Posted in Creative Writing Competition, Prose

Summer Sweat

– Warren Peace

It is a hot day and dry winds have discovered a small room and its dilapidating window.

I am resting on a mattress which has jute fibres protruding, erect to annihilate. I cannot tell if ants are devouring me or the mattress is revolting.

I see that all is fine. I am distracted, so bundles of time are missing. I cannot get this time back. I can call media warlords who sell my time to thrive but it would be futile. I am a victim but I am a perpetrator as well. And what is it, this time? There is a universal clock and another one which runs on my strong pulse. My time can be as I like but finite. My only purpose is to live without distractions. For how long, it is a matter of taste.

Right of the solitary window, I find myself sitting on a chair that wobbles and squeaks every time I shift my weight. The chair belongs to a table, which is perpetually burdened with rubbish.

We look at each other and the wind dies down. Our eyes glitter and we smile because we are in love. I sometimes doubt if she is real. She seems perfect but she looks just like me.

There are other rooms as well and maybe there are people living in them. But we are not sure. If they enter our room, they will see me, not her. But she is there, still sitting in that garrulous chair and oblivious of everyone but me. I will not move or answer. I have nothing to do with them and I’d like it to stay that way.  Everything, no matter how miserable, should remain as it is. There is no need to imitate.

I have decided not to get an old bedsheet to cover myself, from the drawer. I can ask her but she cannot hear me, cannot be persuaded. My menacing cadence is only for me to hear. Every inch of my skin is irritated but I am used to stifling afternoons.

She keeps her head down to let others of her reality know that she is preoccupied. She stays away from inappropriate men and women.

Like me, she doesn’t want to be guilty of anything. Incrimination is my fear of fears. I am understandably busy protecting myself. I see no possibilities other than avoiding every possibility.

I have infinite capacity for regret. She doesn’t anymore, her regrets never survive. Maybe I should be like her.

Every evening, she leaves the room to go for a walk and frowns at every crossroad and by-pass. Maybe that’s the only time she ever lets herself make mistakes.

We often go out for dinner and seemingly eat alone. The outside world tempts me to participate, I am also to contribute to it.

I also deplore inactivity and her viciousness. But she works so I don’t need to. There is another universe where I work hard and I am happy. Why repeat the same here?

I mostly leave early and let her find her way home. Even though she has lived here for many years, intermittently taking a compulsory holiday, she doesn’t know the roads well. She has no memory, no malicious desires except to do what will add to her harmony.

She wasn’t always like this. There was a time when she cried because of the promise of happiness. I can’t tell what has happened.


Posted in Poetry

Sophisticated Cruelty

– Jyotsha Kumar

Sophisticated cruelty
Brandished vanity
Nightmares now my true reality.
Preposterous, this proposition
Oh! What a bleak view this is, a tarnished utopia
Another soul devoured, what blasphemy!
Such blighted existence, a withering travesty
Nightmares now my true reality.
Hands joined, prayers of contrition
Kneeling for forgiveness, freedom from this dystopia
Hiding behind miles of scarred skin, still an inch from insanity
An inconsequential disposition, just a broken hearts rhapsody
Nightmares are now my true reality.


Posted in Poetry

No Being, Just Nothingness


Inside my head, I garble;
But tonight, with you, I’d rather warble.
You words are etched in marble.
Mine just might be etched in sand, for mine sincerely,
Or so my brain tells me.
Music makes not much sense,
Words take me to transcendence.
Without words, you might mean nothing,
With words, you mean everything.
This sounds like sentimental tripe.
I’m a nothingness, with a distinguishing stripe.
Stay away, stay away, if you know what’s good for you;
I can’t promise anything, I can’t promise electric blue.
I’m dulled indigo, or drab navy, or black, black, black, black, black,
Until I succumb to the grey, imperceptibly changing my tack.
I hope you don’t notice; don’t notice the fallacy;
It’s dark, and in the darkness, there is nothing; nothing but me.

Posted in Poetry

Walk In The Rain

-Gregarious Griffin

Come take a walk with me in the rain,
Partake a share of my pain,
See the fragments of my soul,
Pieces of down, others chunks of coal.

Take your shelter beneath this parasol bright,
And fend away the fears of the night,
Listen to the musings of a lonely heart,
As the night darkens and the heavens part.

The raindrops hide in my tears,
Black memories and darker souvenirs,
Waiting on this solitary land?
For the sun to shine out on the sand.