Inheritance

They were gathered around post Christmas dinner, discussing things of the past when someone suddenly said, "I'm not so sure about these genes things. For example, who inherited our Grandfather's light eyes?" And my Father smiles, "Well, my daughter of course..."

portrait #3

immature,
you held on
to your thoughts and ideas
and conversations that were meant to be

stubborn.
like a tiny child
holding on to a dream
and refusing dinner for a unicorn

or ingenuous.
like an adult
who saw a beautiful hat
in a store window
and came back later
to buy it, but it was gone

Teeth

He said something funny. She began to laugh. Wide, happy, unabashed, mouth-open laughter. And that's when he saw them. Within her mouth were rows and rows and rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Uncomfortable. Like too many layers of clothing. Cluttered. Like bats on the ceiling of a cave. Sharp. Like knives on display at a butcher's shop. He tried not to say anything funny for the rest of the evening.

Aphasia

Words. They float up, free from the connections that bind them. Like a pond with large lily pads on the surface, you look beneath, expecting to see each fine leaf attached to a long thread-like stalk, and roots further down. But no, the leaves float, devoid of the stalks that should hold them. The water is clear and settled as the muddy substratum is calm. Then, she wonders, where are their stalks? How can all these words be floating up, with no meaning attached, without bringing an image to the mind's eye, without any semantic association? She gestures that her feet are turning cold & that she's feeling queasy. 'Fear', she would call it, if she could only remember the word.

Author's Note: If you'd like to know more about Apasia, try this link or this one.

#MicroFiction

his heart was a stone, a diamond in the rough

Unwritten

For those pieces that I haven't  written, for those whose ideas have slipped away like salt, for those that stick in the wedges of my brain as old, grey, chewed out chewing gum might, for those whose titles I'd scribbled in haste on a leaf of my notebook, before I'd turned the page; for all these and so many more, I have no words, and no time.

Free as a Bird

They use that phrase like if should mean freedom; they think that a free bird should fly, that the moment you open a bird's cage, it will fly free, as water does flow from a point of high potential - swiftly & without stopping.

But have these people witnessed an opened cage? I have. And free birds do not fly. Open the cage to a captive bird and it will stay, for it does not know what awaits beyond the door. And then gingerly poke one foot out, not its head, but a toughened claw instead. And then it waits. In time it will hop out, but from there again it waits. It waits for a while, it looks around. Half an hour has passed since the cage was opened, the bird is finally on the window and ready to leave. Which it does, but slowly.

So are we free, like singing birds in an open cage? I think not. We're free-er still...

Nightmares, sleeping...

The watchmen are changing shifts. The next guy, he doesn't want to wake up; he can't dream of being vigilant on a cold night like this one. But the other guy is tired, he bangs on the iron door of their makeshift cottage. The darkest part of the night is over and his shift is too; he wants to sleep. And to shift, unconsciously, from one nightmare to the next.

Moments

Not the extravagant ones, the simple ones are the ones that make you happy. You could have a roaring celebration with a thousand people around, and all new suits and shirts and shoes, and all the laughter that your heart can hold or atleast comprehend; but it wouldn’t compare. No, not to the simple moments. The moments in candle light, when the electricity trips. Or when you look out a window and see only stars. The smiles that you gather like coins through the day. A very sweet daydream. Or ice cream. An inside joke that a close friend slips into a crowded conversation. The laughter of children. Those mornings when a warm (or cold, depending on the season) shower feels like winning the lottery. That feeling when you make someone tea, even though you hate tea, even though you’re getting late, even though you barely know how. Contrary to popular belief, there is more bliss in the mundane, in the everyday than there is in a million holidays; if you’d only deign to see it.

Blessing

I wish for you days, when you look around,
And all is see is beauty
And all you feel is happiness
And all you do is love, love, love...

An Assange Memory

When a man scares you enough, shakes your bones and proves his strength,
his intelligence; the simplest thing is to find a pimple in his past.
Bloody system, literally.

