Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Too soon the sky began to drip. A sudden red cloud covered the earth heralding the beginning of bloodletting season. From the thick filth the leeches and ticks crawled and beneath every Christmas tree they found a home. Drunk on Yuletide cheer, the families slept sound and the leeches came out of the woodwork. Literally.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
perched itself on a branch and settled its' wings, dark as the thoughts
that unsettled her. The black coffee steamed and she poured the milk,
smooth as the skin of the girl she was thinking off. Porcelain white of
ivory bones, skin of delicate milk coffee and hair of honey brown. And
the sky dripped slowly, filling heavily with tears. The bird was as
sordid and damp as her mind. And the girl in her thoughts was bluer by
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
"Be careful what you wish for..."
And all around everybody seemed to be smiling away, smiling at everyone and everything but her. In this place, she thought she'd get by on a smile, that people would be warm to her because of her lovely face. But her fair skin paled a sickly gray as the locals moved graciously, luminescent, comfortable in their beautiful skin.
She opened her mouth to speak but realized how useless her words were in this place of boundless beauty. The infinite pale had made her taciturn. When the shroud of darkness fell like a mosquito net over the watery city, she crawled beneath a street lamp and begged the invisible for dreamless sleep.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
He's tired of dreaming other people's dreams. He's tired of pulling the darkness from the sky at the crack of dawn so that the ungrateful can crawl from their comfortable beds. He's tired of bringing the sun to half-mast at noon and putting the clouds up for the one's who complain about the sunshine. And then tired again of building up the soft moonlight so that young lovers can be inappropriate on city park benches.
He seems smiling, even when he's not, perhaps that's why they take advantage of him.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
of summer. Flowers were blooming everywhere and cold winter frost was
a distant memory. The little wooden door was exactly as he remembered
it, even though the last time he walked through was two decades ago.
He was old and grey now, and so was his little lady. An aching pain in
his heart said she might not let him in, after all the faces he's
seen. But he knew that her love was true. She'd spent the flower of
her beautiful youth in his memory and every sunshiney day taking care
of his children. Now there would be no dancing in the rain or making
angels in the gentle snow. They were both terribly spent and the
winter of their love had begun, but he thought they would salvage it
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
When I'm with you I want to stay there
If I'm true I'll never leave
And if I do I know the way back”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
make sure she was still sleeping. Then, he got dressed with lightning
speed and prepared to leave.
But before he left, he went to her bathrooms mirror, picked up her
darkest kohl and scrawled in in unmistakable cursive, "Think of me
tomorrow 'cause I'll still be thinking of you"
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
it's the lovely length of her hair that she truly despises. 'Honey Blonde', they'd call it. the shade, mellow and comfortable, that could slide around an angry face and give it softness or frame a plain one with plenty of character. the colour of salvation in a stack of pancakes piled ceiling high. the texture of straw that is dull, yet glossy and old, yet soft, fresh and clean. the length of pretty ribbons running through cities of gold, getting stuck in elevator shafts every now and then. the smell, warm and inviting, that her man loved having on his pillow.
with a smile, she picks up the scissors. in an instant her lovely hair is reduced to a messy pile of honey on the bathroom floor.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Lightly she sits, and bathes
Sitting, she bathes with lights
But the promises are too many to keep
And the keepings are too few to promise
Her eyes are decadent with sickly sweet coffee
Yet, caffe au late could be last thing on your mind
A furrow is also growing in her brain but she never notices it, Cerebrospinal fluid pulses through the deepening ridge and she begins to feel calm for the first time in a while. The ridge on her forehead disappears and one appears on her face, in the form of a smile.
A room full of faceless people is laughing; not a jeering laughter but kind sweet words, but what are they saying? She wants to talk to them but the words are falling all around her, on the mud away from home. One particular woman bears a stark resemblance to… umm… what is it? That child that she once birthed, who? It must be a type of girl. But the word is running and laughing now, how can it easily do that? What strong bones it must have! She can’t catch it so she moves on and tries to tap a shoulder, it vanishes. Funny, she thinks, I was about to say… ? Another word is laughing at her from the floor. Suddenly a gust of wind knocks all the people in the… uh, box shaped place, oh yes room. The people and the room are nowhere around but there’s a cool, blue, transient substance flowing around her ankles. She can’t remember what it’s called and she doesn’t know where that place is uh… um… you know? The place with a warm bed and something to eat? She thinks it begins with an ‘h’. She doesn’t know where else to go, so she sits down in the river bed and waits. She thinks this must the first time her Mother let her out alone; she’s going to be mad when she comes to fetch me from the playground.
