White Lies

He grinned. The toothy thing trapezed across his face and took vindictive delight in making him look like a complete idiot. But he didn’t care. Today, he was grinning because she was smiling. He had made her happy.

I love you too.

Relief spread like a hot blush across her cheeks as she heard the words. He loved her too. She unlocked her hands that had been doing some desperate twiddling over the last few minutes and reached towards him. Her fingers found the side of his face. He watched her, still grinning like an idiot.

*****************************************

He stared at the incriminating evidence of murder before him. The two goldfish floated belly up in the murky water, their ghoulish eyes screaming for revenge. He quickly disposed off the corpses, and destroyed all remaining evidence. A pair of well disguised substitutes now took the place of the deceased. It was a cunning plan.

Her face split into a bright smile when she saw the tank.

“You’ve taken such good care of them!” she said, bending over to watch the bloated orange fish that were swimming around in disinterested circles.

“How did the conference go?” he asked.

“Conference was good. Got to wear the press tag an’ all”

She fished out the orange blobs and transfered them to a bucket.”I was worried about these two.” A warm twinkle played in her eyes. “Thank you.”

He kissed her in reply.

*****************************************

“You should vote,” she said, peering over the top of the newspaper. A steaming hot cup of chai was balanced precariously on the edge of the couch.

“Don’t want to,” he mumbled, trying to shake away the strands of sleep that still stuck in his hair.

“Don’t vote, don’t get to gripe about the nation.” Her voice was annoyingly perky.

“Don’t care,” he said, despondently sipping at his coffee.

His eyes wandered over the pile of bills left neatly on the table. Next to it was a neat balance sheet of their accounts for the month.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Yep. Split it according to how we decided.”

He did a double take seeing the neat total highlighted in black ink. The recent lay off had left him in a bad place and their living expenses in Bombay seemed to be expanding from month to month.

“Looks like your stocks fell a couple of points,” she said, hidden behind the headlines. “I can cover you for the next month if you want me too.” Her voice reeked of smugness.

“I can take care of it,” he snapped.

Sometimes he wished that she would slip on her own moral superiority and break her neck; in a tragic accident of course.

*****************************************

It was the morning of their wedding. He glanced out of the window, and onto the skyline of his hometown. It shone, like a patchwork quilt made from the childhood of his grandparents and the dreams of a generation that had wandered all over the world, only to come back home. Palm trees like small hypocrisies waved from in between freshly scrubbed red faced terraces.

The groom’s room was a modern tower of babel with family members yelling contradictory instructions at the top of their voices.

His cellphone beeped. “Are you ready?”

He could almost hear her voice through the din – businesslike, pushing him towards the next dead line. As he texted back, he noticed that he had very little nail left. He had chewed off most of it during the previous night.

“Yes.”

He looked out of the window again. He hoped she knew what she was doing, because he sure didn’t.

*****************************************

He stared hard at the black and white scan before him, trying to spot some anomaly.

“Do you see it?”

He laughed nervously. “Yes, yes. That little thing over there-” He pointed vaguely.

“Really?” She was clearly enjoying his discomfiture.

“Yes, That spot over there, I’m sure -”

She giggled. He glared at her.

“Idiot. It’s over here,” she said taking hold of his finger, and placing it over the dark shape in the scan.

He stared at the lump in the image.

“That?” he asked incredulously.

She smiled. “That.”

*****************************************

He opened the door softly and crept into the hospital room. Her grief slapped him across the face.

“The doctors want to know whether you want to carry him.”

She didn’t answer.

He drew up a chair, and sat by her bed.

“You made the right choice.” His voice cracked.

“I killed my baby.”

“You did the right thing,” he repeated.

She turned to face him. Those were not her eyes – they were a stranger’s – and abyss in which guilt, anger and sadness churned in a vicious circle.

The words struggled and died in his throat. His tired body tried to pump out more tears to heal their wound, but he didn’t have any more. He buried his head in the white sheets of her bed. “Its going to be alright.” He repeated it over and over again, hoping that if he said it enough, he would believe it.

He reached for her hand and squeezed as hard as he could. It’s going to be alright.

*****************************************

She deposited a handful of salt and a dried chili in his hand.

“Take dhristhi for me,” she commanded.

He kindly obliged. He stuck the salt under her nose. “Spit.” He carefully carried away the destroyed remains of evil eyes.

On the way to the back door to throw away the salt, he asked her about her sudden obsession for superstition.

“I’m not doing anything wrong this time.”

The salt dropped to the floor. “You didn’t do anything wrong the last time.”

“I must’ve done something wrong.” She said, scooping up the salt with her hands.

“It was not your fault.”

She picked up the salt and pushed past him.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Her bones jangled. He wanted to scream it into her ears over and over again until she turned deaf. He wanted to shake her until time stopped. Until it all went back, until it was all different.

He shook her until the anger slowly faded out from her eyes.

“You really mean it?”

“Yes.”

*****************************************

She wrestled the howling baby down with one arm and was trying to push food into its mouth with the other.

“Swearing in your baby’s presence is not appropriate behavior,” he smirked, dropping down beside her.

“A little help would be nice,” she said through gritted teeth.

He wagged smug forefinger before her. “Uh-uh-uh. We made a deal. You’re the one who said I looked ridiculous.”

“Please?” Her hair waved about like the tentacles of some wispy sea creature. He felt sorry of her.

“You know the strategy right? I’ll do the song, and you shove in the food when her jaw drops.” He stood up, dusted his clothes and cleared his throat professionally.

“I believe I can fly… I believe I can touch the sky…”

The shrieky voice reverberated through the room. His wife winced. His daughter giggled.

