Monthly Archives: June 2015

Gotta Knock a Little Harder

-Loquacious Llama

Is death a necessary evil?
Does it make the time we have,
this chaotic upheaval,
shorter, yet sweeter?

Do we need death?
As a contrast to moving feeling life,
a swift, glorious breath,
a fleeting glimpse of beauty.

I walked many paths,
I climbed many mountains,
heard many tinkling laughs,
and chased many dreams.

And yet, as the end
draws close and I feel the cold,
round the trees bend,
I cannot help but wonder.

Is it a sin to chase fireflies,
those creatures of dream,
and watch them as the time flies,
along with all my thoughts?

Wasn’t it but yesterday,
when I sat on the mountain
and watched night bloom from day,
and made a wish upon a shooting star?

Spring turned to summer,
I danced in the rains,
Fall was crisp and sombre,
And now in my life there is winter.

It seems as though the gods,
or the abstract concept of one,
Saw me frolic in the garden of dreams,
And decided my time was done.

What did I achieve
in this period on the island?
What did I do, what did I believe?
Was it all just a waste of time?

Alas, these shall remain unanswered,
For look: the dark clouds gather,
and as I shut my eyes for the last time,
I slowly ascend.

[Note: This poem is not meant to be taken seriously and merely chronicles the experience of playing the game Proteus, the closest I’ve gotten to a spiritual experience while playing a game. Seriously, check it out.] 

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Dead Ends

-Infernal Knight

What goes around comes around, in some shady back-alley in the middle of nowhere, clubbed to death and left to soak in one’s own pool of blood.

“Forensics,” she said, thrusting the coffee cup into my bare hands with such vigour that I could hardly reject the offer. “Keeps you focused,” she explained, and left with the gait of someone who has had enough caffeine for the day.

The day had just begun.

Blood spatter gave a semi-detailed analysis as to how the shooting might have occurred. A dimly-lit alleyway, with just two people – one with her time swiftly fleeting away as her pulse ticked – and the other with intentions bloated up to murder-sized proportions. The shot was quick, and ballistic reports would later prove that it was silent – a well-executed kill leaving no traces. The victim had faced her killer, probably even looked the killer in the eye before the shot pierced through her sternum and lodged squarely within her left atrium.

So much for analysis, but not a single clue that could connect anyone to the scene of crime…

Ballistic reports came in negative. The bullet markings were inconclusive. The barrel was unduly filed to remove all identification marks from the bullet. The girl killed was a nobody – no next of kin and none to reel in for preliminary investigation. It was as if she had never existed. She may as well have been offed in some church and no one would have questioned it, save some law enforcers whose duty forced them to look into the lives of such individuals who did not matter.

She wanted out – desperately. The division she was in did not agree to her taste. The work turned out to be even more stressful than she had hoped it would be and the paperwork that followed was excruciating. It was not a job that would pay your bills, or grant you dinner at the best restaurant in town, but was more of a job that kept a steady influx of secure bills, and was honorable.

“There are no footprints. For all we know, she was shot by a ghost,” she spilled with a cup of coffee in her hands.

Neon lights glowed bright, promising a fair display of skin to everyone who entered there. The logical thing to do was to call for the manager. The place smelt like testosterone, and the bright lights made everything seem more vivacious than they actually were. Strangely, for a place this loud and colourful, it was anonymous. The dealings were private and so were some of the dances. It was not a club that would invite the particularly esteemed crowd in their dark beastly hours. It was more of a place that mirrored my comfort. I could guess that the manager would be tight-lipped about the whole situation, and although he would confess to knowing the girl, he would never mention any other detail.

“The club was a dead end. We have no killer and the city is getting restless. Identifying the gun is tougher than we expected,” she blurted out. “Drink that,” she motioned towards the cup.

The victim’s life was all that could be relied on for now. However, this was tougher than it appeared on the surface. The girl was an immigrant and her passport was probably in the custody of the club-manager who might have held her an unwilling prisoner there, perhaps in exchange for some money owed, pleasing perverts and delinquents in grim evening hours. It was no use getting a warrant to the manager’s office- chances were that the passport in question was destroyed completely, and other similar ones hidden away. There were dead ends everywhere, and bare speculation was all that the department could come up with.

