Blahsphemy

Last night they discovered a human in the sewers, screamed the headline on Daily Vermin Times. Ed Rat paused to scan the headline and sipped his morning tea. He was in charge of the highly successful Human Extermination Programme. He came from the highly acclaimed family of rats that had unleashed Plague on the frail human race centuries ago. At that time rats used to be in the sewers and the humans used to be outside. Maybe they too had a Vermin Extermination Program. How ironic, thought Ed. We were destined to rule the world. We withstood their poison and laboratory tests. In fact, the tests made us stronger and resistant to the diseases. Now look at them hiding in sewers away from us, fearing us. The telephone rang. Ed woke with a start from his reverie. There must be something wrong, he thought. My room has shrunk, there are metal bars everywhere. It looks like a cell. I can see my cousins in another cell. They are all playing with something. What's this lump on my hand? What&#

It is an ear worm for sure, the doctor sounded confident. Ear worms, this guy is out of his mind. Aren't they harmless musical notes that get stuck on your mind? Well, my case was different. What got stuck was a piece of a ringtone. Something that sounded like the lovechild of a heavy metal riff and a banshee. It kept ringing and ringing till I became a sleep deprived zombie. Everything started because of that rotten room mate of yours. The junkie who had that ringtone from some progressive goth metal band. I was sleeping peacefully and then the blasted phone started ringing. It was so loud that it even impregnated my brain. Now, all I need is it to stop ringing. How do I do that? It might stop when the battery runs out. Excuse me doctor, could you please check how long my battery will last? As soon as the morphine kicks in, your battery will die. Then you can sleep peacefully. The doctor's voice echoed from somewhere up there. He looked up and saw a galaxy of halogen stars fad

I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the

Thoughts just streamed in like the cool breeze through a half open window. He wanted to be a big name in publishing. But his tales didn't really make it in a world brimming with stories. They just blended in with the rest. Only he could recognize them in a crowd. For others they were just like any other story. Some took them home, some didn't. They just stood there braving the odds for a random stranger to delve deeper into their souls. At times he also used to wonder whether he himself was someone else's story.

There is a problem with your breathing You either breathe in or out Why don't you just absorb without doing anything Its easy to say when you are from not from my universe I am an alien, you are one too We are two species wrapped in a time machine  So why don't we forget all this and go our separate ways  

Your heart is weak. Its delicate like a balloon filled with nails. Here, you can hear then jangle. Let's do an echocardiogram. Oh no, lets try TMT. Wait, let's see how long you can go on. Try not to do anything. You might as well die. That's safer for your cardiac condition. And so they chimed on.    

When thoughts become tweets When memories disappear like sweets When alarms wake up before sunrise When cars run on pure desire When souls seek asylum I soak in their moral bedlam For I am who I am The key to the mortal conundrum

They just came. They just went. We belong to the same family tree. Chirped one. But then her family tree is some other tree now. I am just a twig from her past. The little ones looked on with wonder. As we the true descendants of apes discussed trees. The time has come to say goodbye once again. Till we cross paths.

The wold was coming to an end. But unlike a hollywood movie there was a no soundtrack. No hero was racing to the superheated core to prevent it from erupting. Everywhere there was ash and magma. Nothing moved. Nothing lived. Nothing breathed. It was the end and nothing else. 

She could make out that her cat was in heat. If she let it have her way, there will be another set of mouths to feed. Already she had five. She couldn't imagine another five or six. To prevent that she will have to get the vet. But the vet was more expensive than feeding another six cats. What was she going to do now? Let the cats have their way or pay the vet? That's when she remembered that her neighbor's cat was a carbon copy of her cat in heat. Maybe, she could swap the cats. She was pretty sure that the neighbor wouldn't even notice. So she waited for a chance to get hold of the cat. Little did she know that the neighbor had already swapped his cat with hers.

