the type of scripts that Manoj Night Shyamlan writes.
@ kavita -
thanks for the translation.
@ neeraja -
why did i think u were marathi?
@ sg -
hopefully the rest of your experience was different from Mahira’s. Glad you could relate. thanks.
thanks arun. hopefully u mean his pre-Signs scripts (i wish!)
I’m writing a post on shyamalan, which i’ll put up later in the week)
Dabba Bhai,
Humko aisa feel fo raha hai ki hum Quentin Tarantinoji ki koi child story padh rahe hain…
Ab kafi kuch samjh mein aaya , parr some strings r still open fr me..
Chaloji, shukriya free mein ye story padhane k liye…
@Dabba
because I am :) (though my first language is Hindi)
@Kavita
Thanks
madi is one of the few words I picked up while studying in Bangalore.
Thanks for sharing brother!
*****
Last Film - THE STING (4/5)
just saw .. err .. Finally got to see
Lars von trier’s DANCER IN THE DARK
loved it (4/5) accdnt to me !!!
dabba, you are seriously awesome. That was an incredible story, and I love every single on of your posts :)
@ Misha -
Jee khush kara di aapne. aapke baare mein mainak kay comment padhkar maine socha ki meri kahani aapko naaraz kar degi.
padhne ke liye shukriyan.
kaunsa comment dabba? about me not appreciating people/movies that treat/show women as sexual objects?
mujhe bilkul aisa nahi laga aapki kahani padhkar!
keep writing machcha!
@ misha -
glad u feel that way about my story.
Dabba.. it was a good story to read… though physics, biology, maths and economics appeared slightly out of place to me but overall I liked it a lot.
mmm..neat story there..
KYA THA YEH ??? :-??
Pure Crap !!!
Kuch bhi !!!
~X(
Dabba .. man this is what u get .. its nice to see the reviews !!! i read these as if it was my story ;)
u managed a “bouncer” for a few .. good good …
@ Gajendra, Indraneel -
thanks
@ Avi -
thanks for reading. will try harder next time.
@ george -
I’m flattered that u treat it as yours. That is a biggest compliment anyone can get.
All kinds of opinions are welcome. Especially the negative and critical ones, because it tells me what I should do better next time.
I am surprised that Avi is the only one that has voiced a completely negative opinion. I thought there would be more and am disappointed.
Not bad Dabba…
How about having Sex for real in the next one?
Very manga-like.
@ Partho -
i was being facetious. i fully intend to attend the screening after paying for it. I took an Ekadesi vrath of no emoticons 2 years ago when i started blogging. Now u know.
Good writing. You manage to take the reader under the character’s skin very nicely.
The imagery kinda reminded me of Stephen King’s novel From Buick 8.
Btw dude - “misanthrope”? This is the first time that i had to use a dictionary in PFC !!
@ mainak -
There Will Be Real Sex
next time but i don’t think it’s the kind people want to read about.
@ Mohican, Sudhir
thanks.
@dabba, Mainak
can neone of u use a real/fake id and mail me at geoantoney@yahoo.com
its imp .. help needed!!!
A Meaty Cut from the Butcher of Vilaspur ! :D Good Going ! Keep at it ! Cheers ! :)
Liked the story. Reading it at a time when I am trying to rediscover fiction, for what it is, and re-explore its possibilities. You write matter of fact then move to paranormal realms then move to scientific logic then deconstruct the logic and become possessive of your characters, throwing some statements in between(familiarity is a numbing force)….quite interesting..
would have loved to see you really fly on any of these larger domains, but I guess thats the boundaries of the form that we play in.
I felt a little less enticed by the pay-offs, they came too early, not complemented with much hard work, it didn’t make me sweat, it didn’t pull me in like the way I wanted.
I feel like picking a pencil and sketching the story out, the greens and the reds, did you ever try adding pictures to this?
I get a feeling you don’t particularly like poetry.
Thanks for sharing this, loved your wry sense of humor. I might out in some of my shorts some time, but always get scared of IP.
@ Tushar -
thanks for your comment.
some wierdness going on with wordpress. won’t let me post a comment with my name. same thing happened with Mainak.
if you don’t mind, can you elaborate which pay offs you thought came too soon. not trying to justify or defend the story, really want to know what worked and what didn’t.
i actually quite like poetry. i don’t know hoe to evaluate or analyze it though. so when i read something, it’s just a gut reaction. i don’t wrrite poetry though cos i don’t know how.
as for pictures, this started as the backstory for my lead character in a screenplay i am developing. i usually write pretty extensive backstories for all my principal characters. one thing led to the other, and it became a short story.
i am toying with the ide of making a short film out of it, but i don’t have the money and skills to execute it the way i want.
