Blahsphemy

I have been around for so long that wishing someone a happy new year has become so cliched. No one I had wished earlier is around to prove that my wish had worked for them. Some seemed to have a good time while others didn't. I feel it would've been the same even if I hadn't wished them. Maybe it's my age that has nurtured this cynicism. Geologists claim that I am from the paleolithic era. That's why they have kept me secure in this room, away from the vagaries of pollution and solar flares deep in space. From here I see my Earth spinning happily and churning out year after year. Before the lights in my room go off, let me wish you a very happy new year, anyway. 

Why does it feel like I have switched eternity off with the flick of a switch? Why did the globe stop spinning? Did anyone mess with the revolution engine? It can't be. The last time it happened was when that fool Kraken was with us. Now we have safely deported him to Urs324. Let me go and check that.  

I am rich, I am famous, thought the bitch down the foyer.  Another infamous wretch, thought everyone else.  

Something started when everything ended. Profound, thought the old owl. He was never wise enough to think that he was the one that started it all. All this starting and ending stuff right at the start. Now that makes a fine ending right?

Silence speaks volumes No words are exchanged Yet nothing remains unsaid

Indelible scars hasty words etch   Moments fly anti clockwise when unduly stressed Life, my friend, is depressed

There was a time when time and tide never used to wait. Now technology has become so advanced that they wait for everyone. But then how can you call it progress when everything is frozen in time according to someone's whim? So my sunrise will be your sundown. Does it make any sense? Wait; let me set the clock back to where we started.  

Your story sounds like that movie about a ring, she chimed. He stared into the void and chose to ignore the comment. The spiders are quiet tonight, he thought. Did you hear that, she whispered. He didn't even hear her. So she moved closer and asked again; "did you?". He listened carefully. There was a faint rhythmic beat pulsing from the void. His antennae were up. The beat grew louder. He got up and screamed, run. It's the chopperatti. Suddenly they were caught in between flashes of light and razor sharp blades. Now it is impossible to run for cover, she wailed. "It is worse getting sliced by a machine while it snapped photographs", he retorted. He caught her by the arm and leapt in to the inky black void of their life. Only to land in the front page of a newspaper like deer in front of fast approaching headlights.    

They have  discovered another planet. A planet that's cleaner, bigger and waiting to be exploited. Soon, we will spread like an incurable rot on that pristine land.   

Swan gully was full that night. Critters from all over the world had come to watch the fight. It was the fight of the century, screamed one newspaper headline. The main contender was Hopper. His opponent was Mantis. Mantis was the reigning world champion. He(or is it she) had decapitated many an opponent. Mantis was arrogant and a snob of the first order. Hopper on the other hand was rugged and easy going. He was known for his speed and strength. Hopper caught Mantis's attention when he accidentally bumped in to him at the Stalk- a pub by the gully. Rumor has it that Hopper had knocked out Mantis there. This match was to put an end to all the rumors. All eyes were on these two when the dam burst and the gully got flooded. It was god's way of saying may the best man live. Hopper was executing a lightning upper cut when the water rushed in. He leaped towards the high ground. Only to find that Mantis had latched on to his legs. He fell flat in to the water, with Mantis on tow. T

My life was in slow motion. Everything flashed by like a dream. The screaming, the pushing and the bright lights. That's when she slapped me hard. On my tender buttocks.  They say that was my initiation to pain and the world. Now it was my turn to scream. And their turn to exclaim.  

I was in a blind man's dream.  I was caught stealing his conscience. But he couldn't prove my guilt. For he was blind even in his dream. 

A pain probed deep Searing flesh and abusing nerves Helpless I watched As my brain screamed 

Fate laughed its final laugh Muted sobs robbed the silence Away I go into memory Fading like the mist at noon 

The stairs creaked. The windmill sighed. The windows rattled. The rain screamed. The thunder boomed. Only the lonely raindrop was silent as it hurtled down from the sky. To form the ocean that lashes the shore with its fiery waves.   

Staring at the clinically clean pages of her life, she sighed. They have always intimidated me. Every time I wanted to write a love story it turned in to a tragedy, she thought. Now I will leave them blank, as blank as blank can be. Her fingers tightened around the trigger and one shot rang out. The pages were clean no more, all spattered with her blood.   

That will be twenty thousand.  What? Twenty thousand Indian Rupees. For what? That's the time cost I have incurred for looking at you. But, no one asked you. Sorry, we don't accept any excuses. You will have to pay up or face the consequences. This is criminal. Making us work and not paying is a bigger crime. No one asked you. You chose to engage us by selecting materializing here. How will I know your rules? You should have checked your teleportation agreement closely. Teleportation agreement, my ass! Now with the swear fee, your total expense will be thirty thousand. Aaaaaarrrrrghhhhh.   