She looked at him with relief, hastily shoveling food into the baby’s mouth. “It’s working! It’s working!”

“Of course its working,” he said, straightening his shirt. “I am a professional.”

He scooped up his food splattered dribbling daughter and held her close. “You are beautiful,” he whispered into her ear.

*****************************************

The Principal looked down her bespectacled nose at the three of them.

“So…you want to join your daughter in this school…”

They nodded vigorously.

She hummed and hawed over the application form in front of her. She fixed a beady eye on the little girl seated between them.

“Will you make this school proud?”

She stared back at the beady eye. But before she could start saying anything, her dad hastily interrupted, “She’s a very good girl. Studies hard, will listen to her teachers. All the teachers in her last school loved her. She was the ideal student.” His daughter bobbed her head helpfully and batted her eyelids.

The Principal seemed satisfied with this polite fiction and signed on the dotted line. “You can pay your fees at the counter.”

He looked down at her as they trotted out the room. “What were you about to say?”

She grinned at him. “The truth.”

“Just like your mother,” he sighed.

*****************************************

On weekend nights, they would order out, linger in the dining room and catch up on each other’s lives. They had been increasingly ordering pizza after their daughter proved its nutritional superiority. She was perched on the table, and this night she demanded a re-run of their Story.

Her brows were knitted; she was working her way through a plot twist she had not heard before.

“So why did you say you loved her in the first place?”

“Dunno. Thought it would make her happy.”

She considered him with serious eyes.

“So you lied to make her happy?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yes, yes, I did.”

*****************************************

Scientist. [100 Words]

The door creaked.

“Leaving already?”

Last night, he had wanted to pour out his soul to her. She stopped him, said she was in it only for the sex. It had seemed too good to be true.

“Work. The results arrived last night.”

“What does your company test anyway?”

She tossed him a discrete perfume bottle.

The label read ‘Love Potion: Make that man go crazy!’ and underneath in smaller print, ‘Pheromones – 3000 mcg’.

It had been too good to be true.

“Will I see you again?”

She smiled indulgently.

“This was all just an experiment?”

The door creaked shut.

_____________________________________________________

Inspired from:

Esquire Article by A.J. Jacobs

TED talk by Helen Fischer

And of course,

Spray Pheromones

The Ice Cream Men

Dedicated to Deepika Vaishnavi. You know why

WARNING: Strangeness lies ahead!

In the labyrinth under the far away forest, cut off from the desire and dreams of humanity, lived the ice cream men. It was hard work, mining ice cream. You see, the ice cream was all swirled in together, golden butterscotch spiraled around the luscious strawberry and the dark chocolate circled glistening blackcurrant. In the darkness, the ice cream would glow with a soft light all its own. Starting an hour before dawn, the ice cream men would carve each flavour out, chiseling out the little gems of frozen fruit and chocolate chips with delicately designed pick axes. Just before packing the ice cream in the little plastic boxes, they would add the secret ingredient – a drop from the Tiny Vial of Happieness. At night, as they neatly stacked the boxes inside the portable freezers, they would dream of the smiles and the warmth that their ice cream would bring the other world.

The ice cream men were perfectionists. They worked inch by inch, their minds wrapped within the bubble of their art. They were so engrossed in it, that they did not notice that the layers of ice cream coating the walls of the labyrinth were getting thinner and thinner… and beneath the last layer of raspberry sorbet hidden away in the last dead end of the labyrinth, there was nothing but rock. So it was with astonishment that they woke up one day to find that there was no more ice cream to mine. They looked at each other and shuffled their feet. They had been mining ice cream together for as long as they could remember. This was their world. And all of a sudden, it had come to a screeching halt. It had run itself out.

“So, what do we do now?” one of them asked uneasily.

Their eyes met for a brief instant, and they looked away hurriedly. They never really had to look at each other while at work. It was all very awkward and strange.

“It’s a pity we have so much Happieness left,” the other said, fiddling with the vial in his hand.

There was a long pause.

The roof of the labyrinth started to reverberate and clouds of dust fell like choice seasoning on the ice cream men. They looked upwards. It was the pick up truck that came every month to collect the packed ice cream and deliver fresh plastic boxes. They looked at each other, weighing their options. Being locked up with nothing to do was too terrifying. And all that they remembered of the outside world was the beaten track by which the pick up truck would arrive, the dappled sunlight on the forest floor, and the moist southern breeze. Nostalgia combined with the lack of better options made them curious, maybe even excited. They told each other that they had always yearned to explore the outside world, except that there was so much work to be done, they had always been putting it off, and they had never quite gotten around to doing it. They convinced each other so well, they almost believed it.

So they braved the dark journey up the steep, narrow staircase. They used a rudimentary mining lift for shifting the ice cream to the outer world, but this was the kind of solemn occasion that needed the use of a crumbling, ancient staircase. The key turned in the lock and the door to a brave, new world opened to them. Sunlight streamed onto their triumphant and caked-with-dirt faces. They felt invincible.

They loaded up the last shipment of ice cream and clambered onto the back of the truck. All they took from the ice cream mine was the Tiny Vial of Happieness that was stored away in the only soft pocket without a hole. They bounced along on the back of the truck, through the forest, across the green country side, and over the rocky hills. They watched pink stain the blue, blue sky as the sun sank low over the horizon and saw the eagles spinning high at dawn. For the first time they saw the starlit sky. They sang. They laughed at each other’s songs. They lay on their backs and watched the universe spin around them. They did not need language, listening to music of the wind and the sound of steady breathing was enough.