Rufus, in winter

His nose is cold and slowly, very slowly, turning red. His mother named him Rufus, but she'd rather call him Pepito, she says. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't move; names are of little or no consequence to him,let her call him whatever she wants. His jeans are chafing the dry skin of his thighs and the wind blows his sombrero askew. Soon she's straightening her jacket and informing him - they had better be going. So, he straightens his and they walk along. That's the last of them.

Songs For Someone Else

Long before she'd etched his name in silver, in the silver of her wedding band, she did belong to someone else. And he wasn't nice like this one, he didn't hold her like he does. Yet in her eyes, and when she cries, there are still traces of him. Because she wont throw away the books he gave her, and the songs, and the ring; she can't unlive the pain. And years later, when they're still together, this man will understand: she only keeps them as a reminder, she keeps them just for him.

Rapunzel

Putting a gentle hand to her shoulder, he purred into her ear, "I'm very sorry princess, but there are some things that can't be fixed by merely flipping your parting..."

feminine feline

she stretched herself across his torso
cat like, she was cold, but willing

she longed to run her nails down his back
cat like, she wanted to mark him

she wanted to feel his hands in her hair,
cat like, her mane was abounding

she often slipped out, long before the dawn,
cat like, she was disappearing

she dreamed free when the moon was high
cat like, she belonged to no one

she was by his side when he woke in the morn
cat like, her body warmed him

Winter Thrills

The girl stood before him, the length of her moss green overcoat swaying gently in the wind. It was a beautiful coat, one that held her waist with a large satin sash and gracefully skimmed past her knees. The coat was so large that it hid whatever she was wearing beneath it, but it was so lovely that it didn't matter what she was wearing beneath it. Coats are lovely that way, he thought.

The wind rushed into her face and she squeezed her eyes shut to avoid the dust trail. He just lay there, holding her gaze the way a hunter stares down a gazelle before the kill.

Love & Blood

Lovers, like leeches, find the space to leave their marks; on you skin,
or on your heart.

Ophelia

She looked up and saw the sun glimmer, like hope on a blue day; the leaves threw shadowy freckles onto her lovely face. The sunlight caused her honeyed eyes to sparkle like precious jewels set into the ivory tone of her skin. This day was one of the loveliest thus far, yet it was nothing in comparison to the warmth and beauty of her appearance.

In passing, the ruby red of candy like flowers and buds shone bright and dapper, turning faintly transparent in the mid day heat. She knew that soon, too soon, they would wilt; and very soon, she would too. It seems our benevolent sun is a killer after all, or must we blame the icy water for this murder?

She seemed peaceful for she was looking up. She seemed peaceful, as her corpse floated gently down the stream.

Author's Note: Reference to this and this

#MicroFiction

There were days when holding her hair back as she cried felt like his only purpose. But even that was worth it.

Troublemakers

Born to a rather precocious couple, the little firestarters were a refreshing change to their tiny grey neighbourhood. They added freshness with a flourish; in their short days, the lawns were filled with little pools and bubbling puddles of swirling fire. And their parents ran chasing the dancing flames with a bag of sand; even as those orange tongues got more and more zealous, licking and devouring the acres. Those were the days when living was easy and fun dirt cheap. Of course, those were the days before they'd invented fire extinguishers.

Sea change

For months on end, he carried the tail-end of their broken relationship around with him, he nursed it like a feverish crying child. He held on to it; in the bitter cold of his lonely nights, he rocked it to sleep and it took him to bed, too. Yet, she was dispassionate, the bell had begun to toll. Finally, one autumn night, she vanished at the stroke of midnight. He awoke to find their puppy missing too. But she hadn't taken the little dog, he'd merely followed her through the open door.

Please. Mind. The Gap

In the midst of the city's ferocious rush hour, she was rushing to take the train. She moved so fast that faces were a blur and time stopped to watch the frill of her skirt  as she passed. In that flashing whirl of sound and light, that's when she saw him. In the split second that it would have taken her to board the train, she whipped around and saw him; then she wish she hadn't. 'But that's impossible', she though; the shuffling crowd joslted for space and shoved her aside. Within an instant, her skin froze and breathing became a herculean task. In a daze, she stepped away from the train and moved towards the child; his tiny face was a mess of tears, her mind was numb. The train had begun to move, but she didn't notice.