Saw goddess Kali on a winding road Like gleaming asphalt her skin shone  I woke up only to brake hard For my path to salvation was way too far

1 Timeless blossoms under the sky Little do the petals know their beauty A secret savored by bees      2 Effortless does the smile sit For comfort and perfect fit are intertwined   Like enamored butterflies and flowers  3 Smooth runs time's fabric  Like the dragon fly's spine on silk Safely in the hands of life   4 Designs run wild and free   Petals and colours what a riot, see In my mind, they roam  5 Nurtured on a milky weave  The rosy patterns bloom everywhere    Like an artist gone haywire  6 Time and tide will wait   For the stitch wasn't made in vain   Its promise holds good again 

The days are all numbered The months are a dime a dozen  That sums up the year

Two pages more thought he Had he known the ending's twist   He would've read them first

The drums of doom boomed close by. Klak ran for his life. He knew the place like the back of his missing hand. He had lost it in the last encounter. Then the Drum Folk had trapped him near Doom Creek. They wanted to take Klak to their den. But Klak being the clever one, cut his hand off instead of the Jujuba vine and ran away. Lore has it that even now the Drum Folk laugh about it before every hunt.       

That's definitely not the way things are done around here. You have to bend your head down and expose your nether parts to the sun. Kafka  burst out laughing hearing this. This is a nudist's colony. It doesn't matter whether you expose your nether parts to the sun or not. You are always exposed, anyway. So he chortled at Dude boy and moved on. 

Well, that's it. The end came up really fast. The fat period lodged itself after the last word and stared at him defiantly. 

The mirror on the wall winked at him. What I meant was the man in the mirror. The man was well built and suave, unlike the Caliban he was. A freckled monster, all hunched up and oozing venom. Sadly all the world saw was the man in the mirror. 

Look closely and you will see what he is up to. Yesterday also he was doing it. In fact, he has been doing this for quite some time. Look we can't stand here all day watching him. We have to move. Listen, he is saying something. Damn! He is reporting us to the police for spying on him. He is telling them that we have been doing this for quite some time.   

This is planet earth. It is inhabited by egos. They come in all sizes and shapes. They are never predictable. Usually the flashy and loud ones are the biggest. They usually attack without warning. They feed on insignificant things. Money, power and sex are seen as stimulants. The machine went on and on about the planet they had just visited. They looked at each other through their VGA cameras and sighed.         ajith gopinath http://13ag.blogspot.com

No it wasn't feeling right. He tried again. The words looked the same. Only a closer look revealed that two of them had swapped places. Now, it's reading right. Time to hit the submit button. His finger hovered over the keys. Something wasn't feeling right. With a deft tap he deleted the words from the screen, again.   

All that you write is crap. The punctuation, the words, the grammar and what not. I am sorry I will have to take you off the grid. You are too much of a nuisance. The tirade went on and on. Wordo didn't utter a thing. He hung his head low and tapped on the keyboard. He was determined to get back at his critics. He punched the keys with a vengeance. The words exploded on his screen. The punctuations bloomed. The grammar was  reigned in. He let out a cry of victory, before accidentally hitting the delete button.   

Today my past caught up with me. It just came unannounced, like always. I was having my morning tea when it plonked in to my mind. It had bought the rain drops that soaked her nubile body that day. The day when she ran in to my life fleeing the rain while I was having my morning tea.  

The music played in his mind. It played till his body became the music. It played on and on. Jingle jangled every nerve. Rhymed with every bone. Loosened the brain cells. Made time disappear. Flooded memories. Spawned goosebumps. Blurred reality. And made him the music. The very music he tried running away from.    

The backbone of his patience splintered like a reed caught in a gale. The splinters pricked his ego and prodded him to reach for the gun. He moved his hand and a shot rang in the dead of the night. Suddenly he felt at peace with the world. He was floating like a cloud. Then he hit the ground with a resounding thud. Before his brain shut down he heard someone remark, fool he shouldn't have reached for his gun.   

What's the use of windows? If you can't open them wide enough To let happiness in  

I am comfortable here. From here I can see you get on with life. I can see your friends, foes and family. I can cheer and cry with you. I can feel the angst in your heart. I can be with you always. I am comfortable here, tucked away deep down in your memory. 

The moment you step out of this room, you will forget my face. But, I will never forget yours. Because that will be last face I will be seeing before I close my eyes forever.   

The flowers bloomed. Their scent filled the neighborhood. Whoever inhaled that scent was transported to a distant land. A land so far way from reality. A land where there was no pollution or automobiles. A land where only flowers existed. 

Normtrap looked his usual self today. They say he had been through hell and back. For Slowmo he was a hero.  Every pub in town has been abuzz with stories about how Norm tamed the fire breathing bear and slept with the ice maiden. Slow always dreamt of accompanying Norm on his adventures. One day he even blurted out his wish to Norm. All he got was a cold stare and a slap. Today also he wanted to congratulate Norm. But the sting of the slap weighed down his tongue. He rubbed his cheeks and waited for Norm to get drunk, as usual. He would then steal Norm's soul and deliver it to Satan. So that Norm will realize what Slow was really made of.   

The story never appeared. It has been three days since it ran away in to the woods of my memory. I have been searching for it day in and day out. I searched the vales of my childhood, the meadows of my youth and the alleys of my present. It was no where to be seen. Maybe it sensed that I will trap it on paper for ever. That's why on the day I sat with a blank sheet and an eager pen it ran way. I will wait for it to return, what more can I do?