There was no family. She did not crop up on the radar for joyriding or irresponsible parking. She was not someone who socialized or was romantically involved with any guy, or girl. Her apartment was unknown, and releasing her information over the media seemed to have no effect. She either lived in a location where the neighbours were perpetually too knocked out to notice her, or, in what was more plausible, she lived someplace that was tagged as a ‘bad’ locality.

“I can only imagine her horrors. We need to find the killer fast.” She was very stressed about the entire affair. She behaved this uncoordinated only when my parents came over, or when I pulled her close in the elevators. I mouthed coffee, and she smiled weakly.

The girl had a burner phone, a kind you would normally expect a stripper to carry, once you knew that her life was practically steered by someone else. There were no records to pull off. The phone was not discovered on her body. Neither was her purse, nor her rings, or necklaces, or hair-clips or shoes or clothes discovered. There was nothing that could give a clue about her whereabouts, or track her movements, or even hint at something that could allow one to proceed with the investigation. Moreover, the blood marks on the ground had not been disturbed. This meant that everything was removed before the killing and not after.

When you close the case for the cops, the doctors take over.

The forensic team concluded that the victim had indeed died from the bullet found in her heart. Her death was instantaneous. There was also a blunt force trauma to the head, probably as a result of the fall after she died. Ballistics had already confirmed that the shot originated from the dead wall of the alley. What was surprising, however, was the fact that she would be standing naked in front of the killer while the guy aimed casually at her heart and shot her to death. It almost seemed like a death ritual of some sort, without the elaborate visual symbols carved onto the surroundings, or the elegance of the kill. This was not a religious sacrifice. This was, according to what the department had in its hands now, a perfect murder.

“It is not perfect, you see. We have the body,” she held my hands tight. “I promise I will get you out of here.” I knew it was my last cup of coffee for the day.

I also knew they stood behind the large mirror on the wall, looking at me, debating whether to send her over for the interrogation. They had already apologised multiple times for bringing me in. They said it was routine and that I was their best lead. She had argued, probably, and they had disregarded her arguments. I was after all, a guy who was convicted once with a false charge of homicide. Although it had later turned out that I was falsely accused, the news of the writer-fiancée of a cop being wheeled in for questioning does have some after-effects. I did not complain much. It was good for my books.

I researched perfect crimes, though I usually wrote to hurt religious sentiments. I have a wife who gulps insane amounts of coffee when she is stressed and a daughter who thinks I resemble the heroes I write about. I hate attention though. Anonymity is interesting.

“Tell me where you were at the time of the murder, from eleven forty five to one fifteen on the twenty-sixth of this July,” she continued in her routine voice.

“With you.”

“How about fifteen minutes in the timeline when I cannot testify you were with me?”

“I was trying to put my daughter to sleep upstairs. She can testify.” This was just procedure, she would later say.

“Do you know of one Claire Doris Engels?”

“Yes, I do.”

“In what context?”

“You told me about her last night. You also said that the name sounded farce. You told me she was a stripper at a club named something that I cannot remember. It was something along the lines of some kitten or cat… You added that her name might easily have been something that the girl had assumed in her line of work.”

“It is possible, however, that you could have asked someone else to commit the crime for you.”

“My cell-phone records are all available. I would be happy to co-operate with the department should they wish to go through the records. Moreover, my movements are tracked and I am not allowed to leave the city for six more months. There is a record of all places I have been, and hopefully camera footages of some of them.”

“Why are you still on the scanner if you have not been found guilty?”

“I assume you know that?”

“It is all for the record.” She told me later that I needed to calm down during such questions.

“I engaged in a life-threatening brawl with an inmate during my stay at prison. The psychiatrists assigned to me later said it was due to stress, and I was asked to be monitored for a six-month period because the fight was unnecessarily violent.”

“What exactly was so violent in it?”

“I started stabbing him in the foot, and was proceeding higher with each stab. They stopped me near the thighs and put me under psychiatric care.”

“You are not damaged for life. You have me, and Alex,” she would later say, before blowing me a kiss.

“Do you know why we have brought you in here?”

“Because you have no one else to bug?”

“Because your scanner pinged around the location of the murder.”

“I live in the apartment that overlooks the street- the one to which the alley, where your victim was clubbed, is attached. Sometimes, as is the case in my daughter’s room, moving towards the corner near the street actually shows up as if I am somewhere on the street. It is a case which the tech-support at the department describes as an error in precise triangulation. It has caused me enough problems in the past. I usually show up near the book-shop or the baker’s. There are records of it having occurred earlier.”