At last, they reached the city on the other side of the hills. They stood in round-eyed awe of the gray structures towering into the watery winter sky. The smoke filled, honking mess of the urban jungle terrified them. They were moved by its discordant harmony. They were impressed that nature could let just a ghastly thing exist. They saw and smelt things that at once terrified and thrilled. The other world swirled around them, drifting in and out of focus with every curiosity seen, a snippet of conversation heard. They were carried along the streams of humanity flowing along the pavement and found themselves deposited in strange places. They were shoved, touched, fondled, hated, pitied, ignored. They saw a girl sitting with her head in her hands, and knew that she was sad. They offered her a drop of the Tiny Vial of Happieness, but she just screamed something they did not understand and walked away, brushing the tears from her eyes. This new world seemed to have no place for them. They wandered down the narrow alleys, hand in hand, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

They came upon a park with an ancient tree in the centre. The tree reminded them of home – a left over relic of some distant cousin of their previous life. They sat on the little bench under those ancient branches and watched the children play. Laughter rang through the park, and the ice cream men smiled. Just then, a colourful truck pulled up, and all the kids started to run in its direction with shrieks of joy. The ice-cream men wandered over to the truck apprehensively. The screaming children frightened them a little. Their nervousness gave way to a particular strain of idiotic happieness when they saw the colourful spheres balanced on the biscuit cones. Here was the reality of all those dreams they had on those long, tired nights when they would imagine the joy their meticulous work would bring the world. They smiled in a friendly way at the children. They even offered to add extra drop of from the Tiny Vial of Happieness to each of their cones.

A little girl screamed.

The ice cream men smiled even broader.

More children started screaming.

“FREAK!” someone screamed.

It became like a horrible screeching anthem “Freak! Freak! Freak!” they chanted.

Big, round eyes narrowed and filled with tears. The petite bodies became rigid with hatred. Their mouth gaped open with screams. But beneath the hatred of the unknown, there lurked another darker animal instinct. They drooled. They looked more like a herd of demons than a group of little children. It was the stuff of nightmares. The ice cream men turned and fled.

They collapsed in a dark alley, breathless. The sun was sinking, and grey clouds gathered on the horizon. The ice cream men looked around in the darkness. A small distance away, a young man and a young woman were wrapped around each other. The light of the dying sun caught in their eyes and sparkled. Its warmth played across their skin. Sweet smiles splayed across their faces and their limbs were entwined. They seemed more alive than anything else the world had seen. They kissed softly, they needed no words. The universe swirled around them, it existed only for them. They did not care, they had each other, they asked for nothing more. Time waited for them. They were immortal in that moment.

The ice cream men were filled with a desperate yearning. A slow drizzle peppered the earth. Their eyes met. They realized that they were lying in a tangle of limbs, sweat stained their bodies. They smelt the fragrance of home on each other – the dizzying scent of all the different flavours whirled in together. Their yearning to go back joined in a frenzied dance with desire and hunger. Their hearts raced. Wave upon wave of sensation broke inside their minds. With excruciating slowness they explored through their fingertips – their hands wandered over hair, face, limbs. The hunger inside them strained against its leash. They let it loose. They kissed. Their senses exploded. They ravenously explored each other – pushing deeper and deeper with their tongues. They licked noses, fingertips, eyelashes. They began to bite, playfully, it tasted quite nice. They tore out great chunks from each other. They slurped and drooled until there was very little left.

The rain came down hard.

The Tiny Vial of Happieness rolled along the gutter and into an open drain.

A dog lapped up the small puddle of ice cream that was left.

This new world of desire and dreams seemed to have no place for them.

Plastic Christmas Tree

Why do I put up the Christmas tree even if I don’t believe in Christmas? A fake one with its bright lights and fake snow? Plastic branches heavy with old decorations – those clumsy things you made from glitter and glue when you were just a child. The kind that you can’t be bothered to make any more. Now, all I get is a little peck on the cheek as you walk in through the door like a stranger. There is no one to decorate the tree but me now. But every year I still do it, and every year I’ll put it up just a little earlier… And every Christmas day you’ll admire how neatly it’s been done, and we’ll laugh at one of your childish cardboard snowmen and in the afternoon you’ll wave to me from the car as you drive away to another party. A reunion. An office. I don’t know where you go. I’ve never asked. And then I’ll switch off the pretty lights and turn on the telly and just watch. And laugh at some moronic lovable character. I laugh so hard there are tears in my eyes. And then I suddenly realize that the tears are not of laughter, but of desperation. The next one liner pops, and I’m laughing again.

Christmas is like a disease – with all its cloying sentiment of love and hope and all that. It seems to have infected everyone. Even the folks at the TV station. They seem so much more annoyingly chirpy than usual. But there seems to be nothing else that I can do. Recently, I have developed a new addiction – so called intellectual forums on the internet that discuss religion, thermodynamics and literature. There will always be one idiot to take out my frustration on. I read… sometimes. But my mind refuses to stay on one track – it always wanders, and it enjoys sliding downhill. It’s been three years now since I gave up writing. It feels like I’ve run out of meaningful things to say.

Sometimes I bake – and the smell of chocolate fills the entire apartment, and I turn on the music and for a while I’m happy. I’ll hear the kids who live upstairs go on their routine thump-thump-thump up the stairs, and there’ll be a small pause, and then they’ll go thump-thump-thump up the next fleet of stairs. Every time they do that, I think I should invite them in for a piece. They are good kids. Instead I just take out the cling film and a big enough box and pack it and send it to you. You always dutifully called back to say how wonderful it was. Its a rehearsed script that both of us have become very good at.