"How did you get here?", she questioned, holding his hand.
To which the crying child responded, "I'm sorry Mommy, I forgot to close the cosmic wormhole."

He wove metaphors like fine silk
She wore them like silken robes

When the wind calls your name
And the moon moves through the trees
It's just enough to wake you up
And put you back to sleep again

War Cry

Shake the cold from your bones and fly into the face of adversity;
You know you must, you feel it in your gut.

Dreams, awaking...

You wake, the rain is coming down in sheets. The bed is cool but not warm and your pillow is soft. You feel calm and pleasant, but you're burning a bitter cold within. On the window ledge, a little squirrel takes shelter from the rain. The room is empty, sleep throws her bony fingers in your face again.

-
You wake, consciousness is dim. The trees glow faintly green; the smell of the earth is rising as the rain settles. You listen for the sound of water trickling into a stream; the feeling calms you. You begin to rise, but the movement tires you; you slip away again.
-
You wake, her head is on your pillow, her tiny, warm frame fits kindly in your arms. Peacocks gaze through the shuttered glass as sun spills through the sky lights; the room is a lot less cold now. More for your sake than hers, you hold her tight. Sleep pulls the wool over your eyes again.
-
You wake, the rain still falls relentless; your first thought is to look for a rainbow. The room is freezing now; you finally look around to notice brick wall and a tiled roof and, is that a snail on the floor? The chase makes you too weary, sleep has her way again.
-
You wake. She's counting the stars. Besides her, you curl and fall asleep again.
-
You wake, she sits and stares at you, wearing a silk shirt. She looks away, trying to hide her inquisitive eyes. As you to rub the sleep out of your own, finally she asks, "Leaving again?"

Sweat, love & salty sea water

Right beneath its' gorgeous blue belly is a dangerous part of the sea; a chilly place where the floor rapidly falls away, and the sky reels back with a vengeance. You could lose your life there, you just might die, but only the satellites will tell you that. If you confide in them, they'll tell you that the sea is not all calm and peace and fun and fishys. They'll tell you to beware, for the sea has been known to roar in the black of night; that the sea has a lover, an evil guy that few can stand and still fewer could like. But she loves him. And they'll tell you not to disturb them when busy, or basically never to get between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Laugh Lines

He glides his finger down her cheek and she giggles shyly. Their baby is stirring in his crib and soon the morning air will be a muddle of his joyful gurgles.

Sunlight streams gently through the drapes, lighting up their eager faces. Eyes are glowing as they gaze tenderly, savouring the quietude of the early hour. He takes her hands devoutly in his and then bolts from the bed suddenly.

"Last one to the bathroom is a rotten egg!", he shouts, running.

She's laughing hysterically at the spectacle. Then she yells after him, "First one in has to change the baby!"

Their tiny house is filled with laughter even as the baby starts to cry.

The Elders

They lived gently, because they were at peace with all things, and all things were at peace with them.

Of Hands

Awaking, desire rushes, like blood;
Her lucid mind is spiraling.
She wants his hands, she wants them.
Dirty, undeniable, she wants them.

She want them around;
Hugging her. Holding her. Hurting her.
She wants them away;
Craving her. Awaiting her. Longingly.

She wants them besides her,
in the colours of a beautiful, vivid dream;
She wants them.

She wants them now,
To hold her, should she faint,
And to draw the curtains, when she wakes.

Open Ended

The door stands ajar, but are the people shuffling in or out? She can't decide, so she sits in the doorway for a while. On the right, there is good and proper but right can be boring too. And on the left, there is brilliance and bightness but beautiful destruction too. The wind blows bitterly without shifting a thing. She stays still, but only because her feet cannot make up their mind.

Peace

Peace was still sleeping, she let him lie. The nights were becoming more painful and mornings had lost their warmth in the sway. She thought about the days when she would hold him gently in her mind. Days when she could soak up his pain and rain happiness like a thunderstorm. But he was different these days. The sadness was fatal and the truth too intense, she let him lie.