“Did you hear anything, or see anything during the time of the murder?”

“The alley cannot be seen from our apartment, and the walls are soundproofed.”

“Considering your research in perfect crimes, how do you make a bullet untraceable?”

This was why I later asked her to narrate the entire crime to me.

“You file down the barrel so that the bullets get marked all over. Gardner’s classic courtroom novels- Perry Mason. I guess it has appeared in multiple works later. But there are risks.”

“What risks?”

“You can so damage the barrel, that the shot might veer off course, or the gun might explode in your hands. If you actually get it done, it is pure luck.”

“Again, hypothetically, how do you keep someone still while you are killing him?”

“The person must know you well, and be ready for the kill, or whatever act you are trying to pull off. Or you shoot in the back, so the person isn’t looking.”

“How would you remove your footprints?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically.”

“By not standing on a surface someone would try to pull off the prints from. This would then force me to shoot from a distance. If I am not a trained shot, I risk missing the target. Also, it would imply that the target could not have interacted with me close up.”

“Hypothetically, how would you dump the weapon?”

“I would dismantle it and spread it over the world in forms that appear harmless.”

“Hypothetically again, how do you get the girl out of the clothes and where do you dump her belongings?”

“Isn’t she already a stripper? I would return them to her apartment. Everything except her phone. That, I would dismantle and distribute.”

“That will be all,” she said.

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To My Lady

-Nature’s Natural

Out of the old, heavy armour,
In the now silenced streets of red,
I don’t see a murky valour
But eternal bliss of the shed.

There is no fire in my veins,
No remnants of our glory past.
Yes, I did give in to your reins,
Though numbered ’twas still not the last.

To rever me in her new court,
Perhaps, her grief, the queen will speak.
From Gates of Hell, to you, I’ll quote,
“It is never what warriors seek.”

The sword has trembled in my hand
And for she I’ve been a disgrace.
But never stepped down, O my land!
All’s a trifle but your embrace.

Faced the scorching Sun with a smile,
Often concealed my face with blood
Yet you sighed just in the first mile
And still, here I lie in the mud.

“A warrior” my epitaph says,
I am much flattered with it though,
Fought a lost battle all those days,
Today in front of none I bow!

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“So, you claim that you are nothing but a character in a drab little storybook?”

-Thoughtful Thestral

[Note: The normal, italicized and the bold text are three separate accounts, not necessarily in the same time frame.]

The bell rang and I was called in for counselling. I stood up straight, adjusted my tie, tried to put a smile on my face, and walked towards the door. My heart beat heavily against my chest. My throat was dry, and beads of sweat populated my arms. It was getting unbearable. I was in serious doubt, whether I would be able to convince the therapist of my problems. But one thing was certain – this was the only way out. So, I pulled open the door.

The story seems to be going nowhere. Why am I even reading this book? Anyway, I know I have to go on, because the Ibek never recommends a book that I eventually don’t end up liking. The protagonist of this story is a self-centred duffer, who knows nothing better than to seal foolish business deals, dwelling deeper into his own mountain of debt and taking his company down with him. I hope the plot will have more to offer than this cliched narrative, in the pages to come. I do flip through some pages and start reading bits of random chapters on my own at times. It helps to make me feel a bit interested. Now, I guess, I must go and write my diary, before I become too drowsy to pick my pen.

The room was spacious and well illuminated. The temperature was optimum. There was a wooden table at the centre, with a chair on either side of it. The one facing me was occupied by an old man in his fifties, sitting purposefully, but with a broad smile on his face. He asked me to take the other seat, and I readily accepted the offer. There was a soothing air about this man. My nerves relaxed a bit for the first time since last night, as I gave my introduction, and began describing to him the problem that I was facing.

Hmm… this has been a good day so far. Although I have hardly done anything productive, but the story is taking a turn for the better. The build up of this character, Mr. Badger, is taking hold of my senses, and I’m beginning to fall into the book. It’s catching up. Fast. I wonder how the first part of this series must have been, although there seems little connection between the two, because I’m able to understand the events of this sequel very well. I’d like to read it once I get my hands on it.

