Unfinished | #AtoZChallenge

Your words are slurred. Your eyes are bloodshot.

All the time.

It isn’t just the drinking. The way you think has changed. Your assertiveness has given way to hardness, to an ugly edge laced with superiority and anger. There’s an air of unpredictability, as if any moment you’d strike a match in a room full of gasoline just for laughs. Fear clouds my thoughts. This unfamiliarity is jarring.

But I shut the door on my instincts. Your slurred words are convincing me to pick up where we left off.

Those words are the splinter on which I cut myself.


 

Hi everyone! I’m working on a minimalist fiction project for this year’s #AtoZChallenge. The story will be shared in snippets, and the events occur non-sequentially. It is for the reader to interpret and form the “whole”. You can read all the posts here. Join me, and do share links to your AtoZ posts as well!

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Make This Go On Forever | #AtoZChallenge

It’s on nights like these. When dinner’s accompanied by laughter and wine. When I’m the one laughing the loudest, and sharing the most number of stories. When they tell me all eyes are on me. When I know all eyes are on me.

It’s on nights like these that I force myself to remember. To hold on with the last broken string. To never let go of what’s already gone.

Self-destruction comes on so many wings. It enters through that brief moment of silence.

In little ways I remind myself you’re gone.
In little ways I keep you alive in me.

 


Hi everyone! I’m working on a minimalist fiction project for this year’s #AtoZChallenge. The story will be shared in snippets, and the events occur non-sequentially. It is for the reader to interpret and form the “whole”. You can read all the posts here. Join me, and do share links to your AtoZ posts as well!

M

This post was originally titled My Immortal but I heard this song yesterday and knew no other song could be more apt for this series than this one. The lyrics gave me goosebumps!

 

 

Arriving Somewhere, But Not Here | #AtoZChallenge

I don’t go to that side of town anymore, where you used to live. Even the thought of it haunts me, the once-familiar geography tortures me even in memory. The neighborhood is filled with ghosts waiting to devour me. The lake that you could see from your terrace has a specter looming over it. The park nearby is filled with vampire children.

I’m so afraid I’ll run into you. But I’ll be disappointed if I don’t.

Someday maybe I’ll visit, though I already know you live somewhere else now. Someday, after these ghosts have been laid to rest.

 


Hi everyone! I’m working on a minimalist fiction project for this year’s #AtoZChallenge. The story will be shared in snippets, and the events occur non-sequentially. It is for the reader to interpret and form the “whole”. You can read all the posts here. Join me, and do share links to your AtoZ posts as well!

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Do You Still Come Here?

petrichor-and-clouds-sreesha-divakaran-poetry

This will not be a poem
I will tell you now
There are so many questions
You can answer; I need to know.

Do you still come here? Looking
For clues I still hide?
For whether you do or not,
They still here reside.

The other day, I
Saw your footprints outside my door
And I followed you home,
Only to realize, “home” was a dream long gone.

Do you still come here?
Tell me if you can
Why did you leave without a knock
When my arms are still open to welcome you back.

 

 

 

Lullaby


“Who would leave a crib here?” asked one to the other.
“What is that racket! Can’t we sleep in peace at least now?!” said a third.
“It’s a baby,” informed the first.
“What the! What inhuman person would leave a baby here!” said the third.
“Let’s put her to sleep now. Hopefully, one of us might have a visitor tomorrow morning, who’d take her to an orphanage,” said the second.
“Oh gosh! I thought my babysitting days were over!” the third exclaimed.
Nevertheless, the spirits in the cemetery sung a lullaby for the baby, and put her to sleep.


Linking this post to #AtoZChallenge (http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/)

  


Top post on IndiBlogger.in, the community of Indian Bloggers

 

The House On The Farm

We were renovating the abandoned thatched-roof house in the middle of the large, now-barren farm. I climbed up the ladder and asked him to pass me the saw to chop off a wooden beam that seemed stuck at an odd angle.
The saw was sharp, but my fingers and palms were sweating. In a sudden, unfortunate moment, the saw slipped from my fingers.
I looked down in shock, as it neatly sliced through my friend‘s right shoulder and got lodged between his collar-bone and chest, causing him to fall to the ground, in a pool of his warm blood.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

A Blind God


Chintamani, God’s assistant in heaven, had a serious problem. His Outlook inbox was over-flooded with prayer mails from a lot of Indian families. Daughters, sisters etc from these families had been raped, attacked with acid, tortured in other inhuman ways. He wasn’t sure how to answer these prayers. He approached his manager.
“God, female humans in India are being treated very shabbily.”
God did not like being disturbed. He looked down from his golden throne atop a silver cloud and asked, “So? Human lives are fleeting. Mere seconds in an eternity.”
“But, Sir, the prayers?”
“Press shift and delete.”


Top post on IndiBlogger.in, the community of Indian Bloggers