A Birthday Carol

This story has been written for Srishti, my friend. Srishti is Tweedle Dum here in the story, and I am Tweedle Dee. These were nicknames that we had in high school, and have absolutely nothing to do with Lewis Carroll's characters.
The story is largely true, though it has obviously been dramatized and altered for effect. I have written it as an apology to Shitty, whose birthday it was on 2nd December, and exactly the same thing happened that I've described here with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. This is, therefore, an apologetic story.
Also, it has been written in a children's bed-time story format. Hence, the simple language and terrible organisation and transitions. Again, apologies.
And I'm sorry Shitty. I hope you read this and forgive me.

A Birthday Carol

Once Upon a Time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived two friends called Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They lived together in the cold, remote land of Welham. Times were harsh, food was scarce and a drought had hit the town. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum and all of their friends huddled together, sinking in the warmth of stories and laughter, enveloped in the fortress' walls, overlooked by the harsh Rawrins. A myth existed that if one went close to a Rawrin, they would hear whispers garlanded about their heads and necks like the rings of Saturn, whispering to the Gijans terrible, terrible things about the humble, terrified dwellers of Welham, however no one had dared venture that close to a Rawrin, for the Gijans were always close.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum oft thought of the Pathways, a realm only heard of in Welham. It was a land where the walls were low, the food flowed in avalanches from the halls, and the dwellers were all Princes and Princesses, who only laughed and sang and never a frown was seen. Gold swam in the shallow shores of the realm, over the ghosts of the defeated Rawrins and Gijans. It was a realm of freedom, of gold, of meandering poetry and undefeated glory. It was the land of life and dreams, and oh, dream of it they would!

As Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum dreamed of the Pathways, a terrible war was fought in Welham. Rawrins were killed, Gijans were hanged, dwellers were drowned in the victory of fellow dwellers. The town  was in shambles. Buildings fell like deflated balloons, the roads were scarlet, the air was metallic... and the walls collapsed to dust! Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum saw the path to their dreams, a glorious, metallic red carpet, their stairway to heaven.

And so they started on the journey of a lifetime. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum walked and walked. They walked for days and nights, through full moons and eclipses, thunder and fire. They walked and they walked. Their feet caked in blisters, with dry mouths and hungry eyes they followed the path... to the Pathways, and so they reached.

Pathways. The world of the glorious. With buildings of gold and silver, a sky of silk, a diamond moon. Pathways. The world of laughter; of songs and poetry and swirly words. Pathways... The world of disappointment, thought Tweedle Dee.

Buildings - gold on the outside, crumbling on the inside. The sky - shimmering blue, dry as a prune. And the little Princes and Princesses - laughter on their lips, ball gowns on their hips, yet rings like Saturn's swirled around their heads, riddled with rot. Tweedle Dee was miserable and longed to go home, back to Welham. But Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dum was happy. Tweedle Dum danced, he swam in streams of gold, and he sang and laughed and was merry all around.

Tweedle Dee loved Tweedle Dum, yet he could not live in that soulless place any more. He missed his friends, their stories, even the waddling Rawrins and the Gijans. Tweedle Dee wanted to go home. Come with me, he told Tweedle Dum, come home and we will be happy again. But Tweedle Dum was happy here.

And so Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum said goodbye to each other. Their eyes were red, their hearts were shred, they had a good cry and hugged goodbye. Heavy of heart, reluctant to part, Tweedle Dee left, for the kingdom far, far away, from a time long, long ago. Tweedle Dee was going home.

Months passed and Tweedle Dee grew to miss his dear friend more and more. Tweedle Dum had stuck with Tweedle Dee through everything. He had laughed when Tweedle Dee laughed, sobbed when Tweedle Dee cried, yelled at whoever hurt Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dee would sit for hours, shoulders hunched, eyes closed, forehead narrowed, thinking of Tweedle Dum.

Tweedle Dum's day of birth was near and Tweedle Dee lamented, being so far, far away. He searched and searched, for days and days, till he found the perfect present to send to Tweedle Dum. Time was running short, and Tweedle Dee sent a messenger with Tweedle Dum's present, shaking with excitement at the anticipation of Tweedle Dum's happiness with the package.

The day came near and Tweedle Dum prepared for the feast. Oh what a grand feast it was! Food flowed from floor to ceiling, drinks flowed from fountains, and people danced madly till the wee hours of the next morning. There was endless music and dancing, and a pile of presents larger than the food, yet Tweedle Dum sat in a corner, crying. For, you see, Tweedle Dee's messenger gave in to the hunger and thirst and lay in the stomach of jackals, and the present lay in a desert, covered by mounds of sand. Tweedle Dum thus thought that Tweedle Dee had forgotten his birthday and he angrily decided never to speak to him again.

Tweedle Dee waited and waited for days, for a letter of thanks, or a present in return, but none ever came. Days passed, weeks, and not a word! Tweedle Dee worried till he could worry no more and decided to set out to the Pathways himself to yell at Tweedle Dum for never replying. After a journey of days, he finally reached the glorious Blooming town.

Tweedle Dum sat on a river side, droplets of water flowing down his eyes to the river. Tweedle Dee slowly walked to him and said, "Be careful, or you might start a flood." Tweedle Dum was shocked! He was about to run and hug Tweedle Dee when he remembered that Tweedle Dee forgot his birthday and he quietly turned back and said, "I'm not talking to you."

Tweedle Dee had his answer! He immediately understood what had happened and explained everything to Tweedle Dum. Tweedle Dum didn't believe him at first, but when Tweedle Dee really explained the whole story, right to where he came to meet Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dum forgave Tweedle Dee and hugged him.

And they lived happily ever after...

The End.

P.S. It is a terrible story, terribly written, and I'd like to apologise again. But I hope it proved its worth.

Whispers of Monsoon

Like a soft

whisper, they drop

down on 

me. Little tears

falling, one by
one; I feel them,
on my
cheeks, my neck,
nose, lips,
tongue,
my hair.
Soft kisses from
heaven. The wondrous
lightning crackles, and
snares, like musical
fireworks. The clouds
roll and bark, like
fluffy little
puppies. Raindrops
like satin kisses,
plummeting through leaves,
roofs, into chocolaty
puddles, splashing.
I breathe in
the smell of wet
grass, mud,
the smell of fresh rain.
Everything is brown
and green,
washed,
rinsed,
cleansed and laundered
by the soft
pattering of the
mourning monsoons.