You don't know. You are just stating stuff just for the heck of it. You don't see what I am going through. You are an idiot. You don't do anything about it. You just sit there and stare. You don't move a finger. You just don't seem to get it. You don't listen half the time. You look as if you are seeing it for the first time. You keep forgetting that I am in this shit with you. You don't respect others. You are always late. You are always the last to know. You are dodging work. You are not responsible. You don't love me. You don't have time for me. You don't take care of us. You don't comb your hair. You don't smile. You just don't seem to get enough of it. You don't own up. You are a lazy bum. You never do anything right. You are always broke. You stink. You drink like a fish. You flirt shamelessly. You don't think. You... 

it has been thirty days since you did something about it, he thought. Twenty five, not thirty days the calendar corrected him. He had this wonderful knack of procrastinating. So much so that he can be called a true champion in that sport. Deep inside he knew that he could beat anyone when it comes to keeping things for later. Sadly, the clock on his wall never thought so. Never had it paused once to look at him lounging on his chair staring at the wall. It had always been busy eating up the seconds a solitary tick and a tock at at a time. He stood up, yawned and looked out of the window. The shadows were longer than they were in the morning. A slight breeze was upsetting the fallen leaves on a cobbled path. The story was not going anywhere, just like him. That's when she stepped in, a wry little runaway from a nearby mental asylum. She was high on dope and he was a low on hope. She burst into his life through the front door. He didn't know what to make out of her. She didn'

Stop laughing you idiot. Yes I am a fish with a burn injury. No I didn't jump into anyones frying pan or into the fire. I was happily swimming around when that stupid driver lost control of his gasoline carrier and landed up in my pool. The rest they say is history with a scalding hiss. Happy? Stop guffawing or I will whack you with my unhurt fin. Fried fish my ...

I am pretty sure that I had pressed the send later button. The mail shot off like a bullet from my console to her. I didn't want to upset her now. I just wanted her to read it in leisure on a weekend when she can cry over it. I am sure, the damage has been done. I don't know how to face her now. Hope she doesn't see it till I am gone. Let me slink away before all hell breaks loose. He keyed in all that came to his mind on to his so called story. It wasn't going anywhere. He wanted to be a famous short story writer. So far the only thing he was sure of is that his stories were too short to be taken seriously. 

The pain is back.  A scimitar dodged inside my back.  I twitch and moan with every jab.  Invoking the gods of wrath.

My muse is not feeling well. She has a severe case of allergy. Of late she's has been shying away from the smell of ink. She even claims that blank white sheets make her depressed. Let's wait till she comes out of this.   

I simply didn't write yesterday. I wanted to, but I didn't. I was in a hurry to escape my cubicle. It has been sapping my soul, off late. Everyday I have been retracting into my shell more and more. You must be wondering why I am boring you with my personal crap. Wish, I knew about it. Maybe it's procrastination. Or am I way too deep in my shell that I  have lost touch with the outer world. Let me go back in there and mull over this.    

He was dead. His body lay motionless in the rain. His blood was washed off to the nearest drain. Now, it looked as if he was sleeping in the rain without a care in the world. The guy in the last bus to his hometown envied him for his sound sleep. One day I too will sleep like that, he muttered. Little did he know that we all will someday sleep peacefully only to never awake again.    

Traveller where are you going, asked the road. Wherever you are taking me, replied the weary traveller. I am not taking you anywhere, I am just a detour in your plans. I have no plans, I am blindly following you. Then let's enjoy the journey, replied the road and they moved on hand in hand.   

I am the one your mother had warned you against. He didn't know what to do next. He was a happy go lucky guy having a nice Friday afternoon in a downtown pub. He had met her on his way to the rest room. She burst out of the ladies giggling at some joke. He was hooked. Maybe it was the half pitcher of beer that was sloshing around in his abdomen that did the trick. He desperately wanted to strike a conversation with her. Every time he made a move, it seemed that the whole pub and its occupants thwarted him. He was at his wits end. That's when he thought of reaching out to her through the bartender. The bartender seemed to have succeeded. He returned with a little piece of paper. He hoped that was her contact number. Looked like she had other plans than to hit it off with a drunken fool. He tried to read the note again. It didn't make any sense. She never knew my mother, so how can my mother warn me about her? His head was hurting from trying to decipher the message. Already

