Somnacrobatics

I've slept into a notebook,
Snoozed around a teacup,
Dozed while standing in a train,
And dazed out on a hiccup.

#MicroFiction

He wasn't interested. Fortunately, she wore the kind of perfume that made you switch sides

Strange, but True

Because I know you're reading this
I've lost the ability to write

Kitten

Her small form seemed to sink into the corner of his couch, she was
slowly disappearing into it. The short crop of her black hair, the black
lace and the clothes that covered her tiny frame made her look like a
kitten; dangerous, by young and playful, with only a little menace. He
crossed the room towards her, inviting her to dance with him. But she
kept sitting, curled up yet attentive, sharp yet mild; and still as the
air, like a snake in the grass.

Knives of Ice

She stood in the river, the water like knives of ice freezing her veins,
the cold river bed a few feet beneath her thighs. She didn't know
whether to cross or to go forward or to move to the left or right or to
run to the hills or hide beneath the trees. There was no one around to
ask and she'd lost her map long ago. Terror was slowly seizing her, even
as the sweet possibility of hope floated on the breeze. Yet, she stood
there, constantly eroded by the river and gently calmed by the breeze.

Loser

Loser, they called him without knowing what it meant. Loser, because his ways were strange to them. Loser, for all the times that he had gotten lost.

If he had applied his  intelligence  to business or entrepreneurship, he would probably have been one of the most notable minds of his age. But instead, he chose to live happily beneath a tree, in the still peaceful wilderness - his most loserly decision yet.

Epiphany

It was a gentle, translucent day, the very lucid kind, the kind that could charm the pants off you without uttering a single word. She ventured past the trees and onto the wild grass; the butterflies circled her flowing redorange hair, the larks serenaded her from the trees. There were also earthworms wriggling beneath the soil and bugs dying to live in the dirt beneath her nails, but we're less concerned with them. She was just beginning to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the swell of the breeze when a hunter saw her and with one terrifying gunshot, he killed the last female orangutan in the Amazon.

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.