Left, and right

This is for Mylo :)

Once to the
left, then to the
right. Again
and again, repeating
that hug as
you shake that little
furry tail.

Soft red sun
sinks into your gentle
brown eyes, wet
and big.
Your legs on
mine, sharp nails
digging into blue,
tough denim.
Thick blobs of grey
drool,
dripping from your
white fangs.
You smile, full of
teeth and black gums.
Tongue hanging,
tail wagging,
ears flapping like
blonde ringlets of
rosy cheeked maiden.

Little bundle of
blood,
and love,
and bones,
and friendship,
and teeth, and
bones, and flesh
and loyalty,
and licks and tails
and a furry little mane.

Your bark, like
sharp peals of
laughter
at my two legs
with no tail.

You run, all over
my little guardian angels
of soft, white snow.

And you lick,
soft,
wet,
happy.
And it moves,
left and right,
left
and right.

Rigor Mortis

Momento Mori - Remember you will die.
A poem I wrote for my English class, again. The topic was Momento Mori.

Rigor Mortis

A streak of brown coffee,
Harshly vandalising a
Pure expanse of creamy
white porcelain;
I wash it, scrub it,
Chemical white foam
On a rough grey sponge.
Scrub, rub,
Gnaw away at that
Little brown streak.
And it fades

Into streams of steaming,
metallic water.
Into the drain,
Away to the sea,
Lost in those gentle
Risings of salty water
Swept by violent wind
To dissolve with
Mute, lovesick mermaids.

Much like this life.

Born as milk and beans.
Ripened by warm
Sunlight, soil.
Blended, stirred
Into a rich concoction
And swept away
Into the cold,
Dark sea, and
Lost to nature.

Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

Come Closer

My favourite spoken word poem.
He's so powerful and engaging. I get chills every time I watch him.
Credits: Joy Geisinger.
You should watch it :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATC5OGh3adg

Storybook Eyes

First
there is that
choke.
Slowly burning
at the bottom
of that soft throat.
Slowly it
floats up,
through your chin,
those soft,
fleshy mounds
of your lips,
the gentle cave
that leads up
to your
nose,
and it goes up
up and up,
over that straight
right angle
and splits.

One to
the right,
to the left.
To those
swirling,
trembling,
treacherous pools
of milk
and wood
with soft flecks of sunlight
engulfing a deep
black hole.

That black and white text of your soul.
Your storybook eyes.

Swirling.
Trembling.
Treacherous
pools.
Sinking,
pulling,
throwing
out
words,
one
by
one.

It seeps into
your eyes.
And they burn.
They singe.
They sizzle.
They tear.
They scream.
They yell.
They hurt.
They cry...
And out it spills.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

Drip.

Onto the nose.
Onto the
soft cleft between
your nose and lips.
Into the opening
between your lips.
They dive off
your chin.
Into the colourful
exuberance
of the soft fabric
Made in India.
Wash in cold water.
Tumble dry.
Do not iron.
Treat with care.

Tear It Up

Sometimes,
Sometimes, you
Just need to forget.
Forget it all,
throw it all,
burn it
mash it
tear it apart
use your beautiful fingers
that flesh, bone
and rip it.
Hold it,
caress it and
then tear it.
Into
tiny
little
bits
and then,
blow.
Blow them away
with one breath,
far away,
from you,
from your life,
from that desperate hollow you call your soul.
Tear it into little bits.
And watch them flutter,
dancing a slow
waltz,
swaying from
side
to side
in that dreamy, blue wind.

All that fear
that angst, that anger
the desperation, regrets.
All of your hurt,
your pain,
sorrow,
That feeling
hollowing you
Like a dark sculptor
whisking away
those edges of you
those soft curves
and carving them
to his fleeting mind.
carving,
Whisking
Shaving
chipping
you off.
Tear them up
and watch them
hovering in that
cold listlessness
like soft sunflower pollen.

All that pain.
Let it away.

And breathe.

The cool wafts,
Smelling of hope.
Those little drops,
Like conversations of flowers.
Of shiny white daisies.
Like a harp,
a flute,
river of guitars,
violins,
cellos,
ukuleles
singing the same
harmony
of your life.
Listen to them.
And let those birds burst from you.
Open up
and let them flow.
Let them fly
Circling you,
Enveloping you.
And
Smile.
And
Breathe.

Words are flowing out, like endless rain into a paper cup

I realised today, there are some words I really like. Here is a list.

Blasphemy
Meandering
Slab (Sounds so delicious, doesn't it?)
Pretty
Exasperate
Ginger
Exquisite
Serendipity
Alas
Cults
Shalom
Joyful
Fancy
Comprende
Shrug
Clock
Skull
Blip
Clap
Bahrain (said with the right accent)
Caucasus
Anaphoria
Ecstasy
Sunny
Abstrusity
philandering

Those are just some :) They sound so beautiful to my ears. They sound like music :)
Right now, my favorite word is blasphemy.
THIS IS BLASPHEMY!
Blaas-fum-ee.
Blasphemy!
This is just a blasphemous post.
Eeeee!

Hold Me Tight

Smooth white heaviness weighs on my hand. Slippery as a bowling alley freshly polished at dawn, shiny as a brand new mirror. White, white as a fistful of fresh snow cradled in a dirty, murky brown puddle of sewage water. It is a perfect round, crafted in my dreams by the fruitful, delicate efforts of strong, calloused hands of an artful mind headed by a mop of long, hippie hair, yet probably created by a mesh of metal and electricity in a dark, rectangular factory churning out clouds of grey smoke. The heart of the mug has a spherical handle, magically fitting my fingers as I blow into the dark brown liquid inside, waiting to take a sip of that hot, delicious, wakeful richness. The mug is sturdy, yet its fragility explodes in a moment, killing along with it John, George, Paul and Ringo, surprising them as they walk across Abbey Road. They have taken over the mug, emblazoned their name over the white pureness, decorating it with curvy black alphabets spelling out ‘Beatles,’ like dark fugitives in the night, slowly sneaking away, crossing the road’s bold, zebra lines into a Magical Mystery Tour with Sergeant Pepper and a little help from their friends. Oh, helpless mug, without limbs and movement, shrouded with burning liquid and melodious, unruly narcissists. It cries for Help from the closet, and all I hear is the Beatles singing, of peace and love, and harmony for the world.