His brain was behaving like a lousy mobile network connection. Maybe it's the planet, he thought. Or is it the ancient oxygenator attached to my suit? Something is messing with my neurons for sure. And now, the faulty connection has put him in a fix. Something he didn't decipher quite well has angered the beast at the alien immigration centre. His visa got a potential threat stamp which will make life miserable for him. He stepped out into the harsh alien sun on Planet H. He desperately needed a drink.  She spotted him from miles away. He was wearing an ancient contraption that looked like a space suit. He was waddling towards the nearby bar. She smirked and gunned the motor of her craft. It lunged forward like a cheetah that got stung by a bee. She hated aliens and wanted to get rid of them in every way possible. The alien saw the speeding craft. It fired a neuron in his brain and he stepped aside with the finesse of a matador. He was surprised at the new found agility. She wa

The philosopher was having a wonderful dream. In his dream, he was handed the cup of eternal happiness. Before he could lay his hands on it, a bell rang somewhere. It rang again and again until he was fully awake. It was his damn cellphone. God was calling! But what worried him more was his dream. Was the cup full or was it empty? All he wanted was to go back to his dream. 

I usually do this kind of work in isolation. I simply can't stand anyone looking over my shoulder while I am at it. Today, it was a bit different. She was there by the door. Waiting patiently for me to finish. I got a bit irritated at first. Or was did I get distracted? I am not sure. My victim was bleeding profusely. I had planned a swift death. Then I saw her. I slashed a bit below the mark. The arterial spray was a bit too much. It was getting messy. So I quickly finished the job with a swift cut. She wanted me to have my dinner before it became cold. It had already been to the microwave twice. I grudgingly got up. One can't piss off a wife even while finishing off the main character in my story. As I sat there prodding my meal, it struck me, I could've used the gun.  

There were no numbers on the clock. No hour hands either. It was just a circular contraption that chimed randomly. The flawless fluorescent lighting of his cell never gave away anything about what was happening outside. Everything was white, the chairs, the tables, his clothes, the floor... The only things that weren't was his hair and eyeballs. He yearned for some colour in his life. But wait, didn't the story start with a clock? That contraption was still there and it chimed startling him from his dreams filled with colours.      

Will you take off today? The body pleaded with the brain. I will someday, muttered the brain. Deep inside he knew that someday was not there on any calendar he had come across.  

You are doing a brilliant job my boy. When you walked in through that door, you were that, but now you are this. You are that as well. You are blah, blah, blah. That's why we had taken this deliberate decision to underpay you. So that you will always remain hungry and foolish. You are the best.   

All the contents of my mind were strewn around. I panicked, was there a burglar lurking somewhere in there? Or did my mind explode? As I stood there contemplating, my alter ego emerged and consoled me. It seems, he was just cleaning up my closet.

There is that nagging spelling mistake again. You make that even after being aware of it. Maybe it's hereditary. Your DNA has messed with your brain big time. Now swallow your pride and correct that word. He couldn't believe that his computer could be so harsh on him. After all, he was the one who set the autocorrect function to full-sarcasm mode.  

The lizard was sunning itself on a branch. His body was the colour of the leaves. His tail was the colour of the bark it was resting against. His eyes were two alert pinpoints which scanned the surroundings. That's when he noticed me gaping at him. He turned his head away in dismay. I don't blame him as for him a big dumb human is nothing compared to the juicy tiny flies he might miss while looking at me.   

He lay there motionless watching the ants marching on the ceiling. Right from his childhood he had this fascination for ants. He never used to get tired of the ant and the grasshopper story. He tried remembering the various types of ants he had come across in his life. The red ones, the black ones, the tiny grey ones, the big black ones, the sour ants, the hard stingers, the ticklers... the list went on and on, just like the ants on the wall. Later that day, when the cleaner lady found him lifeless on his bed, he had ants of every shape and size coming out of his brain.    