Need FX, and killer sound design. some other time. once again thanks. As for ur short stories, put them up. Worry abt IP later. We’ll take it to court, should be fun.
PFC will back us.
Try to do some parts using the anime-route for this one. I am sure you can get someone that is willing to work for food and credits.
The intense scenes are good for using animation.
@ Dabba
have you seen ‘Terry Giliam’s” “Tideland”?
you must have:)
@ shekhar -
I was afraid to go watch it in the theaters because i thought it would suck donkey’s dong. will eventually catch it on DVD although it may not be the same as watching in the cinema.
Now that you mention it, i can see how the two stories seem similar.
Ya Dabba,
I dont know why,
just Reminds me that movie, watching that movie was Deadly experience,………….
That is what ‘Self Indulgence’(But I liked it)
by the way check out my post, about making of my One Min Short, Will love to read your comment:)
Dabba, sorry for dissecting the story like this, I would never want this to be done to me, but since you asked for it
@ tushar -
yaar, i was looking for things negative and what didn’t work. instead u wrote a eulogy! Thank you for the lovely words but don’t be so kind next time.
Do u remember the guy that whips himself in public for money in small towns? i am that guy. a bit of a masochist and nothing turns me on more than someone telling me how shite i am.
and with that an S&M joke if you can call it that -
A sadist & masochist meet through the raunchy encounter section of the classifieds, with an arrangement to indulge in some bondage, deep skin cuts, and general petting of that sort.
After pleasantries are exchanged, the masochist pleads “Hit me,” and the sadist smiles “No.”
lol. sirjee like Altman said, “I hate people who say my films are not good, and more the fact they don’t want to watch them again”(sorry for a rough recall), meri tubelight second time pe hi jalti hai(like any self respecting tubelight). Its generally the case that some of the things that I like, mostly films, I have had classic examples of a first time boo and second time wow.
Anyways, I wrote what I felt.
On what you said about S&M, once out of sheer love(read lust) for this well endowed pari, I gave her my stories, she happened to be an english litt. student of some phyllum, and she comes back next day with this huge circles on my pages(a la TZP) and I can’t take it, and a much deserved(on my part) bickering follows. ah! what a cathartic day…anyways..
back to the story scene, I am just gonna read up Subrat bhai’s ‘Cured’. You guys have inspired me so much I was finally successful in finding my lil ‘novel’ folder(lol), and I found some 6-7 shorts rotting in there…you are in for some more S&M treat for sure…:)
Suffice to say, you have gone nuts!
quite engaging one…this is what i call a kinky one. nice nice. keep it rolling. after sex, hopefully the kink factor will also help ;-))
Did Kavita delete her Blog? I loved her writing..
Cant find her posts ..
rahul - here
http://passionforcinema.com/author/krsn/
thanks,Karthik but why doesn’t it show up in the list?
Well written…I love “frizz” although do think it should be “frij”
Hope there is more coming!
Thanks shibani. two more in the works.
[...] The last thing Elijah sees before he blacks out, is the tail of the man’s coat riding up as he move through the turnstile. The SILVER HANDLE OF A GUN peeks out from the belt of his pants. Frigid [...]
[...] mother has read one screenplay and one short story of mine (Frigid). Don’t think she finished either, and we had some very uncomfortable conversations after [...]
read it now and awesome read this was
hope to c u making movies some day … planning on a shoet movie for this story ?
“Passion for Cinema” for me starts with Subrat ends with Dabba…all things considered..
And yeah.. I absolutely loooooooved this post.. The way it was structured, the way it moved… brilliant!!!
@ Gaurav -
Thanks. Much appreciated.
I would like to eventually make it as a short film. folks upthread suggested anime, and I think that will be the correct format for this story.
Unfortunately I know diddly about animation, and the learning curve is too steep right now. I am stretched mighty thin with the other screenplays I am writing and a live action short film I wanna shoot early Autumn.
as the chips fall…
@ sreehari -
thanks! Much appreciated, especially when it comes from a fellow writer.
‘Imagination getting wild’ is the only way to describe this story. A girl and a fridge can conjure up such a tale - wow. I’m not sure if I liked this story but it’s different. No offence but the only thing that’s in my head is - how does one come up with something as bizzare as this???…..or maybe ive missed a point here…
@ arthi v -
thanks for reading.
there’s no point to be missed. whatever’s there is there.
it really happened. exactly the way i wrote it.