Slowly Melting

My first try at poetry. Actual poetry. Not just about little boys turning into pigs and flying away. Though I do love that poem :)

Slowly Melting


A few spoken words
A few fleeting glances
And my heart goes
Crazy.
I tell it stop,
Stop your madness.
Stop falling
Stop failing.

It beats.

Mild and mild
Rushing with thrill
It creeps up to my peak,
Glowing and burning.
Fleeting, floating,
Cradled in snow
Melting.

Soft, silent whispers
Caressing.
I bow my head,
That crescent turns,
Merging with warmth.
That touch of your breath;
Like soft, silent words,
Hidden glances.
Cradled in snow,
Slowly melting.

Short Memoir for Class

Speaking of my English Creative Writing Course reminded me, we were assigned a writing assignment in class. Write a memoir. It sounded easy, and almost fun to write, had it not been for the fact that I wrote another memoir for another class just a couple of weeks ago. Another memoir already? *sigh*
I faltered, and I wrote this assignment two days past its assigned deadline. I went for a brief memoir as opposed to an actual five-page one. Here it is, the result of a lot of regret and self-condemnation, and one hour. And, let me warn you, it has an extremely cheesy title. Really.

The Colour of God


The gate loomed like a dark warrior in front of me as I struggled to hold back my tears. They wrestled with my eyes, pounding and aching to gain freedom. “They’ll be here,” I reassured myself.

A cloud of colour bursts into my eyes, bright and red, slowly sinking to the wet floor. I turn around, and Pragya comes charging at me, drops of water gleaming in the bright sun as they fall off her clothes, dancing like blood as they merge with the red powder flowing from her hands. “Happy Holi!!” she shrieks, smothering me with her red hands. I turn my lips in a smile and hug her. I can feel her bones touch my hands, sticking out at odd angles from her skinny body. “Why are you so sad? It’s Holi! Here, take this,” she yells at me, hopping excitedly as she hands me a packet full of something soft and squishy. “That’s the pink one. I still have some green if you want. Come, come, let’s go!” She takes my hand and pulls me behind her.

I feel the pebbles under my feet, skipping away as I trod over them. I could feel excitement slowly creeping up on me and destroying those tears. I ran over the familiar pebbles, crossing the clock tower and the ancient oak tree. I ran past the buildings filled with memories, calm and white, and ran into a masquerade of colours. The air was coloured, like a beautiful canvas, as if propped up by magic over hundreds of wet, screaming, colourful souls running around and throwing colour on each other. Green, red, blue, pink, yellow, orange, there was every colour known to man flooding the basketball court with its powdery mass. I stared at this beautiful madness, slightly scared, wholly shocked.

It was Holi.

I had waited all year; the day, till which all other days were feverishly deleted with black crosses on my calendar, and forgotten. The day where everything was bright and colourful and happy, spent joyfully skipping around and attacking everyone I loved with handfuls of soft, powdered colour and brutal, ice-cold water. It was Holi, I sang, and a smile slowly crept up on my face.

I tear open the packet, suddenly pumped up with adrenaline. I dip my hand into that green mass in the packet, and shout, “Holi Hai!!” My body feels like that of a body builder, suddenly filled with strength and muscle, and I charge at Pragya. She giggles and runs, as gallons of burning cold water suddenly pour down my back.

There began my Holi, covering every face in sight with moss-like green powder.

Now, I walk back to my dorm. Water drips down my side, and I shake myself, much like my dog, sending the water astray onto the mess of colour on the floor. The red and green and blue and yellow had merged together to form dirty black streams of putrid water flowing over the canvas. Pink streams flow down my legs, forming a puddle in the green ocean in my slippers. I look at my blue nails, cursing myself for not remembering my mother’s advice.

They hadn’t come.

I had crossed off twenty seven days in my calendar since my mother’s embrace. Twenty seven. I had counted. Twenty seven days of a cold winter spent shivering in a quilt, curled up to gain warmth from my own body. Twenty seven days spent in frantic anticipation.

“Are you coming for dinner?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” I growled back.

Here began another cycle of crossed out days. The moon was struggling to show from the blue expanse that was slowly turning to the dark side. Hundreds of feet slowly shuffled into the dining hall, leaving me behind, standing alone in the middle of the basketball court. I stood in the middle of dried up brown splotches – dull and dreadful. My heart slowly pounded in my feet, my whole body shaking with the strength of its beat. Hot streams flowed down my cheeks.

I suddenly sank into a warm, soft abyss, floating ecstatically over the dense love I felt. My parents hugged me, enveloping me in colourful happiness. I closed my eyes, hoping I was not dreaming. The abyss retreated and I opened my eyes, staring in wide-eyed wonder at them as if I’d seen God.

"We told you we will come. We will always come.”


I hope it makes sense and isn't a job too badly done :)

A post, random as ever

There's this deep, gnawing urge in me. An urge to do what, I know not. Just an urge. To do something, to just run or fly. It's like there is something inside me and it wants to force itself out of me. And not just flow out smoothly. To actually force its way out of me, violently. Maybe it is an urge to feel something. Or maybe I feel something that gives me this urge.
I will let the feeling pass.
*sigh*
I feel like writing more these days. Maybe it is my never ending list of essays to write for class. Oh wait, it is that. Of course it is. Essays after essays.
I was afraid, at first, to take a course in creative writing. I'd read and seen in too many places that creative writing ruins your natural flair and creativity and what not. But really, it doesn't. At least my course isn't. If anything, it has made me a better writer. Or so I like to believe.
I let things and people influence me. Much as I hate it, and hate to admit it, I do tend to get influenced easily. Not in a ridiculously obvious or gullible way, but I do. Or maybe I don't get influenced, but am actually slowly discovering myself? I really fail to understand myself and the workings of this human mind. I hope I figure it out some day :)

Wandering inside, and outside...