For the first time I wrote the title before I keyed in a single word of my story. Isn't it usually the other way around? Or had I got it all wrong? While I was grappling with all these, I figured that I had reached halfway down my story. You must be wondering what I am talking about. I am talking about the story that will be unfolding soon in your mind. The story about writing the title before the story. Think about it. Is there really a theory behind this whole process? Something that can help me write better? Or will. It help you read better? Think.

Dear Owner, I have been working at your esteemed residence ever since I was taken out of my original packaging. I have ensured that not even a single day passes without me giving 100% to the job I have been entrusted with.   But, of late I have been called a laggard, a good for nothing, a pain in the god knows where and a host of other expletives by you and your family members. I want you to have a one-to-one with me and explain if there is something wrong with me. It would be great if we could do it while your wife is not around. For I suspect that she's the one who has brought about this predicament. I have seen her drooling over advertisements of some futuristic model that claims that it can run circles around me. I strongly feel such magazines should be banned for your monetary stability if not for anything else. At times I feel I am an unwanted member of your family. I don't deserve to be insulted and ignored like this. I request you to look into my c

I am off anaesthetics. The synapse cheerfully declared. Me too declared another. Soon there was a chorus. They were celebrating their victory. But, on a dentist's chair a poor patient was wriggling with pain much to the chagrin of the dentist who had administered a double dose of Morphine. 

No this isn't going to be easy. You can't write any random thing and expect the audience to lap it up. How can you write something like this? You guys decide for yourself, here's what he wrote.  Letting go wasn't that easy. The fear of what might happen gave him a vice like grip. He had to really work hard to pry loose the digits one by one. He could see it plunge down an abyss without an afterthought. Suddenly he felt light like a feather. He was defying gravity. All that he had worked for and hoarded had gone with it. Will you read any further? I don't think I would. That's precisely why I think you should focus on telling stories that can move your readers. The writer listened to every word of what his agent had to say. He slowly got up and tore the manuscript into two and walked out in search of a better story.        

Have you ever seen a lizard stuck on wet paint? At first, it will be confused as to why it can't move. Then slowly desperation and hunger will set in. Finally death creeps in. As soon as death pays its visit, the ants rush in. They are there to eat up whatever they can. Soon there will only a skeleton remaining. A grim reminder as to how our world can kill us, before we know what's wrong.   

The ghost was there. He could sense it the moment he entered the room. He didn't feel  frightened at all. He had always lived with it. It was the ghost of his past. He was in fact missing it. But today, he found it staring at him from the front page of the newspaper.     

The other woman is back. Today she landed up out of nowhere. Like an unexpected gust of wind that rattles the windowpane. Tomorrow when you tiptoe down the alley, if something crumbles under your foot do take a second look. It might be a fragile heart bleeding love or the broken shards of the window pane.   

Two down three more to go. The tables were turned. The hunters became the hunted. He had caught a glimpse of them when he entered the room. One of them drew blood when he was distracted. He finished him off with a deft blow. The others were there somewhere. Waiting for him to drop his guard. He knew that they were crazy for his blood and that will lure them out into his trap. He waited for them patiently. From the corner of his eye he saw a speck moving, with the swift precision of an ace tennis player he whacked the life out of his opponent.  

The bridge was in a real bad state. It had held on for a couple of decades. It was the only connection reality had with fantasy. But today as he was skimming the headlines, it gave up. The mere fact that the wide chasm separating them had shrunk made the bridge redundant. Otherwise what does cars that drive on their own, phones that can detect your moods or for that matter organ transplants mean.  

It was a cold winter night. The soldier dragged himself in through the broken door. He looked around, there was no sign of any inhabitants. The whole place was covered in soot. The resident spiders didn't much like his intrusion. The soldier was too tired to notice anything. He plonked himself on the dusty sofa and put his feet up on the broken stool. He wanted to sleep and wake up in another world where there was no war. Little did he know that 20,000 ft up in the sky a nuclear missile was seeking it's target.   