His face was a perfect study in anatomy. Even the bullet hole on his temple looked perfect. For her it was a daily affair. She quickly took the routine samples and made way for the forensic team. Before she went out of that room, she looked back at him. She froze on her tracks as she caught a smile on his face.  

The six pack was his dream. A dream he sweated for every day. The day the pack came, he was just a cadaver at the mortician's table. Such was his tragic tale. Then along came a scientist who gave him a second life. Now that he was born again, he wanted a new name. The scientist fondly called him Frankie.  

I've not been faithful in my mind. His confession hit her like a million volts. She never expected it from him. She knew that his mind was a turbulent ocean. But, this came as a surprise. She wanted to silence that mind. She wanted it to reflect only her image like a placid pool. That's when she became aware of the kitchen knife she was holding.   

No two days are alike. As this sentence was born in his mind, he woke up to the reality that it was not the case for him. His yesterday was the same as today. He had spent both the days staring at a black dot on the wall. Deep inside he believed that he could disprove that no two days are alike. He continued to stare at the black dot with a renewed vigour.   

Call me Ishmael. I sit by the kerb undressing all your daughters. I mean them no harm. It's all in my mind. They told me I have a very fertile mind. I would kill you if I knew that you were doing the same. Will you be surprised if  I tell you that I am not Ishmael? I am not him. I wanted to be his friend. But I  had to kill him. Because I knew what he was thinking.   

Sentences will floated along like a dead gators. The thought waves will ebb and die. In that silence an idea will be born. It will cry out its lungs. The cry will ricochet on the cranial walls like a stray bullet. It will fail to ignite the neuron that would have shriveled and died long back. To achieve this all you need is to stop living, spoke the great guru Deathopadhya.

Scowling faces behind tinted car windows Staring at the signal lamps and Smiling faces under the scorching sun I meet god and love on dashboards and window panes Driven around by devil in human suits God knows what the world is coming to

The inhabitants of Egoland always lived in fear. They dreaded the pinpricks of reality that will deflate their ego filled heads. So they started taking extra care of their ego filled heads. They started wearing masks which were reality proof. Still wearers were wary of the deflateability of their egos. So they refused to step down from their ivory towers to avoid the risk of deflation. Soon they bloated up due to inactivity and filled their homes. They became trapped within their own mental frames. Now they long for that pinprick that will release them from their sad existence.   

He spotted her. He wanted her. It's been a long time since he did it.  She spotted him. She hated him. It's been a long time since she saw such lecherous men.

The train crawled to a stop.  Just like my life, thought he. Everything seems to be coming to a standstill. Maybe it's my soul that pulled the chain. It never reads the warning signs.  A slap woke him up. His eyes focused on a policeman.  Why did you pull the chain, he barked. 

Nothing can be done about it, remarked the guy. No one asked you to do anything about it, he thought. They were looking at the new reforms pasted on the noticeboard. They nodded at each other and went separate ways.   

He looked for his fear, everywhere. He couldn't find it, eight legs and all. Maybe he is waiting to startle me. Maybe he is plotting to kill me. Maybe he has become so big that he has moved somewhere else. Maybe he has gone to bring more like him to torment me. His fears grew by the minute. He started to panic. He longed to see his fear. He realized, facing fear was better than fearing it.   

He found his famous face staring at him in the mirror. It was a bit too much for his frazzled brain after last night's drinking binge. He stared at the face in the mirror. The face stared back. He was nauseous. The face mocked him. He banged the mirror. The face remained nonchalant. He spat at it and watched the spittle slide down the face. Yet the face stared back at him. He lost it. He punched the face hard. The mirror cracked. His fists got bruised. As he looked up, he saw a hundred faces stare back at him.  

Pain punched him under the belt. He swooned for a moment. Usually pain plays by the rules. Today, it cheated. He tried to escape the barrage by curling up. That's when the blow landed on his spine and shattered it. He was a vegetable now. He lay there smiling thinking that pain can't hurt him anymore. Little did he know that pain had other plans.

Some people are too busy with their lives. Like me for instance. Even while I am staring out of my window, I will have a million things to deal with. Right from the sun that's shining bright to the coup that's going to happen in Siberia. Damn, and to top it all, they call me god. 

So when does the sun go down, he asked. This is Absentia, the sun goes down only once a year, came the reply. He spat out the beer in disbelief. The beer landed on a one eyed martian who turned green. What followed was a free for all. All the ammunition was used up. No inhabitants were spared. True to its name, Absentia became a fairy tale. 

There was a man staring at my window. His eyes saw through me. They probed the vacuum of my mind. I, on the other hand, saw him. He was bald, bold and blind. He looked a lot like myself.    

The question stared him down. He took shelter in a mumble. Things were not that simple. The question probed and provoked. He tried his best to avoid it. It hurt him like hell. He didn't want to be confronted. His mumbling could no longer shield him. He cleared his throat and let the words flow. Each word and each sentence battered the question. Finally, it gave up and left the room. He sat alone in the darkness like a tiger licking its wounds. He could hear the question whimpering in the next room. He didn't like it. It was way too late by then, for anything to be done.

The story came and went unnoticed. Only the wind rustled the pages as they waited in vain. 