I have recently made a new friend.
It's amazing what music can do for you. Apart from being the breathtaking, beautiful, intensely powerful thing that is, you can always count on it to help you make new friends. And that's how I became friends with him. Just through music :)
He's a really amazing guy, I think. He just has this way about him. He's always intensely cheerful and he has a knack for coming up with amazingly creative ways to express himself. And even if he isn't cheerful or happy, he'll never complain or moan about life's ways and manages to be cheerful anyway. Or at least I think so.
He also reminds me of myself. Though I never expected it, in him of all people. Not in a bad way. I've always recognised myself as a fairly introvert, socially awkward, reserved person. And, well, boring. He definitely isn't. He always expresses himself openly, and he has his own, very firm, extremely likable personality.
And not only that, not even the music, but he also shares a love for reading and writing and English in general.

I love meeting people like him :) They make me feel like I belong to this world.
Today, I was talking to him about this amazing band he introduced me to (Cults, that's the name of the band. Amazing. Must listen) and he went ahead, like the amazing person he is, and described music. It is the closest thing I have ever read or heard or felt that has come to describing music. It almost teared me up.

"Music is such a release, such a solution, such a catharsis, such a catalyst. It's the greatest thing in the world. It's the passion of all human emotion and existence,
of all dilemma, joy, sorrow, confusion, angst, horror, ecstasy, surrealism. It's liberation, it's control, it's self discovery, it's wandering inside and outside..."

Isn't it just beautiful? :)
Just reading it gave me goosebumps.
That's how important music it is. That's the awe-striking intensity of its beauty. And he put it into beautiful words :)
He also wrote something else, later, something that really touched me inside. It describes exactly how I feel sometimes. It would take me a few sentence to describe the feeling, and he managed to do it in just a few, beautiful words.

"My heart feels like a driftwood floating on deserted emotions."

That's my new friend for you :) His name is Joey.
Yes, he is as awesome as the Joey from Friends. Really.

Here's a little something that made my night, apart from the conversation. Hope it makes yours too :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTbP7YwNo9U&hd=1

*shrug*

It's been a while! I'm still trying to figure out exactly what this blog is.
Yes, it's called 'And He Shrugged...' owing to my exquisite fascination and verging on voyeuristic obsession with Ayn Rand's work. Also, 'And He Shrugged..', what do you think it means? I don't mean that in a condescending tone, just in a very honest, eager to know tone. I'd like to know what you think it means, you, who's reading this right now.
As for me, I like to enjoy life. I may not be doing too much of that these days. These days I feel like I'm wasting my life away. But, the point of living is to enjoy your life. Don't you think that's the point? And no, I'm not telling you to drop your books and jobs to enjoy life. Unless, of course, that's the way you want to do it.
Me, I'd enjoy life writing, travelling, listening to beautiful music, strutting around in pretty, flowing dress and a straw hat with a camera around my neck, a notebook and pen in my bag, and comfortable shoes, somewhere in the woods or near a pond, or on the beach, or in a ginormous green field where I can just lay down in the cool, wet grass, ripping the delicate grass out roughly with my hands and throwing it up in the air, watching it sprinkle down on me, while the sun falls on me, seeping through my body, my eyes covered by the afore-mentioned hat, and just smile at the world and throw away all my worries and tensions and anger and stress into the beautiful blue expanse floating over me and watch the sun make them explode with its beautiful intensity.
That's what I'd like to do. That's what I think it means to shrug.
"Oh, I'm going to lose my job tomorrow?" *shrug* "I'll find another one, or maybe I'll just enjoy spending time with myself for a while."
"I don't have money?" *shrug* "It's bad, but worrying and killing myself about it won't help."

So when life is getting you down, I think of something I read in a speech. I believe the speech was called Sunscreen. Don't remember the author's name, but this was what he or she said: "Worrying about something is as effective as trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing a piece of gum."
Something along those lines. Beautiful, isn't it? :)

So remember. DOn't forget to shrug!

Paintings of Scarlet - Note from the Author :P

Paintings of Scarlet is just a short story I wrote for my English Creative Writing class. Due at midnight, I very stupidly started writing this at about nine pm. I am not boasting or anything. Really. Had I more time to write it, it would have been infinitely better, and infinitely longer. I had much more planned for this story than what I could write. It is pretty naive and immature, and rather vague. You never get to see the action. You don't know anything about this man, Zhora, or his brother Aseem. How was Zhora so trained? Why did the Uncle want all these attacks? What was the purpose? How did he so easily manage to do it and get away with it? How old is he? How old is his brother?
Even I have the same question, and I would like to understand those and answer them, but three hours doesn't leave much space for details or backgrounds. I wish it did.
I know they are in Tajikistan, and should be speaking in Tajik. However, since Google was my only source, I had to make do with Persian. It's not even Persian. I have basically used Urdu and Hindi, and Arabic in some parts.
As for the title, I couldn't think of anything, but in the last line, he looks at his hands, and they're described as paintings of scarlet, and I thought that'd be rather apt, since what he is doing in this entire story is painting, paintings of scarlet. Scarlet, blood, murder, painting, get it?
But, in spite of all that, I hope my story isn't too bad :)

Paintings of Scarlet - Part 5

“The country, still in mourning from the terrible, terrible playground explosion on 12th April, is now being faced with another tragedy, just a few weeks later. President Griffin was assassinated at 4:03 pm this evening. The circumstances are still completely unknown, though it appears to be linked to the recent murders from the past month. The country lies in mourning, and we must all join together in the trail of this tragedy. We ask every person in this country, and even the world, to devote a few minutes of silence and prayer in mourning for all the lives recently lost by our country...”

Millions of people were in panic. Thousands of candles were burnt. Hundreds of gallons of tears were shed. Yet my heart still lay, tied up in an iron fist. I sat on the bed, staring at the TV. I stared at it, breathing, in and out, in and out. My hands were still, symmetrically placed on my thighs, and my legs lay out flat, limp. I sat, still and limp, breathing evenly. My mind was exploding. My head shook, swinging from side to side, spinning in circles; spinning, so fast, the world was a blur of white and black, a blur of fire and blood, a blur of pain and tears. My mind pounded, hammering at my head to escape, to escape from this fusion of regret and pain and anger. My soul struggled to jump out from my eyes, and I sat there, still and limp.