The music was blaring in the background. He could get whiffs of perfume, whisky and toenails. How did I end up here, he asked himself. That's when the bottle came crashing down on his head.

My conscience went for a stroll yesterday. The timing was a bit unfortunate. I was sprawled on the couch and my shrink was at hand. Armed with her dictaphone and razor sharp brain, she was ready for the assault. That's when he, my conscience, decided to walk out of the room. Maybe he felt it was unnecessary to hang around when the brain rattled out past incidents of guilt, happiness and sorrow. Knowing that she will be deducting patterns to prescribe whatever the pharma firm pays her to peddle. As he wasn't around, I could feed her with the juiciest fiction my brain could squeeze out and the rest they say is ecstasy.  

Today was rather uninspiring. She couldn't think of a better line for her story. The real inspiration behind that line was her cat. He didn't drag anything in today. He seemed content with his milk and didn't venture outside at all. Strange for a cat who used to wait for an opportunity to explore the neighbourhood. She sat there looking at him. That's when she heard the familiar meow from outside her window.   

Did he recognise you? I weighed that question in my mind. Did he? His face didn't give away much. His eyes were staring vacantly into space. His body was immobile. So did he recognise me? No idea, even he won't be able to answer that for his brain and body had stopped functioning long ago. 

I checked my mail for the umpteenth time. The job list was full as usual. Who wants to work on a weekend? The brain refused to kick-start the action. I am perfecting the art of procrastination. 

This happened a long long time ago. When you read it you won't be able to relate to it. All the places and faces would've been eaten up by time. So why bother telling it now? I won't, don't worry.

Five mistakes that can screw up your job, the subject line screamed. He opened the mail gingerly. As he progressed, realisation dawned that he had done every single one of them and with elan. In fact he had done a couple of other interesting things as well. He sat back and contemplated, if this email is true then how the hell did they make me the CEO of this damn company.

Zooropa was distant land. A land so distant that no one knew anything about it. When Ghad set out to discover the world, he also didn't have much of an idea as to what the world looked like. For him, Zooropa was his world, and for the world, he was an other-worldly creature.   

Today was a holiday for his brain. A week deserving break after being the grandmaster. But it was the most boring day in his life. He missed his pawns. He missed the checkered board. He missed the calculated moves. He sat there dumbfounded just looked his opponents when he used to utter stalemate. Little did he know that he was being played by life.

He wasn't there. That's the first thought that hit me while I turned the corner. I have been meeting him every day for the past three years. But today, it was different. I felt betrayed. He was a part of my daily routine and he wasn't there. How can he do that? I wouldn't have done that to him. That's when the newspaper headline caught my eye - "All statues to be removed for city beautification". Chances are they mistook him for a statute, or was he really one?    

I slept peacefully like a log. When I woke up, the calendar had shed more than 365 days. The world had changed its appearance. The children had grown. My friends had disappeared. A few wars were fought. It is really amusing, as all I did was sleep and the world went berserk.  

As usual I was waiting for my thoughts to return. I had sent them up the elevator at the mall. I could see them inside the claustrophobic glass capsule slowly moving up. I was waiting patiently by the elevator doors when someone in a guard's uniform confronted me. He wanted to know whether I was ogling at the women in the glass elevator. He laughed out loud when I told him about my thoughts. He pushed me out after threatening me with dire consequences. Now, here I am staring at the screen waiting for my thoughts to ring the doorbell. 

You have thirty seconds more, the mechanical voice chimed. He wasn't finished with his business, but he knew that if he didn't he will be humiliated publicly. Somewhere deep inside the labyrinthine structure, the HR manager was smirking, thinking about how he had succeeded in training his employees to piss fast. 

The red car was under the green tree as always. Those were her favourite colours, red and green. Why am I saying this now, no idea. As usual, her thoughts were getting cloudy. The anti-histamine were muddling her neurons. Soon red and green will merge to create a black hole where her memories will be sucked in. 