The lizard burped. The light was left on all night. Flies flocked to it. He had a sumptuous dinner. Long legs, short wings, crispy beetles... everything that was fooled by the light was there. He summed up his dinner with a dainty mayfly. He was upset when the sun came up. Now he will have to wait for another night when the light stays on till morning.

A lot of things were said about nothing. The dog seemed to understand every word that came out of their mouths. It just sat there catching flies. They went on and on about nothingness. The dog had nothing to do with them. He used to wander around trash cans during the day. He came upon them by chance. They didn't notice the dog till it yawned loudly. Then they started discussing the dog. The dog went to sleep under the bench wondering what they were discussing.   

The butcher was busy at his job. His shop reeked of blood and sweat. The houseflies were happy. They swarmed around every tiny morsel of meat and drops of blood on the floor. His lusty eyes probed everything that passed in front of his store. He didn't even spare the school girls who passed by. The story goes that one day he cut his own finger and minced it. He was too busy ogling to realize what had happened. That's why I stopped eating meat. I was a kid then. Whenever someone served me meat, I could see the butcher's finger in it.    

He was searching for his usual intros to start his story. That's when he stumbled on an old ally. The intro that his daughter had listened a million times when she was a kid. He desperately wanted to use it one more time. So he began, once upon a time...

I want to be rich and famous, his mind screamed. Is that what you really want, a squeaky conscience countered. I don't know, retorted the mind. Then shut up and stop stressing out, said the conscience. But, I want to be rich and famous, the mind whispered. 

He died thrice on the same road. The first time was when he was an earthworm happily munching away the top soil. He didn't see the road roller coming his way and was plastered on to the road that was being built. He was reborn as a dog a few years down the line. One day as he was sampling a roadkill, he saw a blinding light and a truck ran over him. As he was getting ready for afterlife, he noticed that his dog head was plastered on the same spot where he was plastered as an earthworm in his previous life. Now he was determined not to be on this road in his new life. Soon he was born as a human. He was born in another country. He didn't remember anything about the road. One day the travel bug bit him and he embarked on a trip. He reached a strange land filled with strange people. He loved the countryside. As he was walking on a piece of asphalt that used to be a road, a nearby volcano erupted and a boulder plastered him on to the road. He lay there refusing to be reborn just to

There is a story waiting to be told. So please hold the line. If you are impatient, please hang up. If you want to speak to an author, dial One. If you want to be notified when the story happens dial Zero. Thus went the Dial-a-Story's IVR.

Darwin was the mightiest ant in the colony. He was the smartest as well. He had a weakness for sugar. He will go any length to get his daily fix. The other day he stung a woman so that she'll spill all the sugar in her hand. It was this daring that got him in to trouble as well. He died of high blood sugar.  

The matchbox fell and spilled the matches on to the floor. By the time he retrieved them, they were damp. He tried to light them in vain. Some sparked and died like politicians during the polls. Some didn't even bother. In the end he screamed all his frustrations away. He had been trapped in this hole for three days, or was it four? He didn't know. All he remembered was being plunged in to darkness on a bright sunny day. 

The written word and spoken word were brothers. They never got along well. They tried to avoid each other. One day as the written word was deciphered by man's brain, they had to come together. As they were trapped inside the man's head, they couldn't escape. As days passed, they began to realize that they were no different. They both had the same alphabets and sounded the same. Sounded? How can the written word be sounded? Well, go and ask the brain.       

The words hit the wall and exploded like raw eggs. They left a gooey trail as they dripped down. She escaped before he could hurl a few at her. She wiped off the few drops that landed on her dress. Outside his room, the world was bright. Everyone smiled. Words were handled with care. They were passed on like new borns. She felt relieved. Her friends have always warned her about his sudden outbursts. But she never thought she will be at the receiving end one day. And that day was today.   

The talking jug stopped huffing. Maybe it's because the stove cut slack on the heat. They were quite a couple. The spoon enjoyed this whole scene unfolding in the kitchen. He was lying next to his beloved plate. The plate was dreading when the damn spoon will start pillaging her beloved pancakes. The pancakes were enjoying their honey bath. The table and his chairs hated this whole set up. They came from a mighty Oak deep in the woods. So they refused to talk to anyone. The man of the house meanwhile doused the stove, manhandled the kettle, held her upside down till all her contents drained off. He then sat on the table, kicked aside a chair, grabbed the spoon and devoured the terrified pancakes who dripped honey all over the plate like a wounded beast.  

When the sun shines bright The stars and the moon sleep tight  That, my friend, is haiku 

There was a fly on the wall. He was mocking me. He sat there buzzing his wings. I could feel the turbulence he created. He was so high up that I couldn't touch him. So I let him be. Until a lizard or a spider find you, I let you be the king in this room.    

Yesterday it was empty surprisingly, the foreman thought. It used to be full everyday without fail. We have never had a system breakdown in the past six years. Still it was empty. Did someone shut down the machine? Did it run out of juice? It seems to be working fine now. The foreman leaned against the skip button and thought hard about what could've gone wrong. The machine obediently skipped the tasks for the day and hummed along.     