Pets

They were pet people; abounding with love and happiness they sheltered several abandoned animals. Even with their limited resources, they opened their home, and they opened their hearts to ducklings and pythons, and deer and foxes, and goats and sheep and wolves. Anyone would have thought that the multitude of minxes would quarrel with scratches and bites. But each knew it's place; when no one crossed the line, there was no transgression and hence, no quarrels to be had. Days were filled with brightness and laughter; the animals had names as queer and lovely as Felicity, Benevolence, Curiosity, Monstrosity, Hilarity, Assiduous, Unscrupulous, Intellectual and Iniquity. The pet people were clever and their house was always joyful, until one day a very dreadful thing did occur.

On a day of spring, the humans decided to walk out on the leaves and leave the pets to play. No one usually entered their abode uninvited, but when the people were away, one feline thought she might let herself in. Quick and bright, with her lovely whiskers; she trespassed upon their hallowed land.

When the humans got home they were shocked to find :
Curiosity killed the cat.

Games

The sunlight has been flirting with the timid leaves for too long; when it finally enters the room, it falls around spotty, mottled and chewed up.

"I might as well have left the window shut"
"No. A little dappled sunlight is better the harsh white light"
"True. So should we work in the darkness then?"
"Sure"

The two bring out a stack of cards and begin to cover the floor, everything acquires a reddish tint. A room that was dull and empty is suddenly growing in light and life and fullness. The glue makes an appearance and the cards begin their migration to the wall. Two hours later, one wall of the sunlit room is covered in cards of the hearts suite, the King and Queen have found their home.

Eternity

She had loved him then, when the world had just begun; when there were no 'Tummy Tuck' advertisements in the newspapers and no soda pop ads on TV. Actually, they didn't have a TV then, nobody did, the world was just beginning. She had loved him when he was thin and undernourished, she had loved him before he developed the lovely body he now has, she had loved him before the screaming fans and the tabloid headlines. She had loved him before hair dye and teeth bleaches. And she had most certainly loved him before sliced bread. But she did not love him now. No, she does not love him now, now that all the stars are rising in the sky, twilight is dancing gaily and eternity stretches on like a long and cumbersome wet blanket.

Author's note : Written for a dear friend who's been in love with the girl who is now his wife for over 10 years.

Hurt

The young brain surgeon wanted to test his skill, he eagerly wanted to cut his teeth. The techniques he had learnt were new and shiny and aching beneath the skin of his nimble fingers. He wanted to become a surgeon, to make a cut, to draw blood. But for that, he would need someone severely brain damaged.
-
On the 4th of May, he performed his first experiment, umm... I mean, surgery.

Strained Conversations

"How have you been?"
"Super busy, the usual"
"Well, work is the drug", he sighs truthfully, "Second only to love."
"Ok. I have work, and you have love. So, we're even."
Wicked laughter, followed by, "No. I have both, I'm blessed"
"Truly, you are" I confess.

Blue

"Speak a word of comfort, my darling, speak a word of love", she pleads. The air is charged with so much emotion that even the trecherous wind is still. The little room is devoid of illumination but for one golden ray of sunlight streaming thickly through a broken shutter. Darkness calms her, sets her at ease and puts her doubts to rest. Driven by one sharp shred of hope, she inches nearer and takes his large cold hand in her much tinier, warmer ones, "I know we've been strange for all these days, but let's put that behind us now. Please, let's move on!", she begs. The master of deflection; he is in a space of cool detachment. His eyes are closed in what appears to be placid thought; her pleading and sighing does not break his inner peace. Ironically, his dispassionate inaction drives her to violent tears. She begins to wail and moan by his side, "Speak a word of comfort, my darling. Please! Speak a word of love."
-
The commotion summons a tall man into the room, he is shrouded in black. Gently, he lays his warm hands on her swooning shoulders. "I'm very sorry my child, but it's time to go. Please leave him in peace", he says and slowly shuts the coffin lid.

