Memories...
Everything that ever happened between us...was never real.
A falsehood always shrouding the truth.
An enigma waiting to be revealed...
a truth so real,a taste so tingling,a thought so revealing..
a Dream so Unnerving.
I wonder if I am real..and that’s when I see you...
Pain
What have you ruined ?
A shadow of betrayal as memories scream.
Once we were together in wonder,
wide-eyed and hand in hand,
but your thirst paled.
A vengeful pool of darkness .
Drops of blood follow night,
follow night.
Love bled dry.
In a rush of sorrow,
I hate you...
[The blog has been idle for a while so the apologies must happen. Better writing shall soon occur. Putting up poems which were written quite a while back but were never put up. Read, hate, whatever.]
Let the clock tick. Let the birds stop singing. Let everything get dark. Let the world go to hell. Let…
He dipped the biscuit in and took a bite. Not crunchy but not bad either. He liked it. The newspaper he had been reading was now open on pages four and five. He really did not care what the papers said anyways. What mattered to him was how crunchy the biscuit was. Ironic yes, but true.
The phone finally diverted his attention as it started ringing in its same monotonous ring. As he touched the receiver to pick it up, a cold hand gripped around the back of his palm and jerked it away. He turned around to see the familiar face of Peter.
“Hey man…what happened to your hands? They feel cold dude!”
Peter gave a cold smile and asked “Why are you home? Aren’t you supposed to be in college?”
The phone had stopped ringing now, apparently forgotten all about by the two people in the confusion. He looked at the packet of crackers and decided not to eat one. Let the damned crackers go to hell. He then looked at Peter and said, “I was supposed to be but then I thought I would sit at home and read the papers instead. Why you askin’?”
“ You should have picked up that phone. It was supposed to save your life”.
With those words Peter put his hand out and touched his shoulder with a finger. The room was changing now. The wallpaper smoked from the bottom, as clean red tongues of flame slowly licked them. The clock screen on the wall frosted over and hair-like cracks spread over it. Its ticking rose to a frenzied pace and its tick-tock seemed to drown out everything. Outside, large drops of some heavy, viscous liquid hit the windowpanes in a sick and dull rhythm. He turned to look and almost passed out. The liquid was a light blue with little portions of white thrown in. Drops of sky. His head was reeling. The sky was getting covered in a black puddle, thick and inky, as the color from it rained till the eye could see. White lightning tore across the skies, silent as a grave. A hissing sound came to him where the finger touched his shoulder and pain, white hot, filled his senses. He looked at his flesh bubbling like steam escaped from the nozzle of a pressure cooker at the point of contact . His feet buckled and he went down on his knees. The calendar behind Peter fluttered and he could see the date clearly: Friday the Thirteenth.
The phone rang again and he heard the recorder come on. It was Peter’s voice.
“Hey meet me in the college! We have this great plan where we will try and separate the evil self from the body. Sabby found this book you know! He…”
He woke up, bathed in sweat. The phone was ringing. He picked it up knowing whom it would be, but was disappointed. He looked at the calendar. The panda in the calendar gazed back at him nonchalantly and told him it was the Thirteenth of March. A Friday. The skies outside twinkled with a million microscopic pieces of ground glass. Safe.
It was Sabby.
“Hey dude! I know its too early in the morning to call and all but I had to tell someone. It’s Peter. You know, he said that he found this book. Then he said that he had a dream about me killing you. He is probably at your door as I speak. Don’t open the door…”
Let the stupid dream go down the drain. Let the skies go grey or pink or punk for that matter. Let the…
He slammed the phone back into its place and rushed for the door. It was still dark outside. He went and opened it.
Outside, it was still dark. He could see the neighbor’s car parked across the road, just as he had seen it while coming home yesterday. Not moving. It was not exactly supposed to move now, was it? He opened the door.
Darkness greeted him as a cold wind slapped his face softly.Nothing.
Let Sabby go to hell. Let Peter go to hell. Let Friday the Thirteenth take a hike. Let everyone mind their own business. Let…
He turned back when Sabby’s voice, cold and familiar, almost froze him,
“You were not exactly expecting me were you?”
[ The idea is taken from a conversation that I had over the phone with someone special last night and the night before. This post is dedicated to her. You are the best. You know you are.You are, Surbhi. To all my friends, foes and fanatics, a happy Friday the Thirteenth to you! Rot...err...enjoy!! :) ]
[The purple part has been written by the noted writer Preeti, while the rest has been penned by me as a part of an exercise. The parts, each, have been penned in 10 minutes flat. Picture courtesy "That Yellow Bastard" by Frank Miller (Sin City Series).Do excuse creative injustice and other subtleties on my end. Period. Go. Read.]
Dead.
“To us!” He smiles and then frowns. His eyes reflect horror.
The waitress puts the glasses.
“…a mistake! Shouldn’t have died! Did what you wanted right?” The man smiles and orders Beer.
“Meet me at Thugs, I want to thank you”, the phone says. He believes it…
[Entry for a 55 word story writing competition. The topic was "cheating". And I quote the Forgotten Wise; GO FIGURE!! :D ]