On lonely nights like this one, I remember that night – the night you said you wanted to start afresh – a different course, a different college, maybe even a different name. And we all just laughed. I didn’t believe you, none of us did. We snickered when you screamed “THERE IS AWAYS A CHOICE,” at the top of your high pitched adolescent voice and ran out and slammed the front door. We snickered when you came back. But we didn’t laugh when we saw the new application forms in your hand. I saw you re-build yourself, block by block. We fought you at every step along the way. I saw you change before my eyes. Something broke that night – something very fragile. That was a long time ago, but on lonely nights like this one, I wish I had your strength.

I can see you before me now – the new you, with that pointed eyebrow cocked high. You roll your eyes. Maybe you are right. Maybe I have become that crazy old woman, staring at the plastic tree, two months before Christmas. Maybe even envious of her own daughter. Your sharp eyes admonish me. You expect the world to have the same strength as you. No, you say, vehemently shaking your head. There is always a choice.

The sun is beating down on the city outside; the fumes are pouring in through the cracks in the windows. The kids are running up and down the stairs again. I listen for the second thump-thump-thump. Instead, I hear some very robust, albeit off-tune, carol singing. The kids had decided that since I wasn’t offering any cake, they may as well devise subtle ways of asking. But I didn’t open the door. Instead, I picked up the phone. I knew your number by heart, though I had never dialed it before.

Opening of the Nanowrimo Novel 2008

I have no idea if I’m going to finish this. But I just can’t keep myself from trying. Here it goes.

The stone walls of the old temple smudged out the stars that glittered through the finely woven fabric of night sky. The trees whispered to each other, remembering the beginning of the battle. Only the trees knew its beginning, and only they would be present for the end. The story would travel, from leaf to leaf, carried by the gossipy south wind. Then she would waft through open windows and into the dreams of a young writer… and then the story would become legend. But that, is a story for another time.

The sand whispered beneath her feet as she paced the invisible circle… she knew it was there, just as the rakshasa did. They were destined to keep chasing each other – hunter and hunted. The border between the two often becoming blurred, and the roles reversed. She looked into its fiery red eyes, and instinctively adjusted the rope wound around her arm. The rakshasa’s feet padded on the sand, ancient and solid; as though made of chunks of flesh from Earth herself. It growled, eyes flickering from the rope to her face. Gut knotted, heart pounding, eyes gleaming, she snarled. Her teeth gleamed like a lightning flash, charging the air with its intensity. She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her head, her body straining like a wild animal on a leash. She could hear the voices screaming in her head; urging her to escape when there was still a chance. They sounded like they were coming from across a distance – as though through a bad telephone line. Made it all the more easier to ignore them. A sudden cold wind blew, sending shivers down her taunt body. She took a deep breath… today will be the day it will end. She didn’t have the strength to keep fighting anymore. She pulled the rope taunt between her hands, and rushed towards the hulk of dark muscle towering in front of her. The rakshasa looked at her cocking its head to one side. It had a quizzical gleam in its eye.

“That’s not allowed,” it said quite matter-of-factly.

“Let’s finish this!” she said through her clenched teeth. She pulled the rope into a tight loop around its neck.

“No, really. You’re not allowed to actually kill me.”

She felt distinctly stupid. The rope fell limply onto the sand.

“Oh.”

This annoyed her. She did not like being made to feel stupid. The adrenaline was slowly fading from her mind, and the wind was getting a little too chilly. She made an attempt to pool together all that undirected rage.

“What’s the point in the whole battle thing then?”

Her voice sounded petulant even to her own ears.

“Battle ends when you actually confront me,” the demon said shrugging. It settled on a near by rock and made a small blue fire that hovered a foot above the fine beach sand. It waved a stout hand in a vague, inviting action towards the fire. “How do you know I’m real anyhow?” it added.

“Same way I know I’m real I guess.”

“Are you?”

The amused look in the demon’s eye annoyed her even more. Just when she was about to open her mouth and let the river of anger flow, a sudden thought struck her. She was arguing with a rakshasa she had been trying to strangle a few moments earlier. She definitely must be dreaming.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked.

“Depends on whether you are real enough to have dreams or not.” The rakshasa smiled, tending to the fire that was coughing out wispy gray smoke. She eyed demon and fire dubiously for a moment. It looked like a long night ahead, and she was showing no signs of waking up. May as well make herself comfortable. For the first time she looked at the landscape she was standing in the center off. An empty beach sprawled as far as the eye could see on both directions. The ocean aggressive invaded its pale shores over and over, only to be repulsed and fade back into the darkness. The moon sat upon the waves like a fat dowager, casting its pale, tired, light over the scene. The air was heavy with the smell of salt. An old temple stood a short distance away, half submerged in the high tide. She looked around curiously – no smell of fish, no crabs, no small insects, not even a hint of ever-prevalent garbage. This place was completely bare, as though life itself had suddenly decided to pick up its bags and abandon the place.

“So, where are we?” She said, humoring the figment of her imagination. She had never had a conversation with this creature from a nightmare before and she figured it would make excellent time pass till she finally woke up.

The rakshasa looked around and shrugged, “on a beach with a temple.” It fished out a lump of some vile looking substance from under its amour and began roasting it over the fire. ”One of those places that refuse to be named.”

She took a few tentative steps towards the fire while working out the correct words in her head. “I know I’m dreaming. You’ve been appearing in my nightmares since I was a kid. So we’re obviously somewhere inside my head. And if you are inside my mind, then how could you be real?” she asked.

The demon looked up from its slurping for a moment. It looked like it was going to contradict her, then stopped itself. “There are more ways of understanding reality than just one,” it said, taking a bite out of the lump. “And maybe more than just one reality.” A dark liquid oozed out and dribbled down the demon’s chin. A long red tongued licked up the truant droplets. ”Enough questions,” it added, in between gulps.