He was good at stealing. Ideas, concepts, thoughts and dreams were his speciality. His victims never realised that they were robbed. He used to strike at random. Whenever and wherever he came across anything that will be of some value to him. Today was no different. He quite liked the idea she presented. If he acted fast he could make it his own. The only thing that held him back was that he liked her more than her  idea. He wanted her as well. He was sure that if he stole her idea then she would hate him for a lifetime. So, what was the way out, he wondered. No bright ideas came his way. "I have been stealing quite a lot these days that my brain has stopped working", he lamented. "It's better than someone stealing my idea", he consoled himself.  

The mountain top was empty. Empty like the old man's bald head. Nothing grew there. Whatever was there died off during last winter. Like his hopes of meeting another soul. Now, everything was going to change. He saw a man inching up towards him. The closer he came, the happier the old man became. He couldn't hold it any longer he moved to the edge of the precipice to cheer the stranger. That's when the ice gave way. He met the stranger half way down. Together they reached the bottom faster than mountain goats. As they lay there submerged in the ice, the old man thought "What a wonderful life it was at the top!"  

His spam box showed 666 mails. The devil was coming for me, he thought. Of late, he had been getting worried about selling his soul to the devil. He was approached by his minions in various forms. Some tried to be his buddies. Others blatantly sold sex. A few offered to lengthen his penis. The vile ones offered him copious amounts of cash. The temptations just went on and on. He always fended them off with a clever click that sent them all to his spam box. But today, was different. The number 666 stared him in the face. He felt tempted to visit his spam folder. There in the midst of all the temptations lay an email from an old flame. 

The sun was on its way to the West. He saw an old man sitting on a rock. He said, "I have been watching you every evening sitting on the same rock watching me. It's irritating when people stare at you for nothing." The man smiled at the sun and said, "You have been watching me every single day of my life and I never complained. Now look at you whining about me staring at you." The sun realised that if he stays longer chit chatting with the guy he will be late for home and his wife the moon will get upset as she and her kids - the stars, were ready for their outing. So he just glared at the man. But the man laughed "Oh mighty sun, by evening your strength has been drained. I can out-glare you easily."  The sun gave up and rushed home. Tomorrow I will make him pay for his insolence, he thought. 

When your charge runs out, just plug in. That's the only thing you have to be careful about. Dane remembered the sales man's words clearly. He had followed it religiously. He had ensured that he plugged in whenever the charge started running out. Today, it was a bit odd. He plugged in but the power never reached his cells. He was still feeling low. His CPU was  dragging on like a snail on hot day. Maybe it is the cell, it would've gone bad. Otherwise why wouldn't the charge stay? A panic attack seemed imminent. His CPU was buzzing with alert messages. If he was unable to charge his cells, he will have no other option but to shut down. He was going to shut down! Shut down. He was screaming, when he woke up. He saw that his cells were charging fine, like young pups suckling their mom.  He went looked around foolishly and sank back in to his sleep station.

Another era slammed it's doors shut. No one will know what fell behind those doors. They will always be secrets. But at times these doors are pried open. By distant memories, jealousy, curiosity and vendetta. But that was not the case here. Bishop Sazu laid peacefully in his wooden casket like he was meditating. His smiling face gave away no secrets.  I am an orphan boy who knows what the Bishop is taking with him to his grave. I am sure there were others like me, waiting for someone to fling those doors open.

Take the money and run, his mind screamed. But after such a heavenly night how can I cheat her, he thought. She was still asleep. Nothing has stirred in the room after their earth shattering performance. Somehow one of the wardrobe doors have come open and a wad of cash has fallen on to the floor. He wanted to see if there was more money in there. But where did she get so much money? His friends have advised him to stay off her. She was trouble that's all they used to say. So far she had been good to him. Now if I take the money and run, all hell will break loose. She will be trouble for sure. A million excuses popped up in his mind. He reached for the wad and suddenly the room went blank. Dirty #*^%%$ that's all he heard.   

He is late again. I could've gone home early. How can I do that now? The bugger hasn't shown up. So here I am all alone at the watchtower. Waiting for him. Is that him? I can see a slight movement. That must be him. Wait a minute, he never wears khaki clothes. Why is he carrying a gun? That's not like him. Where is my gun?  There it is. I have him in my sight. Time for the warning shot. Damn, the gun is jammed. I should've cleaned it long back. Now all that I can do is wait for him to make his move. He is moving closer and closer. Looks like he is not aware of my presence. He is now climbing the ladder to the tower. I will bludgeon him with my gun before he shoots me. There take that and that. Oh damn, it's you? Where did you get this gun? Oh lord, say something. What have I done? Now I can never go home until they find a replacement.    

The selection was tough. Everyone was screened on the basis of their chromosomes. Luckily I got away with mine. Thanks to a gene pool that wasn't stagnant. It was pretty vast. Great grand chromosomes from Mesopotamia, Persia and finally India. Or was it the other way round? Well, now that I am in, I will have to prepare myself for the job. It is the world's only cloning facility and I can't let this pass me by. But hey who is that guy staring at me now? Why does he look like me? Have they already cloned me?      

The rain came and went Like a leaky sprinkler that never works Leaving me drenched yet dry   

Sometimes its vital to shutdown from the world. But the bots were everywhere. They were feeding on his thoughts. Any trace of a brand name got them excited. They threw up mindless info. Info he didn't want or ask for. Finally he had no option but to do it. His hands trembled as he reached for the power cord of his defibrillator. 

