Blahsphemy

This is the room of the dead. There in that corner lie my most favorite ideas. That is my relationship pile. All my friends and relatives co-exist there. See that dark corner? That's where my fears and fantasies lurk. Now for the door. Open that and you will be free forever. But then you will need my help for that. Why do you think all that's in this room are still there. Don't worry, you too will find your own place in here.

Something snapped loudly. Another brittle memory got stepped on by the wandering mind. It startled a thought perched high up on mind's branches.  It spread it's wing and disappeared in to the horizon. He cleared the cobwebs of sorrow to gaze upon the thickets of dreams that lay ahead. His day was just beginning in the island of lost thoughts.

They found him frozen stiff in his living room. His comp had a half finished email to an unknown recipient. The mail read like this. By the time you get this it would be too late. They would've found me frozen stiff with this email to you. But I will never tell them who you are. For that I will have to omit your e-mail id. So if you get to read this mail, check for the hidden clues. The usual ones. Peace.

The door creaked shut. There was a moment of panic in the room. Someone bolted from the bed to the nearest open door. He was cool about it. Every time he enters a room, he has seen such reactions. He moved towards the bed. He could hear someone scream from outside. What is he screaming about? Looks like the fool outside saw a  Komodo Dragon. Idiot. Let me finish what I came in for. Now where was that tantalising rotten meat smell coming from?  

This is John's pigeon that used to sit on my window. We were both prisoners in a locality that thrived on gunfire and terrorism. Whenever the pigeon was missing from my window sill, I think of what evil could've befallen my winged friend. Then like a messenger of hope he would appear. Today it was different. I am standing next to him in front of my humble abode. He is lying motionless on the snow. Looks like all that I had imagined so far has come true.

The world is round. I am Marco Polo. You are blind. This story ends nowhere.

He tried in vain to part force her eyelids open. You can never love a dead soul you fool, his companion hissed. It was time for him to open his eyes to the harsh realities of life.

He is out there. I could hear him. He is lurking in the shadows. Looking at us. I know what he wants. He is on the prowl for a good subject for his story. I am not gong to be one. I don't like him. I don't like the way he is spying on us. Let him come near. I will make him part of my story. Idiot.

He stealthily came down the stairs with a dagger and a cloak. She didn't see him coming. It was just another day for the writer.

Someone is knocking on the door. Hey, he looks exactly like you. He says he is your conscience. Who's that? Is he a distant cousin? He is saying he is you. That's simply not possible. How can you just lie there while I am having this weird conversation with this guy? He is getting on my nerves. He is calling me your soul. Shall I throw him out?  

Quick let's do it before anyone comes. He was dumbfounded by her bluntness. Did she really mean it? He was thinking about the consequences when she turned off the lights.

Somewhere in the East is a house where the sunlight dances during noon.  

He stared at the tiger. The tiger stared back. Neither he, nor the tiger showed any signs of backing down. After all, they were stranded in two different dimensions separated by metal bars.

 Error 404. System not found. No bread for toast. Illegal activity, detected.

This one is for tomorrow. These are for yesterday. This is for the year ahead. That is for the new millennium. Those were for the world wars. The curator of dreams rambled on and on as he guided the visitors through his collection. Little did he know that among the visitors was his worst enemy. The one everyone dreadfully called reality.   

Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am right. What if I am right in both? Then won't that make me wrong in both as well? 

It was the seventh day of the month with 29 days. Mignon and his followers were trundling down the hill that day. The sky gods seemed angry. A distant flash and rumble warned them of the fury that was waiting for them. Mignon wondered out loud - "Are we climbing down or are we climbing up?". His followers wracked their brains for an answer. The harder they thought, the faster they descended the steep hill. No one paid any attention to the perils along the way. They just were grappling with the question. Finally when they reached the bottom of the hill, they were too tired to think about it. Let's ask great Mignon what he meant, they mumbled and went to sleep.

He was a writer and a prolific reader. But today whatever he read didn't agree with him. He tried to forget the uneasiness by taking a stroll. But the words just bobbed up and down his uneasy self. His stomach churned. He was feeling nauseous. His hands trembled. He somehow made it to the garbage can next to the park. He threw up like never before. The words just flowed out of him as if a dam burst. He saw them lying there in the moonlight. The long ones and the short ones, complete with punctuations and accents. He spat out the last few words that were in his mouth and went to the nearby tap to wash off the familiar bad print taste.

The jar fell off the rack and shattered. There goes my last hope to regain sanity, thought Shef. It contained all his memories. His childhood, his love, his family, his friends... everything was slowly escaping from the jar in to thin air. He tried breathing in a few, but it didn't seem to work. The jar was his only solace during his madness. He used to extract memory after memory from his ravaged mind and store it in that jar. Now they are all gone. He screamed for help. But his padded cell stifled his screams. Outside he could hear people going about their life as usual. He kicked the walls, hoping they will come apart. He tried piecing the jar together. To his dismay, even the shattered glass pieces started melting away like ice on a hot summer day. He tried to get the nurse's attention by banging his head on the iron bars of his cell. She looked away as if he was not there. Just like the jar that shattered a few minutes back.

There is no story, she hissed at her children. All she wanted was to sleep after a hard day. She barely made it home after missing the last train. By sheer luck a colleague gave her a ride back home. Throughout the journey he was making salacious comments. She hated the moment she was born a woman. Isn't this a story? she thought. I don't want to share it with my children, she muttered and dozed off amidst protests from her little ones.

It was a hot summer day in the market. I have come for your dreams, the man shouted suddenly. The man had appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing tattered clothes from a bygone era. He looked as if he stepped straight out of someone's dream. No one paid him much attention. Dreams were too precious to be peddled to someone like him. I will pay you good money for your dreams, the man shouted again. Some laughed as if it was a joke. Some looked at him pitifully. Some shied away from him. An old man approached him. He shooed the old man away saying that he had no time for old-age dreams. He wanted fresh dreams. He wanted salacious dreams. He wanted ambitious dreams. He wanted revolutionary dreams. But, all those who had such dreams were far away chasing their dreams. Dreams, the man shouted again.   

The smoke bellowed out from turbine one. The craft veered to the left violently. Gravity was taking over. The other turbine will also give up soon. Then it's free fall and then maybe a sickening crash, thought Zarkov. It was his first mission to Earth. Everyone had warned him of the perils of gravity. He never thought his turbines would die out on him. His craft had never acted this way on any planet. The oxygen would've done the trick. His craft's overheated turbines just ignited like flares. There goes the second turbine. It's time to activate the evacuation pod. A voice deep inside his mind begged him to stop. He tried to reason with that voice, but finally he gave in. Like his inner voice he too was determined to see what will be the end like.

The night was speeding past his field of dreams. I have regained my powers, he muttered to himself. His words just died off even before it reached his ear drums. He was all wrapped up beside a reeking can of Kryptonite. The stars were dying fast, he thought. Or was it my eyesight? Either way the world looked a whole lot gloomier these days. My powers, he muttered again. An alarm blared, waking him up and his world. Another day, another mission, he thought, while searching for his cape.