Warm Bodies

Their souls were held together by bits of emotion, fine art and chewing gum; this watery thin quality made them very artistic but highly susceptible to good wine and well knit philosophy. Moonlight was amply thrilling to romantics like these and they scarcely missed the opportunity to dine outside, on the lawn, beneath the honey-filled moon. Loonies on a whim, they played with the passing clouds, drawing their Freudian implications to the earth. One night, as a chilly wind picked up, he drew her near and wrapped his arms around her. Having pulled her in, he whispered into her tiny ear, "What a fine set of ribs you've got there honey..."

Child's Play

It was early in the morning and the sun was still benign. The gentle sunlight rustled though her open hair and spilt across her beautiful face, colouring it with softness and warmth; it filled her smile with a happy rosy pink, it made her complexion deliciously dewy. In comparison, the shadows made him seem pale and bluish. She hadn't been on a cycle in a while and her balance wasn't what it used to be. Barely starting, she slipped and flew across the grass. He ran with the speed of a young Adonis and scooped her into his arms. The grass made a fine mat; soft and cool beneath the sun's gathering blaze; the day was just beginning, but already, it belonged to them.

Your soul was made of rubber
Your soul was made of sleaze
Your soul was made to bite the dust
And help me shoot the breeze

The Trip

Leaving, the dead leaves fall to the brown earth and the wind whips up a dust storm. The environment is grieving, wasteful and wanton. She's been here a while and it's time to leave again. This time she'll go to that place they've been talking about, that wonderful place that people have been recommending.

"Go", they beg, they plead, "You'll love it there; the people are exactly like you."

She listens, she leaves.

A week has passed, or maybe two and she's back now. The unpacking has begun, characters disembark her imagination and the everyday people flood in.

"Did you not like it?", they ask, "Was it a bad trip?"

"Well", she replies, "It was just as you said : Everybody there was exactly like me."

The river was about 50 metres deep, making the danger of drowning palpable and the sense of mortality real. Swept from the grey sky, the wind blew harsh and the tiny sail boat swayed precariously. A little boy sat crossed-legged at the helm, his eyes were clossed. It had begun to pour and his head was filling quick with images of paper boats that continously floated into a gutter. But suddenly his resolve is as unshakeable as iron. Holding the moment, he exhales; he cleares his mind and a magnificent yellow sun begins to vanquish the steel grey rain.

Dreamer

If I lived near the sea,
Perhaps I'd walk every morning,
Perhaps I'd watch the waves all day.

And you would be the water,
Forever rushing towards me,
Forever rushing away.

Breakfast Colours

Breakfast is not the same without her, most of all I miss her coffee cup. It was a deep brown, an allusion to her connection with the earth and the arts and all of humanity, in some strange way. It was grounded, and yet it was brittle; it was thin and delicate and well formed. It was her, there was so much of her in that cup. The way the coffee filled it, plentiful and deep with a bitter, sugar-less black; a tone that resonated against the milk white of her translucent face, the vermilion of her mature lips, the royal blue of those peeping veins, the fire tone of her wicked hair. She was a painting, the type that they put behind a protective glass with a sign that reads, 'Do Not Touch'. They should have warned me, too. In a foolish dream I thought the glass was to save the painting from dirty fingers like mine; I didn't realize it was to save naive fingers like mine from getting cut.

Opus

She wore a silk black gown; it fell well, it felt good and it danced about her shapely figure with grace. In that gown she was a song, until the man came around that is.

Disenchantment

Author's note : Please  listen to this, while you read. Thanks

The moonlight is pale. The stage seems set. The air is an ethereal blue. The river is still, its' waters flow soundlessly beneath the tranquil surface. The blue-black sky and the moon's waning crescent paint monochrome reflections on the water. A character appears on the scene, the act for tonight is 'The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy'. Another character materializes from the underbrush and sets a device on the river's rocky bank. Strains of Tchaikovsky's divine composition begin to float weightlessly on the paper-thin air; music becomes airborne. The notes are falling relentlessly into their minds like rain; the cue has arrived. Both men shed their clothing and dive into the river head first.