“But you said rules. What rules?”

The rakshasa held up a hand, silencing her.

She plowed on, determined to fish out the answers. “If this is inside my mind, why is someone else making the rules?”

The rakshasa slowly rose to its feet. “Do you know what this is?” it asked holding up the lump. She shook her head mutely. Her stomach started squirming as an idea crept within her head. The demon watched her expression change with an amused smile. “Yes,” it said, seeing the horror on her face. The stench made her eyes blur, and her knees buckled beneath her.

“It is a heart,” the demon said simply. The half eaten mass was still beating weakly against the coarse walls of the huge palm. “Pity that it should have so much bitterness in it,” the demon said as it tilted its head back, and slipped the rest down the cavernous mouth. The chiseled teeth stained brown in the faint light of the moon.

“I am a demon little one, and you would do well to listen to me. There are things in the universe that are far more powerful than your puny mind. This is my home. We are not inside your mind, it is you who is trespassing.”

She looked into its eyes, and did not see the old furnace, but the worst of herself – her hatred, regrets, phobias, rage, evil, frustration, bitterness, all amplified a thousand times over. She could feel her mind pushing against the edges of her skull, revolting at the sight of how disgusting she was. The stench was crawling up her nose, invading her throat, forcing her stomach to retch. Her eyes blurred with tears.

“Please…” she gasped.

She sank to her knees and rolled herself into a tight ball, cradling her head. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, muttering gibberish. The rakshasa stood over her a moment with a curious expression in its eyes. The demon’s hand twitched – the only sign that it was unsure about what to do. Dropping a soft blanket of silence over her, it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

********************************

Shakti woke up, uncurling herself from the tangle of sheets. She looked at the alarm clock. She groaned. Today was jut going to be one of those days. She looked at the hard bound book resting near her pillow and idly picked it up. She flipped it open to the first page – it had ‘DREAM JOURNAL’ written in a fancy cursive font. And underneath, in smaller, more practical letters was written ‘vol 4 sept 2008 – ‘ Shakti stared stupidly at the page for a moment before picking up one of the reynolds black ball pens that littered her bed. Deliberately she scored out the ‘DREAM’ and scribbled ‘Alternate Reality’. Then she made a silent wish that no one would ever look inside the book. But then everyone thought she was crazy anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal.

Space

Time shuffled his wrinkled feet across the cold floor. They made the sound of fine sand rushing through glass endlessly.

“Do you always have to be so far away?” he asked squinting against the blank white expanse, looking very much like a peeved old man.

“Very well,” said a voice, and instantly Time found himself staring into his own lined face reflected on a gleaming white wall. He met Space’s deep eyes in the reflection, and the walls instantly disappeared. Instead they now stood in the middle of darkness – the cosmos spread like a carpet beneath their feet.

“So, how long till we begin?” she asked lounging on a conveniently placed galaxy. Her black cloak flowed into the Universe and wove itself into its fabric.

“As long as we please,” answered Time. He plonked himself down on a bouncy black hole. It sagged a bit under the weight.“I still don’t see what’s so special about this planet No. -” Time swept a small hard bound book from the depths of his robes with a dramatic flourish. Space glanced at the title which Time waved rather obviously under her nose – “Quick Reference Guide to All Celestial Bodies – Was, Is and Ever Will Be.” and was suddenly seized by the desire to study her nails. Time flipped through the pages, equally unconcerned.

“Oh alright,” Space said in exasperation, knowing that she will never be able to beat Time in a game of waiting. He would just keep flipping those pages till the Universe destroyed and re-built itself in infinite number of cycles – and even then he would be there, casually thumbing through the pages of his book, studying the fine print at the bottom of the introduction.

“That’s the book you wrote, isn’t it?” she condescended, finally.

Time looked up, thrilled. He nodded vigorously with a with a grin on his face, “It even has a cross reference index with -”

“Hello.”

Space smiled at the form gently pulsing with light that now stood before them.

“Missed me?” asked Energy, placing a light, burning kiss on Space’s forehead. The stars in her eyes gleamed brighter. For a moment they seemed entwined, absorbing hungrily, morphing into each other.

Time cleared his throat noisily. “This planet -”

Instantly Space and Energy sat apart, apparently in rapt attention.

Time continued, ignoring them. “This planet,” he consulted his book again, “code named EARTH – I don’t see what’s so special about it that we have to individually cater to it. Why can’t it be like everything else and go through with its own cycle?”

“One of the Powers that Be was a bit bored and wanted a bit of a fireworks show I expect. And most probably we were the only Great Family free – “ said Space her voice abruptly erupting into a high pitched giggle.

“And due to our small number we must have been the easiest to assemble,” Energy added with an expression of studied innocence as Space broke out into another fit of giggles.

Time scowled at the two of them and snapped the book shut. He rose with the creaking sound of infinite ponderous clocks, looked at a distant blue twinkle, and with the inevitability of death, said, – “Let us begin.”

Conversation

“What are you doing?”

“Reading over your shoulder.”

“I can see that. What I mean is, what are you doing?

“Oh. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“What memo?”

“Ah well, I’ll paraphrase it for you: Dear Author, I quit. Signed, Protagonist.”

“You cannot quit!”

“I just did.”

“But you’re supposed to be in the middle of a brawl!”

“As much fun as I was having with Baldy, I am here instead.”

“No compulsion to single handedly take down the entire gang of ruthless killers to rescue your one true love?”

“None.”

“You can have a nice joyful reunion when you’re done. Maybe some steamy sex… ”

“Not interested.”

“Why not? She’s hot, she’s brunette, what more do you want?”