The white tufts of cotton disperse in the quickly fading daylight. And back at home, the family still waits patiently for her at the dining table.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The swiftness of thought, the grinding of gears upon gears and chains pulling trains of thought, rushing fast, falling headfirst, tumbling ladders, dodging snakes, running up through fields of mental mind games. He never resists it. It never stops.
But, the clogs, they work fast and the machine, it moves slow. And the train, it runs on but, never in the right direction. He still wants candy, far too often and far too much. And without it, he's a loss. All the books, all the logic, all the knowledge, all the money; all useless as worn inner-wear at a garage sale. All useless if he can't have candy. And too many times a day he's on his knees, "Please Lord, let me always have Candy!"
This was never intended to be so much like Joyce's 'Portrait of an Artist...', I wasn't even thinking of it when I wrote his but when I read it back I suddenly felt like a plagiarist; he must be a bigger influence on me than I know. If you liked this, please 'like' it below. Read the rest of the blog here.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
boy with mud spattered clothes on, his strawberry blond hair was
pulled off his face by two pink clips and he had a rusty rake in his
hands. She'd never met the neighbour's son before; in fact she'd never
met anyone from that family. But he looked sad so she decided it was
time for a 'little man' talk.
Bending to his height she said, "So, how old are you little man?"
"Four. And whom should I say is asking?"
"Haha. Well, not since breakfast have I met someone as old as you!"
"And who did you meet at breakfast?"
"Well, I have a little girl who's almost you're age. She'll be four in
"That's lovely. I don't know anyone my age!"
"Maybe you should come over some time..."
Just then the thick wooden door flew open and a freckled face appeared.
"Come in for dinner son. And what have I told you about playing with
rusty things and talking to strangers?"
Just as quickly as it had begun, the conversation was over, with no
more smiles than there are clouds in an autumn sky. And though the
boy's family moved away in the fall, the two children met once,
Nineteen years later, he takes the bus home from work. A girl gets on
the same bus and finds an empty seat besides the boy with strawberry
blonde hair. Their eyes meet for a second and she feels like she's
known him for ages.
She sits down. They exchange pleasantries and get off the bus long
before either of their stops have passed. Now they're walking
down an unfamiliar street, going nowhere in particular.
He sat by her bedside and whispered softly,
"I know you need space, and I'm willing to give it to you. But if I followed you halfway across the Universe, where would that leave me?"
She nodded and the tears began to fall.
"That would leave me sad, alone and in a different country, just like you."
"Well, at least you'd get to see a different country, do you want to stay here all your life?"
He threw his hands up and left. She reached for the immaculate handkerchief, wiped up her tears and felt the long-awaited sinking feeling.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
such beauty in
white exists as the spring
to daffodil comes
gently bend the winds
in folds of silent mourning
heart strings softly wrung
a freedom within
like intangible rain fall
in empty glass hearts
and I hold it still
every word that I have known
is bloody useless
Thursday, June 24, 2010
"Of course, my dear. Fish needs time to absorb the flavour. Keep stirring, you don't want to burn it, do you?"
She giggles out a flurry of apologies and blushes. The Maharaja watches her from the diwan while pretending to sharpen his hunting knife. Her back faces him; she pours over the cauldron of curry and never once looks up or turns around. A benign young doll indeed, he thinks. Slowly and as if by mistake, his eyes glide down to the small of her back until he's looking straight at them. There, on his bride's beautiful midriff are three bright red scratch marks, their glowing redness ignites an insatiable fire within him and he quickly looks away. Now she's tired and leans against the wall. When he lifts his eyes again, he notices that a thin film of lime has settled on her back and sari blouse from leaning against the wall for too long. He would have sprung up and licked them off immediately, if it wasn't for the four luminous eyeballs glaring at him from behind the translucent curtain. It takes all his strength to stay rooted, but he does.
Later, when they begin to eat dinner the two older women sneer down at the broken fish bits. They tease and jeer at their prey like carnivorous felines revealing their claws for the last kill of the day.
"Didn't your mother teach you to cook?"
The new bride's face turns red and her eyes begin to well up.
The Maharaja's heart breaks for her and he intervenes, "Parvati, don't you remember you're first fish curry? There wasn't any fish left in it. What a disgusting milky pulp! Atleast this is edible. And Sushila, you're fish curry isn't even worth talking about."
Embarrassed faces begin counting the spots of the floor. The Maharaja is satisfied and he runs his hand down the weeping wife's torso. She smiles faintly but doesn't look up. He knows that tomorrow she'll cook a mouth-watering tandoori chicken that will put all his years of cooking to shame and make the other wives eat their words. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, she'll have to be the kitchen maid.