Tag Archives: story

Two Dragonflies Chilling By The Ivy Arched Window Pane

We all have one of those days when everything seems unfinished. We are unsure about the chapter on the next blank page, about the pending chores that we left for an apparent tomorrow, about the next moment where we were supposed to begin with a pre-planned activity. This immature mess builds up steadily in the mind’s landfill and becomes a sheer garbage before you realise years have passed!

…..With a chill timid breeze beating up gently, I stand behind my tea stained ebony railing, facing hundreds of willow trees. It is a fresh two day getaway before I join my allied mess. All I’m sure about at this point is the imagination running through the wilderness of my mind, that moment. My mind’s wafting wilderness itches the strangeness of the evening. Far away, I can see two dragonflies chilling by the ivy arched window pane. One goes to the other and showers all the love it has. Your golden laced wings are beautiful, it says. The vines running along my ebony railing goes and ends above that rose cottage. The tender pink roses have bloomed and merged onto the corner of roof. They had a tough misty morning. They just dried themselves out from the drenching dew and a tiring work session. Don’t even get me started about the sunflowers standing near the silver door. Their fashion parade in the noon to attract the bee swarm was such a drama- I have lesser drama in my life. 

My coffee arrives as I start looking into the crisp green grass. I look back into the willows and everything strikes back, but in bits. I get the clarity of my mess as I sip and stare into the chamomiles amid the crisp greens. The whites gave me confidence to sail through the plume of unorganised thoughts.

My perfumed skin felt numb against all that I was trying to push inside me; fragility was a reason. In the bizarre evening, I try to tune the mess to art, little by little. I try to mouth emptiness into beauty, make music in the ash grey heaven. I also try to understand you like how the paper supple roses mend itself, get you. 

It is just another day where I figured out that this is the reason why nature never goes outdated. It mends you. It mends you like no other, from within. 

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50 word story: Unsung chapters

One hundred and twenty three more- chapters that remained unsung, in the room’s muggy corner. I cringed under the sheets as I liked the coherence with my indefinite pain. Better than ascertaining that it will remain untouched, unsung always.

He adored her desolation more, tearing apart those many luring pages.

From the life of an amputee

It was that hour. Asphyxiating her hopes, wishes and choking the dreams till their limits, she was preparing, having no choice.

She was all set to give away a part of her flesh to the hungry land, cloaking the torment with a soft smile. The operation theatre felt smaller than it was, the world felt tinier yet she won over her psychologist’s will power. She felt as if she was being crammed in a box of stinging incidents, bestowed, specially upon her. The dilapidated flesh, suffused with gangrene was anaesthetized to be operated upon. When the surgical equipments pierced her flesh and cut her bones, she learnt to detach from every illusion that kept her stagnant. She wore her smile on throughout, even after she was detached from the limb, not a tear drop yet.

That was the moment when her perspective of beauty, wishes, hopes, activeness were redefined. Encountering death so close couldn’t have polished this gem better.

Now she knows how to rise above the dust, shattering any obstacle. It is for the rarest of the lot who get to live two lives. Sometimes it is as if the whole world is breaking down in front of her, barring her from exploring. It was hard, giving away the control of her body to the hydraulic system; needing a machine’s approval to walk.

Breaking down was a choice in life, but was never in her’s.

A feather fallen from a bird’s wing cannot hamper its flight, can it? The flesh that was ripped off carried away the happiness of many, in turn teaching how to live without complaints. One day, she asked me, “Is that why the society calls us specially-abled?”

Beyond The Bounds, I’m

Fire cannot see the ashes it creates, I scrutinized, lying in one corner of the dark room, possibly the darkest.I prefer.

Barring the randomly rumbling thoughts in my mind, I tried to peruse the situation.
I don’t belong to this place. I belong to the distant cedars. Under those evergreen woods, etched is my name.  That is the place where the dead meets evil, blood meets peace and fire meets ashes.
I want to lie there, blamed by none, feeling my numbness rise— touching its peak. Amid the sap green smoke, it is beautiful, to see me there like a creeper— twining the stupefied me, relishing my soul. I finally produced what it wants, it deserves. I can’t take you there, for you don’t know how to hum with me, you rattle. And that does no good to the cedars. It’s darker than a blind man’s world. You will extol the beauty, never. I breathe to drag in the grand fragrance, I apologize. As you fail to feel this intense fancy.

A hundred souls with me there, selfless, lie. Every nerve brims with bliss. The deceptive never survived the chill— iceberg cuts through your gut, distorting your spine. Surrendering is the only choice, I did. The loyal ones do.
It’s for the toughest.
Go away.
Beyond the bounds, I’m.

The Abyss With Dimensions

She pondered over her father’s illness and their financial crunch. Her satin lilac skirt and a contrasting blouse not only claimed her naivete, also making her sweat in the sweltering summer noon. The parched road she was walking along had tiny shady shops alongside; colourful candy shops, the smiths, umbrella repairer, grocery store and few others still bearing the essence of village tradition. It was one of those days where she was clueless of life’s happenings. Sudden demise of her mother few days back, the breadwinner, shattered her. Dreams of moving into a cottage like that of her close friend Rani’s, granddaughter of the village mayor were burnt to vapours— her tiny castle of extravagant hopes.

Her dusky skin shred drops of sweat— of grief and fear— she was responsible to raise her sister and run her house there after. Recollecting her mom’s advices that you are your own helping hand in your life, she walked and explored places every afternoon in search of an earning. That day was a bit unusual. She had a destination. A vagabond in his forties, who is usually spotted near the village temple every summer selling bangles promised to offer her a job a day before. He claimed to have the best quality bangles that carried a charm with it. She was unsure about everything that moment. Trusting her immature instincts, she went to the person for a job, a final call of her heart to survive.

“People usually are not satisfied with anything in their lives. They try to measure the dimensions of the abyss they create. To add up, people just daftly compare theirs with other’s nonexistent abyss. Once you stop all of that— you start living, you start admiring and valuing the present. The dimensions are your illusion”, he said in his husky voice before even greeting her.  She was stunned by the profoundness of words that he spilt.

Looking back, she cannot just ignore the vagabond’s eminence in the way her life’s outlook changed. Now, being in her late thirties in a cozy and comfortable apartment of her own, she recollects the girl wearing lilac skirt with all illusory dreams, the changeover, and the journey until now. ‘The way you dream can destroy your dreams’, she told her eleven year old who was pinned to her electronic device. She had her own set of life lessons to be learnt.