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 Creative Writing Topic, Prose

Two Dimensional Musings

– Warren Peace

Time- 2:47 am.

State of mind- unnerved.

“I could start with a quote since we’re going to talk about meaning.”

I wouldn’t say no to some coffee if someone were to make it for me. While I do have a diversified palate and I can gulp down a coffee brewed in sewage without regurgitating my guts out, I wouldn’t mind a decent espresso in a sanitized cup.

There is a desultory door formidably closed in front of me. It has a mean doorknob.

I wouldn’t open it because I despise doorknobs anyway.

Beyond this door is catalogued garbage. A mortgaged dumpster.

Like any other dustbin, it houses objects that wouldn’t be able to make acquaintance if they were still functioning. Old cassettes that are so dead that they wouldn’t cough a song now, CDs that no longer reflect, newspapers dating back to 500 BC, issues of magazines which are now defunct, utensils, spoons that don’t look like spoons anymore et al have been stored in it. I don’t think it stinks but I never go in there without holding my breath even though I punctured a lung once doing the same.

Every time my parents come across a dying claustrophobic object, they look at it quizzically and quickly decide whether it deserves another chance. If it’s lucky, it is carelessly thrown out of the garbage collection window and it then falls six stories to meet its maker. Eventually. Otherwise the door is cast open and another object is deposited. Their lifetime starts tending towards positive infinity once the door is closed on them. One can never get out.

Why do they collect them? They never look at them again. (like me) (I hope I was not collected)

I understand the urge to preserve, to go back and drown in your past, to revaluate and assign significance to things that didn’t matter then, out of compassion maybe, or respect.

Meaning VS logic-

I am uncertain about the ‘VS’ I just typed and in hindsight I should not have plunged into this.

I must resist the urge to draw a line here and start listing differences.

Here we go. Let us dedicate two consecutive sentences to how I’m praying right now this doesn’t turn into a clusterfuck. Amen.

If I were a devout logician, I wouldn’t have fiddled with my sleeping pattern. My grandmother keeps poking me with ‘ sleeping during the day isn’t as relaxing as a proper night’s slumber’. But I am a dreamer. Ironically. I like to stay up late, eating out of the fridge and wondering if I should cook but as soon as the stove lights up, the flames threaten to envelop me so I drop the idea all together.

When I think about it, plastered idols with elephant faces do not go well with the rest of my furniture. But I gotta defend myself against valak. I have found the power of god in them.

All of that dump needs to be cleared away. But my parents occasionally like to brood over them.

Most of us fuss over meaning because there is no regulation, nothing to hold our imagination back. Unchartered waters that extend as far as we are willing to go. All the rocks and pebbles I’ve seen couldn’t inspire a cathedral in me. that’s because I’m not a Christian, we don’t have churches.

I often think of meaning as a menace, which is extravagant yet incoherent. Isn’t it counter- intuitive? Meaning is after all devoid of sense. Of course, that’s my version of it.

Logic is however stable, unquestionable and confident in itself. I want to defend its claim but what’s life without meaning? (tolerable, that’s what).

What if everything we do is meaningless? Let’s hope not. That sounds depressing.

What am I writing anyway? (a testament of my incompetence.)

What comes next? Preferably, sleep.


Time- 5:22 AM

State of mind- (no one cares)


…….” I wish I had a poem to end with but I don’t”.

Posted in Creative Writing Competition, Poetry

TaleSpin Entry #4

[Link to TaleSpin]

Song of Innocence

– Warren Peace

Little has been withered,
You mustn’t scrutinise too hard,
She melts under harsh gaze,
Blithely, her slimy hands would manoeuvre
Your dirty sins to ashen grounds
And there, they be razed,
Being no more than an unsolicited mass,
Prickly and sodden, too dangerous to hold,
But what can be made of her?
There isn’t long before She turns cold,
Whereas once she slept all afternoon,
Her voice now sounds introspective soliloquies,
“It’s been a while, since we last spoke…
 cautious, I will be,
 But never once will I wince,
 If serendipity doesn’t roll her dice with my name smoked in”
Little has been withered,
She did remind me, of water lilies,
Floating in tranquility, and depth unawares,
Espying her mother and father,
Fabricating herself,
I heard their insolent words echo,
Oh she’s a beautiful witch,
Little has been withered.