I blinked my eyes, and travelled back ten minutes.


The phone rang.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Baba,” I said.

“Wa’alaikum Assalum, Zhora,” he said, his voice flecked with amusement and joy. “I am proud of you, son. Oh, I am proud of you.” He chuckled, a deep, throaty voice echoing through his throat.

“Proud? I haven’t found Aseem, Baba! Where is he? I did what you asked me to, and you said I would find him! Where is he? I did everything. I did all this. All these lives, all this bloodshed. I haven’t found Aseem. I haven’t found him! Tell me, what must I do now? How do I find him?”

“Oh, Zhora, there is nothing you can do now. There is nothing you need to do, son,” he spoke, sounding satisfied. “Zhora, you have done what you had to. Are you fine? I hope you didn’t leave any trail behind. Come back now. Your time is up, and you have completed the task.”

“My task was to find my brother,” I said through clenched teeth. “My task was to find him, and bring him home. I haven’t found him, and I will not come home till I do. So you tell me. What do I have to do?”

“Zhora... Come back. We found Aseem. We found him!”


“Wh- wha- wh- what?!? You found him? How? When? How did that happen? Did the Americans send him back? Is he safe? Is he fine? I hope they didn’t hurt him! Uncle! Where is he? How did you find him?” I yelled on the phone, my heart about to burst, frantically pacing the room, from mirror to cupboard, cupboard to mirror.

“Zhora, you silly boy. Hahahahaha. Are you really that naive? Are you really that innocent?” said a strange, frightening voice from Tajikistan.

“What, what do you mean, baba? What are you saying? Where is Aseem?”


“Zhora. Aseem never disappeared. He was never kidnapped, Zhora. I wanted to scare the Americans. I wanted to show them they are not the most powerful country, Zhora. And you are the only one who could have done this, my son. Aseem was never kidnapped. They never took him. But look. Look at them now. They used to be so proud and powerful, and look at them now. They are scared with every step they take. Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it just wonderful? And it’s all because of you! People will worship you. You are a hero, Zhora. You are our hero!”

“Uncle, what are you saying? No-no, no. You are lying to me. You haven’t found Aseem. Did they kill him? Are you trying to hide it?” I collapsed into the bed. “Tell me, Uncle! You’re lying! No, no, no! You’re lying. Tell me you are lying, uncle!”

“Of course I am not lying! Are you stupid, boy? You should be happy! You should be proud! Don’t be silly, now. Come back home now. Come back, and we will reward you. You will spend your life at home feeling happy and easy, Zhora. Come back home,” lulled that monstrous man, his voice reeking of satisfaction.

“You disgust me,” I screamed, throwing the phone into the dull, white wall. The phone hit the wall, exploding into bits. Glass, plastic, black bits, exploding like the bodies of those little children. The pieces of the phone fell to the floor, limp and still, like the woman had, as her life flowed out from her, sucked by me.

I sat on the bed, still and limp, as I watched my soul take the silver object of death that said on it, inscribed in beautiful, lyrical Arabic, from the Qur’an, “If ye are slain, or die, in the way of Allah, forgiveness and mercy from Allah are far better than all they could amass.” My soul took that silver blade, and struck it into the stillness and limpness. I got up, and walked slowly to the bathroom, staring at the mirror. The soul followed. It was time for me to face that face – to look into it, to stare at it, to dive and slowly cut into those eyes, those empty eyes. I struck the lightning, excited the thunder, and the rain dropped, deep red and burning, drop by drop. ‘Drip, drip, drip, drip...’

The raindrops fell, flowing from the thunder, meandering to the floor. My hands reached up, slowly crawling like spiders to my stomach. I look at my hands, those paintings of scarlet. Metallic and red. Wet. And the world went dark.

Paintings of Scarlet - Part 4

“It’s done, uncle,” I said, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “It’s done. Those men stole my brother and all the other men, and I have avenged their deaths. It is done, Uncle. They killed our children, and we killed theirs. How will I find my little brother now? Where is Aseem? How does this help me?”

“There is just one last thing you must do, Zhora, and one last person you must meet. He will know where Aseem is. We needed to scare these men, Zhora, if we wanted to know anything. You must meet this last man, and you will find your brother...”

I listened to him, as he gave me details of what I must do next. The horror of the playground still played in my head, like a reluctant song, the same part playing over and over in my head. I saw the little child hitting my knee, blowing up into tiny pieces of flesh and fire.

Times when I felt this way, I would go back to this same day, forty-three days ago, as I sat with my mother in my home in Isfara, holding her hand as she sobbed.

“Where is he? Where is my son?” her body shook in waves of tears. “Where is he, Zhora? Find him. Aseem! Where are you? What did they do to you?”

“Amma, Amma, don’t cry,” I tried to console her, fighting back my own tears. “I’ll find him, I promise. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

“Please find him Zhora, or I’ll die. My bacha, what’ll I do without him? My poor Aseem.”

It was only a day after this incident that my uncle came to my house. He paid his condolences to my mother, reassuring her that Aseem would be found, and spoke to me alone.

“Zhora, my men know who took Aseem away,” he said, speaking in a low, confidential tone. “It was those Americans, those bloody men. They had been snooping around the office a few days ago, claiming that some secret information had been leaked in your brothers’ office. They were asking me about him, and that was the day he disappeared. It’s those Americans who took him away.”

I listened to him, absorbing every word coming out of his mouth, my mind slowly flooding with anger and rage.

“You, Zhora, you are the only man who can bring him back. With your training, and your physical abilities, and your capacity to control your emotions, you are the only one who can bring him back, Zhora. Do it. Do it for your mother,” he said.

“Of course I will! How can you even doubt me? Tell me what I have to do,” I had told him, bravely.

I travelled back from these memories, listening as Baba told me the plan. Anger and excitement raged through my veins, electrifying me, shocking me with the thought of saving my brother. These months of living like a chameleon in the United States, of acting like a serial killer, shedding blood and tears, here was the prize. I listened to his voice, soaking in his words like a cotton soaking kerosene, ready to flame at any time.