Aging Gracefully, Together

The singular silver strand shone defiantly beneath the bathroom fluorescents as he examined it in the mirror. He'd never seen it before, yet it appeared to have had an ample career, existing fabulously alongside his voluptuous locks. It made him smile.
--
He turned off the light and clambered into bed besides her warm body. Stirring, she reached up and quietly parted his hair. Drawing him near with tenderness, she gently kissed the singular strand; this had always been her ritual, but tonight something felt different. She sensed the peace within him and knew he'd finally seen it.

Born of Sunshine

She stood before the canvas with a bottle of bright paint in her hands.A bohemian dress flowed around her frail figure, giving her persona a hazy, summer strawberry feel. The dress was a tad too loose, but artists don't eat well enough these days. After several unsuccessful attempts, she had finally managed to pull her hair off her face with an old silk tie. The canvas was beckoning, as if it belonged to her hands. It begged her to fill it up, to ravage its' skin with her thoughts and make it whole; a being akin to the beauty in her minds eye. And she wanted to, she desperately wanted to make the canvas blindingly, brilliantly happy. She urgently needed to scatter that happiness of the days and nights gone by far across the universe. The day was at it's happiest hour and her heart was flying softly within a dream. A squirrel appeared on the window sill, it seemed to make the day brighter and her heart, lighter still. She was about to set the paint to canvas when the disturbing truth jarred her gentle nerves - all her brushes were at his house.

Home

Her fingertips are freezing blueish and her posture is frigid. She passes through the world unseeing as unpleasant daydreams fill her mindspace with ink; terrifying nightmares are awakening. The pale, peaceful white of her inner sanctum is colouring a pitiful grey-pink; in the brain blood mush, she misconstrues her own thoughts. Where once there was a garden; a grey-blue skyscraper now stands defiant. The pesky cats have been culled. The street has changed, but she doesn't notice. The place of her birth; trite & formidable, disappears under the memories it holds. Still she does not recall. Her periphery is a smooth, clean blur even though she's only walking. The house hasn't seen her now sickly frame for years. Still lost in painful thoughts, she stops at the door and turns the key.

2 inches

Almost oblivious, she stood in the rain and she thought, "Raindrops should be measured in smiles, not tea cup shaped gauges."

Checkmate

They saw her at the same moment. With her slender frame, dusky skin and warm, innocent eyes, she looked like a young gazelle. They only stopped drooling over her to fix each other with a piercing stare. Then in a raspy voice, she quipped, "Make your move boy, before I make mine."

Beginnings

She met him when she was merely looking for a scratching post; someone still, usable and uncomplaining, someone to keep her nails sharp. She was not expecting him.
-
He met her when he'd seen too many light-headed, fluffy tailed bimbos, incapable of holding their drinks down. He found her unfathomably refreshing.

Endings

They parted ways on an unkind note, it couldn't be helped and neither regretted it. Years later, she went for an exhibition of his paintings. Strangely, she still found herself, uncanny bits and subtle hints, hidden and camouflaged in all his work. It was as if he'd never let her go. Suddenly she knew why his exhibition was titled, 'The Perennial Muse'.

Universal Hippy

His hair was unkempt - dirty and matted and his grubby T-shirt had a large hole on the sleeve. When she saw him, she didn't want to go near, but something in his eyes drew her in. His spirit was liquid; warm and flowing like his inviting body language. She looked at him for about 30 seconds and then realized that he was the type of pretenseless person that anyone could talk to - the type of fool who opens his heart and head to strangers. So she moved closer and he got warmer, this was easy for both of them, not surprisingly. Soon they realized that they were the same - disciples of love - spiritual beings having a human experience. And when they touched, they touched with their hearts and minds, not their fingers. He left, she left, it doesn't matter; they're travelling the world together.

Sugar

Her plaid shirt makes her appear tinier than she really is. The lines fit along her narrow body like a grotesque sign of malnourishment; but she's happy and healthy and well. Her thin childlike arms reach into the box and bring fourth a stick of candy, "Here, I'm leaving", she says with quiet ambivalence. You clutch the candy, hoping it will attempt to fill the void that her tiny frame leaves behind; but it won't and it doesn't, because it can't.