“A little more upstairs would be nice.”

“Oh. That can be easily rectified, I’ll just add a couple more inches-”

“I meant higher upstairs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll fix it up for you. I’ll throw in a brainy librarian as a love interest, hm? What do you say? Just get back into the story, pretty please?”

“To tell the truth, I find this side of the page much more intriguing. You’ve got any alcohol in this hole?”

“In the fridge. Door to the left. I know! I’ll make you go back! I’ll just write here that -”

“’He took a swig of cold beer, and smiled as the golden liquid -’”

“What the hell?”

“There’s nothing you can do. New Union rules.”

“Fine! Just fine! Have it your way.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting someone new to take your place, that’s what!”

“No… That’s just me with a different name. Doesn’t change things one bit. Except that I’m … I’m… that name doesn’t have any vowels in it! ”

“Oh. Alright, then! If you want someone totally different, I’ll give you someone totally different!”

“Suh-weet!”

“It made a funny sound!”

“The It is your replacement!”

“Hey baby. Hw u doin’?”

“It talks funny as well!”

“Gah! What’s he doing?”

“Hitting on a blond at the bar, I think. She looked very friendly. Look! Look! It’s trying to talk again!”

“Gurl, u must b tired coz u’ve been runnin thru my head all day.”

“No, no, no, no, NO! This is all wrong!”

“Haha! This is the best – Erm, are you okay? You like you’re going to – Good God, don’t start blubbering! Alright, alright. Let’s see how we can fix this.Yo new guy! You’re doing it all wrong!”

“Ur eyes – ur eyes r lik spanners coz dey make my nuts go – wait whut?”

“Yeah, you! You’re supposed to be in a fight right now!”

“I m? I’m sorry man, dis is my 1st day, so m a bit confused…”

“Throw a couple of punches at the bald guy!”

“Who, dat dude? Dat bastard is HUGE!”

“Don’t be such wimp and just do it!”

“But I –”

“DO IT!”

“Alright, alright. Here goes… ARGH! dat hrt!”

“Jesus! Where do you new heroes even come from? Just push over, will you? I’m taking my show back!

“Whts happenin? U can’t thro me out… I just got hre! Dis ws my first job… noooo…..”

“There we go. Hey baldy, I’m back!”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me one.”

“Look who just walked through the door.”

“Red head, long legs, and is that James Joycee’s ‘Ulysses’? Nice! An Aston Martin, and we’ll call it even!”

“We’ll see in the next chapter.”

Murders and Marriages

Waidaminute here! This is the Author speaking! Do you have taste for over used Gothic nonsense? You do? Excellent! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

She turned with a smile playing around the corner of her lips, “The apocalypse is coming.”

His eyes drifted over to meet hers, they lingered there for a moment, till a non-committal sound emanated from his throat.

Her attention was once again engaged with the dull gray shadows flashing outside her window.

He shut his eyes and flowed down the seat till his head was positioned comfortably against the cushions. He needed to think. Only, his mind was rather preoccupied with the touch of cold flesh on his leg every time the vehicle jolted over what he hoped was a stone in the dark.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt. The horses neighed impatiently and stamped their hooves.

The Count languidly glanced at the foot man who stood ready by the door.

“We’ve arrived m’ lady,” he said, as he slouched out the door, shuddering empathetically, once way from the groping touch of the dead hand.

“You really should treat our dear brother with greater compassion” said the melodious voice, as the Lady descended from the carriage with the support of her brother’s arm.

“Graveworth” she breathed softly, looking up at the imposing gray stone structure that towered before them.

“What should we do with him you suppose?” said the Count, eying his brother distastefully.

“Do whatever you please, Kain” replied the Lady distractedly. “No wait,” she added, remembering a small detail, “he will want proof. Take some trifle as souvenir, will you?” she said, eyes still fixed on the soaring battlements.

Her brother looked at her queasily, “A souvenir?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, a souvenir,” said Lady Diane impatiently, “the ring should be good enough.”

“Oh, that kind of souvenir.” Count Mort said, affected with a trifle more haste than his usual manner.

Once the ring had been wrestled away from the rigid finger, Kain dismissed the coach with a small gesture of his hand. The footmen stared at him blankly for a moment, before opting prudence and the coach plunged way in the half-light.

The carriage bounded away with the remains of the late Count Mort, (who had been cousin seven times removed to his predecessor, but had gradually worked his way up the family hierarchy- only to meet an untimely death a month after the lawyers had conjured up the necessary documents) beloved brother and wealthy owner of the Cravenhall Estates.

“We part ways here, my sister,” the Count began, steadfastly ignoring his sister’s faintly raised eyebrow.

“Surely you would stay for dinner…Count?” inquired a pleasant voice from the doorway. The last word dropped into place after the slightest of pauses.

“Lord Gravesworth” Lady Diane said smoothly, dropping her head by a few degrees.

“M’ Lady” he replied, his pleasant eyes fixed on the Count.

Lord Graveworth soon lost interest in the visage of the Count, and instead, he ogled the fast-disappearing coach through his ornate eye piece.

“So it is done?” he remarked.

“My late brother presented you with his best wishes” said the new Count, and tossing the ring to Graveworth who snatched it neatly in the air.

The reflection of the ring glinted in Graveworth’s eye. “I’m honored,” he said, sweetly.

He glanced up, finally, and his eyes fell on the Lady Diane. He eyed her, with his head cocked slightly to one side, casually stripping her layers in his mind.

He slowly strolled down the steps, and sunk into one knee in front her.

“And will you do me the honor m’lady?” he drawled, insult underscored into every syllable.