These are for sale. They are my dreams. The bright and cheerful ones are a bit expensive. The drab ones will be a bit affordable. Or do you want to check out the broken ones in that corner? They come free with every purchase. So which one are you going for?

  No one told me what  What happens when the cows come home   I sit and wonder what What the heck am I doing now?

"Will you cmndghhh?" "I can't hraeerrer yii" "I said will you cmndghhh" "I can't hraeerrer yii" "Will you cmndghhh?" "I can't hraeerrer yii" "Damn this mbbb cnnntn" "What did you call me?" "I didn't call you anythgfdc" "I can't hraeerrer yii"  

The grasshopper looked at the man pounding away at the keys in disdain. What's that fool doing staying awake late in to the night and fiddling with something that doesn't yield him any food? In grasshopper parlance it was sacrilege. In grasshopper land time was well spent procreating, hopping, singing, chewing tender leaves, hopping, moulting, laying eggs, excreting, contemplating the next hop and a million other grasshopperish activities. The grasshopper hopped a little closer to the man. Now he could see what he was doing. This damn guy was writing about grasshoppers! What does he know about us? How dare he write about us? The grasshopper went hopping mad. 

Finally it happened. The source dried up all of a sudden. All that remained was a stagnant pool. The blind fish were swimming happily as if nothing had happened. For them, it didn't matter as long as they could swim around. But then, that too became difficult as the water level fell. The sun was making life even more difficult by turning up the heat. The oldest fish had an idea. Why don't we evolve? Let's do Darwin proud by moving on to the land? The others cheered him. He just plopped on to the land and the others never heard from him. Soon, one by one all of them evolved. Some experienced flying high before sharp beaks tore in to them. Others were transported down alimentary canals as a whole. The unlucky ones were descaled and beheaded before ending up in frying pans.      

"Don't let him gift you a tail of misery", she froze as she remembered her mothers words. It was long back. She was too young to understand what a tail of misery was. Her mom had told her that the tail of misery is what makes women move around with swollen bellies and crying babies. She used to dread the tail of misery. Her mom had told her that someday she too will fall for a man who will gift her the tail of misery. Time passed, she was a full blown woman now. She met the man of her dreams at her workplace. Last night he broke her defenses with sweet talk and raging hormones. They had a wonderful time exploring erogenous zones on each other. Then he did it. He injected her with a million tails. The tails raced one another to fulfill her mom's prophecy. She clutched the pillow tight and whispered "oh tails of misery, leave me alone, or I will have to terminate you once and for al".   

He rechecked his list. Everything was in order. Guns, ammo, grenades... everything. He checked his watch. It beeped a happy beep and showed that he had exactly 30 minutes more. He took a long breath and kicked open the door. The street wore an empty look, as if it anticipated his arrival. He slowly moved towards the local school dragging his bag. He checked his watch again. Soon the kids will be out. He had specially prepared everything for them. They will love my sweet grenades and chewy AK 47s, he thought. A smile hid somewhere on his wrinkled face.  

I like funerals better than birthdays or weddings. You are free to shed a tear or wallow in silence. You don't have to smile unless you have to. You don't have to socialise much. You don't have to shave or look your best. You are not forced to eat or drink. You don't have to bring a gift or your family along. You can just be a face in the crowd. You can slip away when you feel like. Best of all, you will never be attending the funeral of the same guy again. Peace.  

I am really hungry, he commented. She pushed an empty plate towards him and asked, why don't you feed on these for a change? Your credit card limit is over. The mobile company will disconnected your line. The landlord wants us to pay the rent or I will have to sleep with him. My job contract will be over this month. He burped as he pushed the plate away.      

Today I have a headache. Tomorrow I might have some other ache. Life's so predictable. Another deadpan start to a story that will never be written.       

Who is that? Is that me? I don't look so old. Is that a tummy or is it just the t-shirt? What happened to my flowing locks? Is that a wrinkled forehead? Are those bags under my eyes? No I am still young. I am still kicking. Who put that damn bucket here?  

The words of wisdom were washed up on the shores of ignorance. Their ship was wrecked by a dullard off the coast of Intelligentsia. They floated aimlessly for days in the sea of Babel. On these strange shores, no one understood them. Some threw stones. Others spat at them. They were laughed at for they made no sense to the inhabitants. They soon discovered that in spite of their wisdom, they were deemed ignorant. 

Today he fed me a couple of doc files for breakfast. By evening I was full with a fat and juicy ppt. This is my lucky day. There are times when I get nothing. Nothing at all for days. Then a file appears out of the blue, just for me.  

Inspiration didn't strike me last night, he lamented.  She smiled the usual don't worry smile.  Nor did it look like it's going to strike me today, he added.  She tried not to yawn.  But it stabbed me right through my heart, he whispered.  She choked on the water she was drinking.   

The words play hide and seek Like sunlight on a rainy day Splish splosh the drops fell Only to be washed away 

The same words visited me again. I was shocked. They have this uncanny habit of sneaking upon me every time I welcome a blank page. I don't hate them but I just can't have the same words all over gain on a fresh page. Strange isn't it? Old words on a new page can make the page old.      

