Blahsphemy

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.