Catch 22

He wants her to care, then he doesn't.
He cares too much, then he doesn't.
Their eyes don't talk, like they used to.
The times are the same, but they aren't.

Swan Song

She had always been nothing but freckles. Her body was a canvas of tiny spots, speckles and botches. In kindergarten, the cruel kids had called her 'Dotty'. But as kids often do - she grew up, shy but well - demure, mature and kind of spirit.
--
Twenty years later, she met him at a party. An artist with a penchant for interesting skin, his muses always had spots. The moment he saw her, he knew he'd have to kiss every freckle on her body before he was satisfied.
--
When the police broke into their lovely house with pretty white walls, they found a picture of her bespeckled skin in every room. The neighbours said, they didn't invite people over. They were content in each other's company. Happy. Happily ever after.

Finally

The wallpaper is old, the paint on the ceiling is too. The curtains are filled with well-settled dust. Twilight is slowly setting outside as a pot coffee brews silently. The day is grey and the sky is too. The only sound in the room is the whirring of the filth-laden ceiling fan. In the ancient dinning room, the couple begins their supper - pancakes and ice cream with maple syrup and a side of stewed strawberries. If this was your last meal, you would eat well too. The coffee maker clicks of with startling alacrity.

Terrarium

Insects are everywhere; their kind is brainless, you cannot teach them. They fly compulsively through the ceiling fan like bats and sparrows often do; they never learn. For these mud dwellers, heartbreak is as inevitable as inadvertently squishing earthworms on the payment. Her personal magnetism draws them in; and they fly towards her like moths to an electric bulb. But pests never amuse her, she wastes no time swatting the flies. Her cool demeanour causes them to drool at her feet, they snarl at each other like snivelling dogs. Within days they attach themselves, teeth first, to the flawless, lukewarm skin of her feet. "Humans are like leeches", she mumbles, discarding them one by one with a sprinkle of salt and a viscous cigarette burn.

Autor's Note : Thank You for the thought, textualoffender

Edges

It all began with a tiny paper cut. As she flipped the page, its' edge rose up to one dainty finger and the blood began to spill. The tiny cut had barely healed when the edge of a bookshelf scrapped the skin off her elbow. Next she stubbed her toe on the edge of the door. Subtly, the edge of a low ceiling bent lower to graze her head. Too soon she lost her pretty smile to the edge of the mirror and her nails were chipped on the edge of a cereal box. Her beautiful exterior was deteriorating as all the edges suddenly got too close for comfort. Yet, the external damage is nothing compared to her internal turmoil.

Devil in Disguise

His fake charm is never elusive. It leaks from his skin, flowing freely from some nether hell. The air before him burns, as the earth beneath him abates; inadvertently, he sets fire to all he touches. Beneath layers of soft skin, libidos are raging; women, both the pure and the wicked, are falling endlessly within themselves. But he’ll never touch their heaving bosoms. Little do the know: the king of hearts lost his cherry to the human spear.

Wasted Wisdom & Youth

Taking off their coats, the elders said to her:
"Beware of wines and voices and perfumes, my child. They will make your
heart susceptible to folly"
But she turned her back and braved the howling wind,
as she whispered, "So be it."

incomplete

looking for a lane. searching for a hook. hanging by a thread. living in a book. waiting on a line. waiting for a look. waiting patiently. waiting for a book.

The On-Off

They talk in muted hums and sighs
Get frisky with their toes
They hang aloof in dark desire
For whence they come to blows

Glossophobia

Her voice reads on, passage after passage from ‘The Great Text’. But something is terribly wrong. It exists with a slight nasal twinge, as if every word is colored by a shred of disappointment and the sunrise never reaches on time. Eventually the words will be lost in the beauty and simplicity of the sound and neither the words nor the voice will exist fully. Thoughts and ideas will never come to fruition; atleast not through her voice.

Indecision

"But that's what you want, isn't it?
"No, not really."
"So, what do you want then?"
"I'm not sure, but it's not this."

