Thursday, 20 September 2012

Zombies



It's a place where the cries of the agonised
Are drowned in the perfect harmony of artificial beauty.
It's a bedlam of emotions, selfish beyond doubt,
Devoid of love, except love for money,
Devoid of hope, except hope for success,
Devoid of philanthropy, except when it's for self-benefaction.
It's a place where relations are measured in numbers.
It's a mirage of perfectness, where reality is smothered by the ever evolving art of pretension.
Because beneath the perfectly chiseled face of the human race,
Lies the grotesque contorted form of a zombie.

Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Voices


You can't do it Kelly. The annoying sing song voice whispered.
Of course she can do it. Go on.

They were everywhere. Everywhere.
Don't do that Kelly.
Let her be.
Stop getting irritated kelly.
We don't like u irritated.

She banged her head against the brick wall.
Oh you can't hurt us like that Kelly. Can't. Can't. Can't. 
The voices were sweet, sweet to the point of being lethal. And they were everywhere. Some were echoes, subtle and passive while the others had the intensity of a tornado and the high pitch of a whistle. 
She tried to climb out, digging her nails in between the gaps of the bricks. One of her nails chipped of and she screamed-more in frustration than in agony.
Little kelly is mad. 
Don't be mad Kelly. Just give up.
Give up and join us. 

She kicked the wall getting a soft musical chuckle in response. 
Give up. Join us. Kelly. Kelly. Kelly.
She closed her eyes and felt something change. Unwillingly, she felt herself letting go. She felt lighter and the voices were quiet. It was nice like this. Quiet and peaceful. Was she dead?
She opened her eyes and saw the four walls of the room. Just as they were supposed to be. 
But this time she was trapped in one of them.
Welcome home, Kelly.

Saturday, 15 September 2012

Hollow


She stared vacantly at the blur of colours on the tv screen. 

Tom and Jerry came into view. 

The flickering screen was the only source of light, creating an ambience of agony, insinuating seriousness even though the channel was cartoon network. A loud boom of thunder rocked the building. The sound brought back painful memories from a past that was better left forgotten, almost making her mask of calmness crumble. Almost.  She let her brown curls fall across her face, liking the obscurity brought by the natural veil.

Tom chased Jerry straight into the kitchen. 

She pulled her legs closer to her chest in a futile attempt to suppress the pain akin to a thousand daggers boring through her heart. Her pale fingers clutched mr. Bear in the same way her mind grappled for sanity. A quiet sob almost escaped her throat. Almost. 

She swallowed and continued staring blankly at Tom juggling a number of plates that jerry had thrown down. She could empathise with the feline, herself juggling a myriad of emotions that destiny had thrown at her. A purple saucer slipped and she gasped as it crashed unleashing a shower of broken glass fragments. Broken like her. A sudden jolt of pain- an aftershock from the ordeal, amplified by the supposedly humorous cartoon, carved out a huge piece of her heart. 

Tom jumped in air horrified at the mess jerry had made. 

Her face, though, was emotionless. Inside was a raging storm, the dams blocking her feelings were on the verge of bursting, almost letting the tears seep drop by drop. Almost. She wiped out the tear before it emerged. 

Tom, meanwhile, was cleaning up, feverently sweeping the heap of evidence under a carpet. 

Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. 

She had almost managed to sweep the pieces of her shattered life under a rug. 
Almost. She missed one little piece and the skeletons had come back to haunt her-a cyclone of hate and guilt screaming in her brain, shrieking, shouting, cursing.

Tom's owner stomped into view, screaming something unintelligible. Tom bowed his head as the owner called him a worthless, useless cat. Jerry, meanwhile, laughed away at the window sill.

Footsteps became audible in the corridor. Someone yelled something akin to a worthless, useless woman with the tv. She closed her eyes and waited for the head that would soon appear in the doorway. She knew the words before they were even uttered.

"Ms. L, it's time." 

Jerry waved goodbye and 'the end' was splashed across the screen in big, bold italicised letters.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

The observer


Shoes. They would tell a lot about the wearer to the haggard vagabond slumped next to the trash can on 26 street. All kinds walked by him everyday. Pink high heels, black steel toed boots, fluorescent converse, stylish pumps and even the odd worn out derby. Grabbing his attention today was a pair of bright red pumps strolling alongside pink running shoes. The red pumps were obviously irritated by their partner. You could tell by the fact that they hit the ground with a little more force than required. The running shoes were patient, like a lioness stalking the prey, their gait apparently casual yet the tightened leg muscles suggesting apprehension. The pumps stopped, turning a hundred an eighty degrees. The runners, taken by surprise, stopped abruptly in their tracks. The heel of the pumps came down on the toe of the runners. They stepped back.
"Sorry. My bad." A voice as lethal as the crimson pumps spoke. The shoes resumed their journey seemingly unaffected by the episode but the vibes of malice were easily identifiable.
The vagabond chuckled as the odd pair retreated into a coffee shop and a new one comprising of sneakers and loafers came into view.

Saturday, 8 September 2012

Flash fiction contest!


The lascaux review is holding the first annual lascaux flash fiction contest.The submissions open today and close two weeks later. Hop on over to their site to submit your entry! It has no entry fees and a prize of 250$ for the winner. The rules are on the site as well. check out my story at number 41- Just like old times...
Happy blogging!

Friday, 7 September 2012

FSF: Numb


In psychology, memory is the processes by which information is encoded, stored, and retrieved.
It always felt easy for her to transform everything into equations, digits, technical jargon.
Endless words threaded together which were meant to give meaning but in the process of their formation ended up becoming just dark blots on a yellow page kept in heavy dusty volumes of encyclopaedias in old abandoned libraries.
Memory became a process governed by the complex working of neurones and neurotransmitters , just as life became directly proportional to respiration and independent of living.
For her, life was better off lived as numb.
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