The Lady Diane replied with a curt nod. The Lord slid the heavy signet onto her slight finger, an expression of mild amusement on his face, seeing the hunger in his bride’s eyes.

“The Cravenhall-Graveworth names are alliances at last.”

The Lord looked towards the Count Mort with the same expression of amusement – “I believe a celebration is in order then,” he said, waving the siblings into the cold hall with a flourish of his hand.

A long drawn out scream pierced the air – the last howl of a dying animal, only it had not been the voice of an animal at all.

“It is only a servant girl who became ill, and we had to lock her up in the upper bedchamber,” said Gravesworth casually tossing over his shoulder as he padded down the marble floor. After a pause he added, “She will not be bothering us any longer.”

The door echoed with a dull thud that seemed to echo for several long moments in the empty hall.

C is for Conscience

…The stupid bitch was fucking every other asshole on the street and uh, I had to do something about it, see? Uh, but – that’s not why I did it. I’m not that fucked up. But, uh – The thing is uh, she comes to me all weepy like – and she’s like – I’m pregnant. I didn’t even ask her who the bastard was. I had to take care of it, see? I can’t let the whore have some other fuck’s baby….”

“…I’m not lonely anymore. I have Ronald now. He likes to stay under my bed. He’s been there for the last three months now. He’s like a little baby – I need to bathe him, and look after him. But sometimes he does something bad, and I have to punish him. They don’t understand – none of them – they don’t know what good friends Ronald and I are…”

“…I needed the money see, and I really didn’t want it to turn out that way – but that stupid fuck was getting cocky…”

“…She was soft… so soft. It is never the same with…”

“…I didn’t think the blood…”

“…kill…”

Conscience woke up with a start. He hit his head on the roof on the train and sank back with a soft groan. He was stretched out on the top berth of the train, somewhere in the great Indian countryside, his clothes drenched with sweat. He listened in the silence, as he rubbed his forehead – he heard nothing but the sound of the steady breathing of his fellow passengers, and the whirring of the fans near him. Good. That meant he hadn’t screamed this time. He waited – letting his body loosen with the rocking movement of the train. He took a couple of deep breaths and then silently slipped down the metal rungs onto the floor.

He padded down the corridor towards the end of the coach, his bare feet hardly making any sound.

Conscience painstakingly undid bolts on the door, and paused before swinging it open. He fished out an old cigarette from the back pocket of his jeans and lit it. The flickering light of the match briefly lit up his face – tired and aged. His eyes were like black curtains, catching the light and glittering, but effectively hiding everything going on behind it.

The cold wind hit him full in the face – he breathed it in deeply. It reminded him that he was awake.

“I see someone is here before me.”

Conscience turned around sharply. He should have been able to sense the stranger’s presence sooner.

“Think before you speak” said the woman, as she stepped out of the shadows. Only it did not seem that she had moved out of them at all – they had moved forward with her. “The question you ask may be your last.”

“What business do you have with me?” Conscience asked, warily.

The voice laughed. A hand shot out from the depths of the moving shadows and grabbed Conscience’s shoulder. He could feel the nails digging into his skin… something warm and wet was flowing down his arm and dripping softly from his fingers. The cigarette butt dropped to the floor, abandoned. Slowly the hand dragged him forward towards the shadows.

“What business do you have with me?” Conscience repeated.

“I am looking for a man,” she said. The nails buried in deeper, this time he did not flinch.

Conscience did not answer. He waited – his silence would translate to compliance her mind. He could feel the clamor gathering in his mind – a slow accumulation until he was ready to release the dam. Her hand was still in his shoulder. Good. That would simplify things.

“A client of mine is interested in him. We have reason to believe you have some information on his whereabouts.”

He had met her kind before – mercenaries hired to trace down an old foe for revenge. The wise ones never demand – they negotiate. And any over ambitious bitch that tried to threaten him, would think a long time before trying it again. And on a night like this – just after he had woken up… this woman was going to take a special tour of hell.

The truth was, he never knew where his confessors came from – as a boy he used to think that they were just voices in his head, nightmares that were more vivid that they ought to be. It was only after he started reading the newspapers that he realized that the voices in his head were not fake. They were real people, confessing to him in their dreams. Why him, and where they came from, he never knew. Knowledge of his own origins and the origin of him name, was also something that evaded him. He just had an old crumbling birth certificate, and an ink smudge where a signature should have been – the only relic he had of family, his past, and his childhood.

“What is his name?” he said at length.

“That is not necessary.” The lady said smoothly, “he killed…” the rest of the words did not register in Conscience’s mind. He was only vaguely aware that she was talking to him. His head was throbbing – the voices were echoing inside his skull – demanding to be let out. It was almost time.

He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers – they glinted like those of an ancient demon – and then he unleashed it. Memories, emotions, confessions, the taste of blood… thousands of voices passed through his mind, his skin, into her fingers and into her mind. The human mind is not equipped to handle that much of sensory overload, let alone sensory overload of the kind he was subjecting her mind to. She stood frozen in horror – her eyes blank – devoid of any consciousness or thought. Conscience pried her hand away from his shoulder, wincing as the nails came free of his flesh.

The train slowed into a small station. It never stopped at small towns like this one, only slowed enough for lone passengers to hop on. Conscience stepped out of the door and onto the empty platform.

He sensed a pair of eyes of him. The dog dropped its head back, and floated back away into its delightful dream. One watchful ear alone remained up, swiveling around like a satellite.

Conscience smiled. He walked into the darkness – glad that he would not have to sleep again that night.

Being Of Nothing At All

Speed writing experiment with Rulinian Wexile at Oxford Bookstore. And no, we were not high – we just fuel each others’ insanities.

