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.