“So, you claim that you are nothing but a character in a drab little storybook?”
“Yes.” Actually, I was pretty sure of the fact.
It all began a few weeks ago, when I had stopped abruptly in the middle of a board meeting, realising that I had been in that exact situation before. I could not bring up my mind to recollect exactly when, and I thought it was an absurd idea then, because half the members of the board were attending their first meeting. Maybe it was just a random thought that had captured my imagination. At least, that is what I had convinced myself.
But this only got worse. When I was watering my little garden four days back, I had the same memories of recollection. How could I be having visions of my future? It seemed scientifically impossible, so I discarded the idea right away. But this happened again. The next day, when I nearly escaped a car accident, it was because I realized that I had had a vision of that car approaching me and me just avoiding an accident. This made my mind blank, and I absently drove right in front of that car. But the driver of that vehicle made it stop at the right moment, just as my vision had predicted.
So, I started reading up on these sort of visions. And I came to the conclusion that I was nothing but the character of a story. So was this therapist.
“And how does that explain your visions?” he asked me.

Today, I didn’t get any time to read the book till the evening. So, I haven’t read much today, but the story is still moving at a good pace. Badger has finally found love and is planning to propose to the girl. His company has stopped crashing, and there seems to be a chance for steady growth. The way all this has been portrayed is quite cool. It somehow reminds me of the way I like writing, though I seem to have lost my flair for some time.
I have started flipping through future chapters more often now, as I want to heighten my excitement by reading glimpses of scenes from the later chapters. Oh, it’s getting late. Time to write my diary for the day!

I explained the theory of storyception. Actually, whenever the reader of my story gave way to his curiosity and started reading a page from the part of the book he hadn’t read till then, I received a vision of my future. The reader and I were connected, as if by strings. When he saw a glimpse of my future, I saw it too. And this had been making me paranoid since the last few days. I wanted to get out of the story, as quickly as I could. I don’t know why I thought that this therapist must have a solution to my problem.
After listening to me, he instructed me to take a few pills that he gave me, wrote me a bill of a few hundred dollars, and took my signature on some record. I could hardly call my name my own. Mr. Harvill Badger sounded so familiar, yet so unfamiliar. It felt as if this was just the kind of name a crazy author would give me. I took the pills and walked downstairs.

I have grown affectionate towards this guy Badger now. Maybe the long, first person narrative is what makes me connect to him so well. By the way, I am excited right now because I have started my own venture with my friends. The legal formalities were completed today and the investors think our business plan makes a lot of sense, and has the potential to transform lives in the coming days. I hope I make it big, and make my Dad feel proud of me. “Well done, Harvill!” Yes, that’s what he will say.
I think I’ll finish the book in a couple of days, as I set out on serious operations for my company.

I went to the local pub and had a drink to soothe my nerves. I also swallowed the pills, and prepared to leave for my house, hoping that they would have a positive effect on my trauma.

I haven’t been reading much since some time now. The business has had a slow start, but I hope it will pick up in the blissful times to come. The stock market is expected to rise soon. I hope my diary helps me feel proud of myself when I’m successful, maybe a few years down the line, when I read about my present struggles.

The drive calmed my senses further. It’s funny how routine activities can help you relax in times of utter chaos. I was driving up the City Bridge.
That was when I had the vision of my death.

Okay. This is getting weirder by the day. The company has registered heavy losses for the first month of its operations. My co-founders seem ready to desert me. I don’t know how the future will turn out.
The only good thing about the present is that the book is going nicely. I flipped through a few pages again, and guess what? The next chapter will have an account of Badger’s close shave with death on the road! I wish I hadn’t read that now.

The reader put the book down, smirking as he did. He pitied the protagonist of this collection of diary entries for being completely indifferent to the fact that his diary was to be the first part of the story to which the book he was reading was the sequel.
The phone rang. The reader picked it up. He hung up ten minutes later, satisfied as he now had another book to read before his vacations ended. And he was sure it was going to be an exciting read, as none other than his friend The Ibek had recommended it.

[Editor’s Note: This was the best entry in the creative writing competition conducted during the summers. The entry is on topic #2]

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Atlas said, “meh” #9: The one where he clearly ran out of ideas

-Loquacious LlamaUntitled Untitled2 Untitled3 Untitled4 Untitled5 Untitled6 Untitled7 Untitled8

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June 4, 2015 · 7:37 pm