Paintings of Scarlet - Part 3

Little chubby fingers grabbed cold, thin rails. Little chubby fingers, with little chubby feet and chubby arms and legs, bouncing and running around, laughing and crying. The sun smiled down at these little beings, so happy and lost in their own pretty, cheerful heads. The children played – some on see-saws, some on the slides; some swung from the sky to the ground, while some spun themselves round into fits of delirium, till they crashed laughing to the ground. It was a masquerade of green and pink and yellow and blue and red and orange; feet and toes and fingers and noses and hair and snot and tears and teeth, all glaring at the world, daring it to ruin this place of happiness, mocking its failure to do so.

I smiled at the boy as he hit my knee with his tiny fist. The sun illuminated the golden locks on his head, radiating off his beautiful round cheeks. He scowled at me, standing with his red-clad arms crossed, angry at me for not playing with him. I looked at him, at this perfectly oblivious little person, my insides slowly dissolving into light, fluttery powder.

“Go away,” I suddenly said to him, urgently. “Go! Run away. Far from here. Run away and don’t turn back!” I urgently pushed him away, my heart pounding in my mouth, my hair sticking to my back. He burst into tears, and I collapsed. I collapsed, worn down and dead, and I ran. I had to run, away from that place, away from that happiness. I slowly walked, one step after another, right foot, left foot. My eyes closed themselves, and I took a deep breath, silently counting in my head. I stopped and looked at those little chubby fingers, once again. My breath stopped and a devil smiled on my lips, and I turned away and walked. “Tick, tick, tick...” went the clock in my head.

Hundreds of little fingers flew into the air. There it was. Hundreds of little fingers, lost in that great, breathing mass of red and orange and yellow. It spread, eating everything, destroying everything in its way. It screamed and exploded, spreading its wrath and fury to those little beings.

Fire. Red, hot fire. Burning. Burning their skin, burning their hearts, their brains; like a tsunami, washing everything away, cleaning everything, burning everything, eating everything. The burning, hot, red fire.

It lumped at my throat, collected at my eyes, forming hot, shooting balls of fury in my own throat. Tears dripped, burning my skin, burning my eyes, hot and red, as I looked at the little object burning and destroying all these little lives. One little bomb, and so much red, hot, burning fire, taking so many innocent, happy little lives.

I watched, and it seared through my ribs, piercing my skin, that sharp, sharp pain. It collected at my throat, as I gasped. The screams, the shrill words of shock, of pain, as little children and their parents cried for help.

And then I thought of my brother – being tortured, being taken hostage for no reason; not alone, but with eleven more little brothers and sons of other people, who were all killed, but my brother. I thought of them, and I looked at this, and there was coolness. Like cool, calm water, running over me, over my skin; easing my soul, easing the pain, calming everything; solemn, cold, smooth water. It ran over my neck, flowing, soothing, cold water, cleaning away my sorrow, wiping away my guilt. I breathed, and turned away.

Paintings of Scarlet - Part 2

“We have just received a report from our reporter in D.C., Ms. Miranda Schwinsky, about the situation that has just occurred two hours ago. Ms. Miranda Shwinsky, live from D.C.”

“I am standing here at General Snyder’s house, where we have received news of Mrs. Snyder’s death. While the General refuses to speak of the matter, it is rumoured that Mrs. Charlotte Snyder’s body was found outside the house, at 7:15 pm. The guards spotted a black, unmarked sedan without a license plate just minutes before the body was discovered. Her body was found with a note stuck on her forehead saying, “You will repent, America. You will regret it.” It is reported as a case of kidnapping and homicide, and the police are investigating in the matter and will reveal information once they have received any evidence. The identity of the murderer is still unknown. This is the third reported murder of this week, after Senator Monroe and Minister Wolfe’s loved ones passing away, and the country is in mourning. This is Miranda Schwinsky, reporting live from Star News...”

I turned off the TV. This news did not interest me. People were murdered every day. Today, it was the General’s wife. Tomorrow, it might be the President’s wife. As long as it wasn’t the General or President themselves, none of it mattered.

I walked to the bathroom. It was as most motel bathrooms are – clean, bare, stocked with cheap soap and flimsy toilet paper. I took off my shoes, mortified suddenly by the stench emanating from them. They were new shoes, still squeaky and stiff. I held them in the tub, pouring water on them, watching as streams of yellow and red and brown flowed from them. I should be more careful next time; cleaner, more precise. Her blood was splattered all over me, caked on my protective shell, like miserable remnants of a job poorly done.

I stared at that man; the man with short, crisp black hair and yesterday’s stubble. I looked into his eyes; piercing black eyes that would look straight through your eyes, to your brain, and into your soul. The man looked straight into my soul, through the blood covered clothes, the flexible, trained body, as if he understood me and my reasons. The mirror seemed to tremble with the intensity of my glare, and was just about to burst when the phone rang.


“Salaam,” I said to the phone, standing still.

“Salaam, Zhora. I saw the news today,” said the man on the other side of the wires, in another continent. “Was it of any use?”

“Nahi, Baba. She didn’t know anything. Her life was lost in vain. We must be more careful now, since they will be on alert now,” I said.

“You know what you must do next, Zhora. Tell me when you are ready. Khuda Hafiz,” said the deep voice on the other end, hanging up abruptly.

“Yes, uncle,” I whispered into the dial tone. “I know what I must do next.”

A sick feeling was slowly spreading into my stomach, with the constant beep of the dial tone. I could hear a clock ticking, and it felt like I stood there for ages, phone still held to my ear, sickness spreading in my stomach. It spread like a hurricane, twisting and destructive, destroying anything that came in its path. Me, I was the hurricane.

But then I remembered; I remembered why I was here, why I must do what I had to do. I thought of my brother, laughing as Amma scolded him for not eating lunch. I shot back through time, to the little yellow kitchen in my house in Tajikistan; to the fading, mustard walls, the big steel glasses, covered with dents and scratches, with a matching set of dented silver bowls and the huge, bent thalis, laid out on an old, beautiful rug embroidered by my mother. I remembered her sweet voice calling my brother and me to have hot, delicious kehwa that we greedily drank, sighing with pleasure as we felt it making its meandering way down our throats, into our bellies. That sweet tea, made with so much happiness, was something my brother always missed and wrote to me about when he went away to work for his secret government job. The last letter I received from him was a small world of nostalgia, filled with tears and smiles. My little brother. Aseem.

