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 ...