One puff and its heaven Said the voice from within I've been puffing ever since All I got is this chronic cough  

The world is spinning damn fast. So fast that today is yesterday before we know it. The words just gushed out of his mouth like soap bubbles from a washing machine's drain. He sounds so vague, she thought. For her every day was like an eternity. It just stuck there like an ant trapped in superglue. Nothing changed in her life. So what is this guy talking about. Which planet is he from? Hard to believe that we are stuck within the same four walls. Now he was yapping about how close the generation gap is in China. Damn, stupid guy, we are all guided by hormones. If I want to mate I won't wait for the world to stop spinning or the generation gap to widen. I will still resort to the primitive instincts my great great predecessors deployed before they evolved in to us. By the way it's the same instinct that got him in my room in the first place. 

Seven minutes, he gasped. The timer was ticking on. He carefully studied the wires. If he pulls the wrong one, his world will go boom. The red wire mocked him. The green invited him. The blue one was indifferent. The yellow mocked him. The violet one threatened him. The indigo one confused him. He looked at the clock again. Three minutes. Now it didn't matter whether he pulled the right one or not. The bomb was destined to blow him and everyone around him to smithereens. One more minute to go his brain screamed. He looked at them again. Red, green, yellow, blue, violet and indigo. Something is missing, he thought. Then it struck him like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He pulled the tiny orange wire that was hidden in the tangle. The clock stopped. The sun shone. Birds chirped. He felt as of he was born again.   

Searched for a lost friend. Met a million faces. None registered. Some sounded familiar. Some strange. Never wanted to meet some others. Still searching for that elusive friend.

When you have everything what would you love to lose? That question was aimed at the world. But it fell flat by his foot. And to make things worse, he kicked it under the sofa. There it was welcomed by the potato chip that had gone on a sabbatical last year. The cobwebs and dust softened its fall. It lay there all curled up in the fetal question mark position. A position all the inhabitants of queryland take while waiting for death and answers. 

A pair of legs and hands. Two eyes, ears and nostrils. One mouth. One anus. A dangling reproductive organ cum urinary tract. Hirsute. The cockroach summed him up through its myriad mosaic eyes. Its antennae figured what he had for dinner last night from the traces of the fart that had escaped from his rear. He tried to ignore the arthropod that can outlive him in a nuclear holocaust. He hummed a popular tune hoping that the ultrasound waves might goad the insect to retreat into its hole. But it just sat there nonchalantly waving its antennae. What if it is a mutant that sees me as a receptacle for its eggs?  What if it is a decepticon? What if it's my reborn grandpa? He was immobilized by his fears when the power went off. A silent scream escaped his throat. He felt a million cockroach legs on him. He heard cockroaches whizz past his ears laughing at his manhood. Cockroaches? Was there an army of them lying in ambush? He screamed with all his might till everyone in the apartment kn

Saw death dreaming a dead puppy dream on wet asphalt. The drizzle and the cloudy skies paid homage to the departed soul. The sun opened his drowsy eyes when the impatient crows descended to break their fast. This too like any other dream shall disappear fast, I thought. But, death and his dreams are the only reality, that's what life has taught me.         

  There is a story inside me, he declared.  Then show me that, barked the old man.  But, I can't do that. There he goes. He has a story and he can't show that. You don't understand. You haven't written one, have you? How can you be so sure? If you don't show me your story I will have to extract it from you. I will rip it out page by page. No! You can't do that, the very thought numbs my brain. I have to keep a level head to reveal my story. Level head? I can behead you and keep it on a platter so that it's level. You are insensitive. Now I am sure that you haven't written anything. You are testing my patience. And you are killing my muse.

A loud bang shattered the silence of the night. Must be the outlaws, she thought. There was another bang, this time closer. Now she heard strange noises coming up her drive way. Another bang, and she almost dropped the milk pail in her hand. A cold sweat broke. She started shivering. Like a ghost she glided towards the front window and peeped out. There she saw him. He was a huge man. Looked like he was bending over in submission. She couldn't make out what was happening in the dark. Then she heard him mutter under his breath, "Darn these carburettors".      

Like always the giant social network circus beckoned him. He strolled past the various stalls offering varied fare. He saw familiar faces in exotic locales, their babies, family and pretty friends. Some even had their pets, plants, cars and what not on display. Looking at all these he felt strange. He wondered, what do I have in common with them? Am I also another proud owner of another stall?

The silence formed a wall between them. She saw him trying in vain to break that wall. But when the wall started falling on her, she fled. Through the gaping void, he caught a glimpse of her teary eyes before she disappeared into oblivion.

He was a chameleon in his last life. Somehow he carried his previous life's powers on to his human form. He could imitate anyone across the room in seconds. He could blend in or stand out from a crowd in a jiffy. He really enjoyed his powers. Then he met something called a politician. He suffered a nervous break down that night.

He had story for each day. Each page in his book was a story. Or was it a day that he had in his book? He used to tear off the pages and hand it over to whoever came his way. Some of his stories were sad. Some scary. Some sweet. No one could predict what each page had in store. What baffled them most was why he called himself God.