The banana spoke with a rapid stataco that oozed of its hurry. The seven wise monkeys paid it no heed as they sat around their glorious council chamber. the yellow being pleaded and begged, but to no avail, how would the wise ones see beyond mere appearances and see that the world was at the point of DOOM! The sages saw the impending DOOM and raised the banana as a sacrifice to Cthulhu, lord of the deepest waters and the murkiest depths of the universe. The banana realized that there was only one way out, extremely painful though it may seem. The monkeys raised their celestial blade, all seven knobby hands joined as one, the gleaming silver of the blade suspended above the hapless fruit. and slowly, very slowly, something happened. The yellow skin slowly started peeling ff revealing the soft flesh inside. The wise monkeys had been expecting this, they were not scholared in the ways of old to not be, and as the flesh peeled away revealing what resembled a deformed human fetus, the blade came down on the creature. the fetus slowly uncurled itself, and streched out one finger towards the oldest and wisest of the monkeys… a small warbled cry, “mama…?”

The oldest and wisest and the holiest of them all, he in his eternal glory and sage-like devotion, nodded his head imperceptibly. “It hast channeled upon the powers of the universe, and now they are in our wretched hands. This baby — ” he said this reluctantly, because ‘baby’ didn’t do the thing any justice — “will be our key to world domination.” “but yes,” said another voice from the other end of the row of sagely primates, utrning in the wrong direction, his eyes being temporarily obstructed by the hood that was far too big for his face, “Shouldn’t we figure out how to attach the head first?”

“Secondary,” said the Wisest, holding up a quelling hand as the baby ambled around, the head lolling on the floor a few paces away and emitting strange, unreal, otherwordly cries. “First, we must harness its raw strength and power.” “i miss the banana” the fair away voice said, sadly. “I was hungry.” the bleating voice was stopped by the glare to eleven beedy eyes that were directed towards it. but the primate did not care, he had two eyes, they each had only one! hah! The Wisest held both his hands up, clearly frustrated at his minions behaving like schoolchildren. “We must capture the Being of All before it ambles away, you douchebags.” Instant chaos broke out at the proclomation, as the primates ran around the room, their single eyes unfortunately disturbing their perspectives. The primate Holder of Two Eyes walked forward and triumphantly seized the gruesome form and it spurted blood at him defiantly. The blood, it burned like acid, and as the Holder of Two wailed in agony, his flesh burnt, emitting sulfurous smoke in great clouds. The Being of All kicked its way out of his grasp, and sprayed blood into the singular eyes of another wise primate, torrents of the viscous fluid spurting from its decapitated neck. “now can we figure out how to attach that snotting head?!” the Holder of Two Eyes cried futilely grabbing his burning face. “Well, you need to catch it before you can attach the head idiot!” the Wisest primate called out, using wisdom and staying in the far corner of the room. The Holder of Two was somewhat affronted at having his intelligence undermined, but the Being of All was far out of their reach now, as the primates rolled around on the floor in agony and pain, the creature had made its way to the door of the cave — yes, it had a door, an ornate and elaborately decorated one that you didn’t want to look at any closer — and on the way, it snatched its own wailing head up off the floor, and twiddled its fingers at the entrance. “Adios, amigos!”

but unfortunately it was only when the Being of All had reached the doorway, it realized one fundamental flaw in its great and dramatic exit, the door knob was far too high for the headless fetus to reach. It bounced up and down a couple of times trying to reach the exalted knob, but it was just too far away. the head sighed. It would have to use its power earlier than it had planned. It set its head back upon its shoulders (it was backwards, but that was a minor impedement in the grand scheme of things), and opened its mouth wide and let out an unearthly, world-breaking bellow. It resounded through the globe, across the celestial spheres, across the seven dimensions (and the eighth one, too, and the unmentionable ninth), and even your deaf ninety-year old neighbor heard it. The monkeys trembled. They glanced at each other doubtfully, stopping in their wailing to let wisdom prevail. Eyes shifted towards the Wisest, looking for guidance as it stood, silently in the corner, looking on at all presidings with a benign eye. Literally. After an eternal pause, he uttered a single sentence, “Well go help it you idiots!” The monkeys glanced at each other uncertainly, and while the Being of All continued its defeaning assault on the auditory senses, one brave soul (he would later be remembered as Holder of Two Umentionables) stepped forth and undid the latch, and pushed the door open. The beam of sunlight made the monkeys uneasy, but the Being of All seemed to welcome it and shut the hell up. But the escape of Being of All could not be that easy, the course of a fouetus with a true heart never did run smooth. One shining boot stepped into the doorway as it swung open, and a deep gravel voice drawled, “Not so fast.” The line was capped by a haunting maniacal laugh, and the Wisest notices that whoever this grand personna in shining gold was, he had got his genres horribly mixed up. The Being of All trembled, but it was not to be outdone. It reared its ugly head up again for another cry, but then the figure in shining, golden, ambrosial armor burst into the room, and speared the Being of All upon his golden, shining, ambrosial sword. The Being of All screamed, a dreadful scream from beyond All That We Know and Know Not, and exploded. The consequences of the deed was enormous. Perhaps the Personna in Shining Gold did not quite learn his physics lessons, but someone should have told him: never, ever stab something filled with a burning viscous fluid to high pressure. The monkeys wailed, both in pain and misery, they had worked for this very day for seventy years, never foraying beyond the regions of the cave, living of berries and water and sometimes they even recycled, and at their moment of glory, it had all been taken away from their hands. Worst yet, their skin was burning off, too. The inopportune hero in the golden armor blinked — he had luckily thrown his hands up to shield his face and was safe from any major harm. The