We bump into each other every other day. As soon as the doors shut, we nod and pretend to be busy in our own way. Sometimes he will count the stripes on his shirt. At times I will marvel at the condition of my worn out shoe. We never wanted to break the silence within those four steel walls. For it was our own sacred space which we co-inhabited.    

The mouse was dead. The deserted driveway was its deathbed. How did it end up there, no one knew. Somewhere in the distance an owl scolded its offspring for wasting a kill. The owlet hung its head in shame. He had hoped that the mouse would rush back to its family when he let him slip away from his talons. 

You owe me seven stories, the book screamed. The pen was taken aback by the sudden twist of things. It was hoping to have a leisurely stroll over the white expanses of papyrus. But today, things were different. Something had ruffled the book's pages and it was upset. 

It has to be a cathartic process, the words echoed in the empty corridors. Already the fire alarm had done the purging. The building was deserted and a fire was smouldering by the window where the Molotov cocktail had exploded.       

That's my story on four legs. It looked lost. It was panting as well. It just came out of nowhere. It sniffed the parked cars and regretted doing so. At times it seemed scared. At times it seemed brave. It stared at me. I stared back. I didn't extend a friendly arm or offer a biscuit. I just sat there. Soon, it grew disillusioned and went its way. All I know is that it was black. I can still see it in my mind's eye, a black speck floating away in a sea of white.   

The words disappeared again. This is the fifth time they are doing this. That too in a day. Let me to search for them, while you wait.

He fled leaving behind the acrid smell of his burnt hopes. The very hopes he had so lovingly nurtured all these years. All it took was one misguided thought and whatever action that followed. As he looked back, he could see them slowly fuming like a forgotten pyre.

I lost one day. Which means my year now has only 364 days unlike yours. How do I fix it? Can I borrow some days from your year?

Bowie was recalled today. His tape had come undone. For many, he was the man who sold the world. In five years he preached modern love to Ziggy stardust and was branded rebel by young Americans. For some slave oddities he was a hero whose moonage daydream brought changes to their world.

When the title came easily to him, he never suspected anything. Then he saw the lizard flee from its hideout. Maybe that's a distraction, he thought. Next came the strange sounds from upstairs. He didn't quite figure out what they were. All he knew was that this room was perfect to rattle out a horror story for the seedy old newspaper editor of Ghoul Times.

The prince couldn't revive her. The fairy godmother couldn't help either. The dwarfs were also at their wits end. Little did they all knew that what killed snow white was not the spell but the pesticide on the apple.

They were everywhere. It's automation at it's worst, screamed the media. But humanity couldn't live without them. They made everyone's life easy. Right from sweeping the roads to delivering babies, they did everything. And now they have discovered a bot that can help us walk. You just have to slip one on like a trouser and you will never have to move a muscle. How's that?

There is always something to look forward to in life. Little did he know that he was looking forward to his doom this time. There she was all set to crash into his fragile existence like a loose cannon ball.

Did I miss you yesterday? Or was it there day before? I ask this question whenever your face pops up. Sometimes I see you looking back at me in my rear view mirror. Or the ID card in my wallet. Or the family photo by the bed. You are always there. Even my wife recognises you. She even thinks that I am you.

All the lights just became green at the same time. And all hell broke loose. Soon traffic came to a stand still. It was chaos everywhere just because of green.

The ground was moving fast. He was speeding towards another realm on rails. Everything was a blur. And then wham, the breakthrough happened. Everything was suddenly in slow motion. His future and past lined up like two tracks to eternity with him suspended in space.

The street was empty, just like his wallet. He had used up his last penny to buy some ammo. Because when the war comes home he shouldn't be caught unaware. So he climbed back in to the claustrophobic cabin of his tank and shut the hatch tight. Now it's just me and them, he thought. That's when he saw the shadow of the mother ship looming large from behind the buildings

It better be impressive, thought she. After all it was the first day of the year. But he was in another world. The alcohol from last night's party still raged in his system. His hands were unsteady. The crowd waited impatiently to see the duo create magic on the trapeze.