He crashed in to the green planet with such force that it shook for three days. The tremor triggered his intergalactic sleep cells and lulled him in to a deep stupor. The green planet went back to its original state. Plants grew back, the rocks eroded, animals bred... only he didn't change or wake up from his slumber. Whenever he used to turn or twist in his sleep, the green planet experienced natural calamities of gigantic proportions. The inhabitants did serious research and figured that it was beyond their control to predict these sudden outbursts. Until that day when an oil rig accidentally stuck phosphorescent blood.

It just fell down and shattered. There was no background score or flash back. It just lay there shattered, reminding him that it can never be the same again. This one too will be another memory. But can memories become memories?

His pain welcomed him like a long lost friend. He couldn't help but surrender to its warm embrace. In fact, it has been years since he felt this way. Everyday he used to wake up dreading that the pain would come back. But, till this very moment he was spared.

His face stared at me from a magazine. It set me thinking. Why do we meet people? Somewhere I have read that we meet people for a reason. You might recognise it in an instant or in a lifetime. For instance, I met him to steal his stories. She met me to sink deeper in to sorrow. I met her to feel superior. He met me to share his fantasies. But now after all these years I realised that I met him for something else. To be a lousy character in his award winning story. She... what did she meet me for? I still haven't found that out. 

She is sleeping around with that guy from her office. Will she sleep with me? If she can sleep with him, she can sleep with me as well. What if she tells him? What if she rejects me? But how can I sleep with someone who has slept with him? It's disgusting. I am not going to look at her like that. But what if she wants to sleep with me? Let me go to sleep now. Will check her out tomorrow.

I have wasted enough time browsing through stranger's photographs. I know all their friends and their friends' friends and pets as well. I am jealous of some. I am sick from social networking. I need a break. But, look someone just poked me. Let me poke him back. 

When you point your finger at someone the rest of your fingers point at you. Deep. Diabolical. Dicey. Proof why I never pointed out anyone. And why I became nonexistent. So here I am pointing it out to you why I could never make a point.     

They retrieved her bloated body from underneath a railway bridge. "This will be our last journey together, as friends". Her last dialogue was playing like a broken record in his mind. He was too sleepy to think then. Now he has a lifetime to decipher what she said.  

I saw my words lying dead on a piece of white paper. They were floating bloated and lifeless in between the blue lines. A faint cry escaped my lips as I knew the reason for their misery. It was me who fed them to the white paper without sparing much thought. I was on a roll, I thought. But it was my pen that was bleeding wordless cliched words that made no sense. Just like the one before this line.     

See you tomorrow, she told him. How can she make such a promise, he thought. Life is so unpredictable these days. What if she dies in her sleep? What if she loses her sight? What if she is abducted? What if a bomb lands on her house? What if she forgets about her promise? What if she becomes a lunatic? But what if I die? Naah, that's impossible. Still, how can she think like that? 

Five words to start with  Seven to turn the plot around   Five more for a Haiku   

A story was stuck in his mind. It refused to let go. He tried everything to coax it. He stared at the white sheets of paper till his eyes refused to see. He keyed in every known word in the dictionary. He played all the songs twice from his iPod. He took a walk in the park. He danced in the rain. He rode off in to the sunset on his rickety scooter. He slept with another woman. He pretended to be mad. He read every book in the library. But his story stayed put, until his grandson stumbled upon his diary. But then, it was no longer his story in spite of his grandson telling everyone so.     

Some one ran 15 miles today. Someone celebrated her birthday. Someone shared her holiday pictures. Someone shared his angst. Someone cracked a badass joke. Someone lied. Someone loved. Someone aired his political view. Someone tried to be cool. Someone shared his honeymoon plan. Someone bought a new car. Someone poked someone. Someone insulted someone. Someone liked something. Someone had a baby. Someone looked at all this and decided to blog.  

What do I write when my inkwell has dried up? What do I write when the paper tears at every stroke? What do I write when words carry no meaning? What do I write when my characters just fade away? What do I write when my mind is a clean slate? What do I write when there is no story to be told? What do I write when reality is no longer real? What do I write when there are no readers? What do I write when my muse goes missing? What do I write?  

The jungle is fine as long as you are not bred in a zoo, the guide joked. Well, what they call the jungle was a zoo at some point of time. Then the bombing started. All the zookeepers disappeared, the animals were left to fend for themselves. Some were stolen, some eaten, and some died... those who escaped now rule this jungle. So don't be surprised if you see an animal so geographically out of context grazing next to you. It's just a zoo that has gone haywire. A zoo without boundaries and cages. A zoo where every animal is for himself. 

Why the heck am I writing melancholy stuff? Is it because I have nothing else to write? Maybe deep within I am missing my melancholy self. Or is it because I am way above all this crap? Is that me who is speaking? Why am I keying in this? Has the muse left you man? Have you become so old that your brain has frozen? I need a break. Look at all those questions I have asked. I avoided the question mark as it will make the previous sentence another question. So, where were we? Ah! We are in this man's muddled brain. See the grey cells aren't firing the way they ought to. He needs to be overhauled. Dude get me a spare brain from the refrigerator. Hey, you don't have permission for that. Only GOD has the power to do that. Then why the fuck do they call me Darwin?