I thought of him, of the Americans taking him away, and the hurricane in my stomach stopped. It stopped, slowly changing to flaming balls of fury, balls of anger. Yes, I would do what I had to do. Yes, it was the right thing to do and they deserved it.

Paintings of Scarlet - Part 1

“Yes,” the wall seemed to say, staring straight at him with dull, white eyes, tears spilling at its sides. He sighed and turned away, looking at the shivering mass in front of him. She writhed, her eyes pouring out rivers of horror, her hands tugging desperately at the red scarf her husband had gifted her, trying to wriggle her hands out. Sweat poured from her, making her hair stick to her face like wet, slimy worms.

“Please, I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything. No, I swear,” she cried, yelping the words out like a hurt puppy. “Leave me alone, I won’t tell anyone. Just please... please leave me. Please. Let me go, let me go!”

She screamed, desperately trying to move, to free herself. A pool dripped from between her legs, eroding the air with its putrid, yellow odour; flowing, a murky stream of fear.

“Now, don’t lie to me. He’s your husband. I’m sure he tells you all his dirty little secrets,” he slowly whispered to her. “So tell me. Where is he? Tell me, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”

The clock spoke, ‘tick, tick, tick, tick, tick’ flowing in rhythm with the dripping of her pee as it formed a filthy, yellow pool beneath the chair. He looked at her through those slits around his eyes, tracing her up from her naked legs dipped in golden, stunningly high shoes, travelling up to her short black dress designed to attract young men. Her hair flew wildly about her head, struggling to be freed like its master, a few strands sticking to her wet, agonised face.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” snot flowed over her face, and she moaned.

“Well, I don’t need you then,” he whispered, reaching for his pocket. He slowly pulled out a bold, silver object from his pocket. It was plain, but for a small inscription in a foreign language, written with strange symbols, carved into the smoothness of the silver. His hands were steady as he slowly pulled out the thin, shiny strip of death. Sharp, loud frenzy pierced through the room, her screams cutting through the air at the sight of that sharp piece of metal. His arms moved swiftly, making precise cuts with the carelessness of one who is skilled in the art. Rivers of scarlet flowed from her limp body, following his path as he walked out of the room.

Coco

He was a mighty brute. The sight of him often made people shudder. Children ran away at the sight of him. He had a harsh exterior. He was big. He was loud. New people made him jumpy and that scared people away.
But his eyes could make you weep. Once he got to know you, and you him, he would come to you, overflowing with love. He was loving. And he was gentle. And all he needed was some love. Some attention and love, and there goes his tail, wagging away so hard it could knock you off your feet.
He was the reason they say dogs are your best friends.
Happy birthday Coco. You know how much we miss you.

Daisy Days and Numbing Nights

Here I am, again. Well, this barely counts as again since I was here just now. Literally. I never went off, actually. I just crave intelligent conversation. And I happen to like myself. Therefore, I like to converse with myself. Also, I like to pretend that you, who's reading this right now, is intelligent. Therefore, I am having an intelligent conversation with you now.
I flatter myself, don't I? Thinking that there are people out there who actually read the blog. Well, that might be my fault, to a certain extent. But only a very certain extent. I'm private about my writing. That is mainly due to the fact that I'm very insecure about what I write. Oh, yes I am. I am extremely insecure. Therefore, I'm not comfortable sharing this blog on facebook. Since I don't share it, no one reads it. I'm a coward, aren't I? And here I am, doing an English major so I can write. *sigh* What a fool *mutters to self* what a fool.
I read other people's blogs. They seem so impressive. With their big, beautiful, creative words and their poetry that appears to be spun lightly with gold and light and laid out in intricate patterns that hang lightly and flow with your eyes and wrap themselves around your hearts till you feel you're flying.
I wish I could write like that. I read those blogs, and envy lays over me, in layers and layers as thin and infinite as that in a lachha parantha. There goes the proof. Lachha parantha. I compared my envy to the layers of a lachha parantha.
I'm happy today, thought. I might complain. I might crib. I might wallow away and daunt your hearts with my melancholy despairing. But, I'm happy.
After the long, repetitive chain of dozing days and nocturnal nights, I finally saw the light of day again. What a change it is!!
The day really seems to have 24 hours again. I watch the sun rise from my window. Every morning. The sun is beautiful as it rises. The sky turns from a dark, dark grape coloured expanse to the colour of cherries. Deep, dark red. The cherries turn to strawberries. Strawberries turn to apples. The sun rises, like deep flaming mandarin and squeezes it's light, playful juice and spreads it around. The blue of the sky plays with the lemon in such a happy manner, as to make lemonade. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When the sun rises to the sky, the world has lemonade. It wake you up and fills you with the promise of juice and freshness and brightness. That's what a sunrise is like. It's beautiful, isn't it? :)
And when the sun rises, and the snow if still falling, it is like the stars are falling to the ground. The snow jumps around, glittering like a thousand diamonds. I will always hate myself for this reference, but the snow falls as though someone took Edward Cullen up into the sky, put dynamite in him, and blew him up, and pieces of him turned to powder and fell through the sky, glittering and dancing in the sunlight.

I have been listening to a band recently, called Beirut. They are the most different and unique and just..... quaint music I have a heard in a while. Their music makes me think of beaches and circuses and tall grass that reaches up to your waist and ships in bottles and pirates and hourglasses and violet and daisies and patches and elephants and banjos and porches and confetti and country and dancing and swinging and of all the pretty things in the world. They are the closest definition to the word quaint.

