Monday, 27 February 2012

A life less lived...

She didn't rest on a Sunday,
It was work and work and work,
She didn't relax on a holiday,
The priority was work, only work.

She didn't smell the flowers,
She'd rather be working late.
She didn't go for a walk,
It was always meetings, deadlines and updates.

She didn't hear the birds chirp,
The phone being stuck to her ear.
She didn't once look at the park,
Though she crossed it everyday of the year.

She didn't dream,
It was always about practicality 
She didn't breathe,
Though she respired just like everybody.

She didn't sleep at nights,
And one of those nights she passed away,
With her head on the laptop, and the phone in hand,
Her only worry?
She couldn't meet the deadline the next day...

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Hope: a six sentence story

An angel wanted to see the glorious earth that everyone talked about. She peeped from the clouds but saw black instead of blue, brown instead of green, dumps instead of trees. She saw the horrors of war and the predicament of poverty. She saw the earth dying, rasping for breath, while her own inhabitants filled their pockets. Where ever she looked, she saw hunger, death, destruction.
And then she saw the smile on an infants face as his mother cuddled him, and she thought that it's not that bad after all; for where there is love, there is hope...

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Untitled...for now...

Dead. She is dead.
He stared at the corpse on the floor and the knife in his hand. A slit in the throat. It had been easy. Too easy.
Oh my god! What have I done?
It was a deal gone horribly wrong. It wasn't supposed to end like this. It was never meant to.
The knife dropped from his hand with a soft thud.
Get rid of the body. Clean the carpet. Hide the knife.
Some one knocked on the door.
Oh no! Not now!
Beads of sweat formed on his formed.
There was the knock again. The man would see. He couldn't let him see.
He kicked her limp body aside and went to open the door.
Only an inch. No more.
The post. A letter.
He snatched it and banged the door shut in the postman's face.
The body. Have to hide the body.
His mind raced for a hiding spot.
The garbage bag. No one would know.
He took out the black bag form the cupboard.
Blood. Everywhere. The smell. Her smell.
He spread out the bag and pushed her inside. Her lifeless eyes stared back at him.
Why did you do it? They seemed to ask.
He closed them, scared, of her, of him, of everything. He knotted the bag and put it aside.
The carpet. There were blood stains on the carpet.
He advanced towards the carpet. Rolling it up, he pushed it in a far corner of the room. The police were sure to notice, but he couldn't do anything else.
He picked up the knife and washed it. He made sure to clean every inch and put it back on the counter.
He splashed cold water on his face.
Have to go. Someone will notice that she hadn't gotten up. She never slept late.
He picked up the garbage bag and made his way towards the door.
Get rid of the bag. His instincts said.
He spotted a dumpster and pushed the bag inside. He looked around warily for witnesses. None.
He went inside again. Just to make sure, there weren't any clues left. His eyes fell on the letter. It was addressed to her. The traitor.
He ripped it open. It was from the police. His blood boiled. He had been right. She was backstabbing him. Informing the police about his gang.
Listen to me! I am not lying! She had screamed. She was. She bloody well was.
He looked back at the letter.
Your help is appreciated. It said.
The witch!
He continued reading.
In return, as already promised, all the charges against your brother have been dropped. He is a free man now.
The letter fell from his hands. The realisation of what he had done hit him with full force. He had brutally murdered his only family.
Listen to me! I am not lying!
She hadn't. All this time, by helping the police, she was saving him. 
He broke down, collapsed on the floor.
It was over.
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