Emotionally Unavailable

She worries. She worries that she worries. In fact, she worries way too much.
And all the while the phone was ringing. It rings and rings and rings. In fact the phone's been ringing for days.

Cause of death : Unknown

A cyst was growing, slowing but surely, at the back of her aching blue mind. It filled her head with black thoughts, sour dreams and fear as cold as dry ice, which burns and wounds easily on contact. The snot coloured pulp began as a calm and benign little thing, the product of an ill-used imagination. But it grew untreated with voracity and vivacity that was almost spiritual. Eventually, she succumbed to the inoperable, malignant cancer. The autopsy read. "Cause of death : Unknown", her mother mumbled, "I always told her - TV is the mind killer!"

Portrait of a Chauvinist

He only chose the beautifully crazy psychotic types. They just seemed most delicious to him. But then, after they had broken up and one had slit a wrist, another had torched his house; he wondered why all the women in
the world were madly in love with him.

The thing about cats...

4 am. The bell had been rung twice. He opened the door and fixed her with a look that spelt disapproval, hurt and deceit. But then he threw the door open and let her in, for the same reason that you would let in a stray cat – your heart is melting.

He bends to nuzzle her hair and suddenly sneers into her ear, “ There’s only one thing I can say to you : You’re a dirty, filthy hippy!” But even as he was saying this, he bent further and kissed her anyway.

Beneath the day’s dust, grime and stale make-up, you could still see her smirk of silent self-accomplishment.

Irony

She was exactly his cup of tea.
Unfortunately he wasn't thirsty.

The whispers are as loud as tear drops and as wretched as cries in the night. And they streak down her cheeks and create gradients on her finely made-up face. Hurt can be brutal, but image is something else altogether.

morbid and grotesque
they hover wild around the crime scene
their metallic wings reflecting stars
their ears as shapely as pointed pencils

He held the blade steady as her darkening eyes burnt holes into the back
of his skull. Even under all that pressure he didn't flinch. Then he
swiftly marked her milk pure thigh with a cruel red line. The pain
shoots like burning acid.

The imaginary pain shakes her awake and she's suddenly sitting straight
up, breathing heavily and sweating like it's summer in India. Fingers
levitate to the imaginary wound and the blood abruptly becomes real.

The light is fading and he can’t remember much. He’s forgotten the shine of her hair and the way it feels between his fingers. The way she winces and then smiles at the pain. Her beautiful, bony, bare shoulders under a thin blue blouse. The way her dusty pink lips conceal a smile. He only remembers the words she said as a make-shift Goodbye, “I’ll wait for you, but not in this life…”

Dust swirls at her heels, she walks
Songs stick in her head, she hums
Someday I'll write a book, she think
on the 'Perils of being a Pretty Girl'

Pet Shop

She enters. The dogs begin to bark in unison.

A dust-encrusted radio spits out an old song - Little Richard's band screaming, "Can't help it, the girl can't help it..."

She sidesteps the mangled, the tick-ridden and the runt of the litter. She walks on air as far as her stilettos will allow. Her perfume, as exquisite as it is electric, parts the way.

Walking amongst the most beautiful, she chooses the best and picks him out.

He stands for her.
He sits for her.
Rolls over, plays dead for her.
And then he will stand on his head for her.

She gives the dog a bone.
And then she runs along home.

An as she wanders off aloof,
the store clerk says, "There goes the goose."


Rhyme was never intended.
It walked in uninvited.
To throw a pang of amatuerish my way.

Inevitably the rumour spills forth and shatters; tactlessly, tastelessly, gracelessly. It falls, like a breaking crystal throwing refracted rainbow light; it falls, like the baubles that tumble when a Christmas tree falls; it falls, like a ruined, leaking house of glass. And the stone throwers will be homeless in the streets, but replete with the power of their words. The birds will sing no more for want of a tree, lack of a home. Yet the hornets return to nests once left vacant.

Out-of-Town Strange

As she entered the room, a gruff voice was saying,
"I hate the French! If there's one race I hate, it's the French."

She walked before them; tall, beautiful and confident,
but a voice in her head kept saying,
"How I wish I wasn't French! How I wish I wasn't French!"