Ma heietama liiga palju

I just saw my first snowfall. Well, to be honest, I saw my first snowfall quite a few days back. But I didn't get around to writing about it. I was busy, you could say. Though I would say I had just gotten around to a vacation and was avoiding all forms of communication with all reminders of college or my past life or home. Anything that hurt, basically. I wanted my vacation to be happy. Hearing from my friends at home hurt. It hurt, because I wanted to be home so badly, and I couldn't. My longing for home has become a part of me. For years, home has had a deadline for me. It is a melancholy emptiness in me that thirsts to be filled. I wish, just once, I could fill that emptiness; fill it till it flowed and overflowed and till I wished no more. I wish... We wish for a lot. For money, for a big house, a big car, an awesome spouse... Well, who wouldn't want any of those. Of course, everyone does.
I wish....
I wish I had complete freedom. Freedom to do what I wished. Freedom from "them." Freedom from "it". The unholy "it" of money. Freedom from everything, but my own will. And what I wouldn't do then.
This is the part where I go ahead and sort of disagree with Ayn Rand. Objectivism is not the only way to live. In fact, were there no objects, no money, man would be free. But were it not for money, there would be no system. Would that be good? Or would it be bad?
I like being the devil's advocate. It's just a thing. There are so many times when a group of people (usually youngsters) would be discussing something, and they would almost all pick the same side. Even if I did agree with that side, however, just to show them that the other side did exist, was possible, and did have it perks, I'd pick it, just to show them that. Ego issues, aren't those?
But, hey, I was talking about snowfall. I ramble too much. Once I start, I don't know when to stop. My mind runs too fast for me to process it. Sometime I like to go back and retrace my steps, just to re-discover the marvel that is our minds. Isn't it brilliant?
I'll fill you in on the snowfall some other time :)
Till then, maybe you should think about whether the absence of money would be good or bad. Don't think about "what people would think". Think about whether it'll be good or bad according to YOUR standards of good and bad.

P.S. My mind is at a creative blank right now, as my post might've revealed.
P.P.S. That's why, since I couldn't think of a nice, creativity-induced title for the post, I just went to Google translate, wrote "I ramble too much" and translated it to Estonian. There. I just saved you the effort of opening google translate and going through all of that. All hail laziness!

Rage

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIPUWE QIXMEUMROHsdjdffs kjd kfbksjdfbmkjnsfNXO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This anger has been eating me up for months. FOR MONTHS!!! Ages. FOR A YEAR!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I need to scream. And rip. And yell. And tear. ANd destroy. and yell and yell and yell and scream and shout and tear till i cant breathe and have destroyed EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD AND AROUND ME. I WANT TO RIP OUT THE WORLD. I WANT TO SCREAM OUT EVERY WORD I KNOW. I want to tear out the keys I'm typing with and hold them in my hands and slowly and furiously and with a burning, flaming rage watch as i hold them in my fingers and crush them and watch them turn into chunks and then into powder and slowly collapse t the floor.
it's fire. It's blinding me. It's making me mad. It's mking me furious. I'm filled with rage.
I want to break. And smash. And crush. And burn. And tear.

This anger. has. been. earting. me. up. for. a year.
FOR. A. YEAR!!!
I. need. to. let. it. out.
I want to rip into the chest of the person who caused it. And tear out his being. And hold it in my hand. And squeeze it. And make it stop.
And I want to hug and cry with the cause of the rage.
I want to hug the cause. And love it.
And I hate it.
And my love for the cause makes me hate it even more.
it's confusing, isn't it?
Love.
Or the illusion we create that we feel is love.
It's a strong illusion that we create. Strong enough that sometimes, it destroys us.

Poetry..

Dear Cola and Bumbum,

It's frustrating how knowingly-oblivious you both are to your frantic obsession with each other. And it's so obvious. And so perfect. ANd you're both too dumb to realise that you've realised it. Or to acknowledge the fact that you've realised it to each other.

I mean, for months I read all your statuses and posts about movie reviews, tennis matches, lame stuff (in Cola's case), and lesbianism, a battle of the your egos and all sorts of different stuff (in Pooja's case.) And now here you both are, writing and quoting poetry. Here you both are, writing blogs, writing poetry, finding poetry relevant to the other, getting inspired.
Why don't you both just accept it and let the other person know you've accepted it, and mutually accept all of this and each other??

But that would kill the magic, wouldn't it? :)

Jaskunwar Kohli. Pooja Elangbam.

Poetry is what you want it to be. What you believe it to be.
It is not a constant. It changes. It keeps changing.
Poetry is time.
Poetry is change.
Poetry is YOU.

Which is why, Cola, poetry is love. And love is poetry. :)

Do you both understand that?
I think you already did. I just wanted to say it anyway.

So here's a toast.
Let's let that poetry live on forever.

Kundu
a.k.a.
Kundi

:)

After Sunset

'tis time.

It is time for me to face that face. To look into it. To stare at it. To dive and slowly cut into those eyes. To look at that drop of water. To savor it and enjoy it. To gobble it up. To feed on that despair. To feed on the shock and thunder as I struck the lightning. To excite the thunder. To make it rain. To make the drops fall, one by one. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Drip. Drip. Drip.Drip.Drip.drip.drip.drip.dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip.
The dripping increased to pattering.
The raindrops fell. They flooded the valleys and the hills, the mounds, covered with smooth, soft skin. Rivers flowed from those clouds. From the thunder. The dark, grey thunder. Torrents. Meandering around the hills. Falling to the earth in showers.

Yet.

Yet those eyes just looked. Thunder. Storm. Rage. Whirlpools. They stared. I dove harder. Thunder, struck by lightning.

The eyes. Thunder surrounded by an autumn. By falling leaves. Golden. Red. Orange. Flaming. The thunder shook them and they flailed wildly about. Limp. Dying. Yet burning. Soft leaves. They fell down on her shoulders, wildly flailing about as the thunder shook that world. They fell, merging with the brightness, with the sun setting at her waist.

The sunset. Red. Bright. Flowing from that world. Flowing around the sharpness cutting into her.

Her hands crawled up, like five-legged spiders. They crawled up slowly, but definitely, heading for their kill. They crawled up, and felt the sharpness. The eyes still stared.

The thunder roared. The sunset spread. Red turned to lust. Lust turned rust. Rust turned to wine. And the wine spread. The pools of her eyes. The pools of the wine.

Clouds.

Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. D..r..i..p. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Crash.

The clouds took a deep, dark breath.

The sun slowly rose. It rose, and it pulled up its horizon. I smiled and I walked away.

Night had passed.