Disappearences

Disappearances were like clouds. They took on any shape you perceived for them. Some disappearances were boring, like the normal regular cotton ball resembling clouds. Some of them were interesting, like the shape-shifter clouds that assumed so many different shapes in one minute. Some disappearances were dramatic, quite like the storm clouds, there was so much happening in them that you couldn't really tell what was going on, but you knew there was something there.

Aayana wanted to disappear. She was contemplating which kind of disappearance to make. The first one was mundane to the point of being routine almost!! I mean, all she had to do was offer an excuse, follow it up with some facts and then go on to prove that her disappearance was indeed relevant to the general schema of life. The second one seemed to her like being like the plot of one of those "intelligent" Hollywood spy thrillers; everything was there and yet it seemed like it wasn't. The last kind of disappearance was what compelled her. There were so many layers to it. So many things that one could perceive, so many interpretations that could be had. It seemed like a delightful possibility. Sitting at the cashier's desk in a hardly-shopped-at grocery store, Aayana daydreamed, and daydreamed.

Truth was any plan she made seemed deliriously ingenious. She didn't think her disappearing would cause much of an upheaval, she was well aware of the fact that no one was indispensable. The trick here was to make things seem exciting. She wanted to disappear with a flourish, leave a note, probably specifying not to look for her. She sat there lost in her thoughts when a customer walked up to her. For the first time in what seemed like years, she finally put to use what her boss taught her. After giving the man his change, she sat back in her chair, daydreaming again. She knew that she would be back tomorrow, sitting at the cash register and waiting and dreaming some more. She had learned long ago that somethings just kept moving, like sunrise and sunset. They were events you could count on. Her life was an unvariable.

It was into this unvariable life of hers that her dreams began, at first just little splashes of color in her gray world. The more vivid they became, the more intense was her need to step out and disappear. She wanted to claim her tint from the rainbow and become ungray. She saw beautiful bodies to mutilate, she saw how she was going to kill each of the colorful people, until a little bit of their color slipped into her empty palette of gray and gave it depth. She kept killing, in her dreams, until she was the rainbow, full and bright, magical and magnificent, perfect.

She came to a realization: disappearing didn't have to mean going away, disappearing could mean becoming someone else. Acquiring a new personality for oneself that was so far removed from the original that it would seem like the old you had disappeared to give way to the new you. Aayana felt that this almost disappearence was better than the one she had envisioned. The idea of actually going away was not half as thrilling as being everywhere as different people. She could be the cinderella at a party who disappeared at the stroke of midnight. She could be the good samaritan who you wished you could thank.

Aayana smiled inwardly, she was going to live her dream. She saw them as a sign of things. Her dreams were telling her to become something more interesting than a casheir at the hardly-shopped-at grocer. Her dreams were asking her to reach out and seize a moment, make it her own. They told her things with such vivid detail, and her blood sang so loud in those moments of lucid intra-dimensional living that she woke up orgasmically delirious. It took her such effort to calm down. The most vivid picture her mind painted was a killing in the dark night; when the earth wore her black cloak and lined it with silver, embroidered it with stars she would step out, equipped with the finest steel. Her victim was colorful without a doubt. She did not want to kill gray people, gray people would make her grayer. The wound would be inflicted, straight to the heart first, slicing the jugular after and wiping the blade clean on the dead person's clothes. She would lay the knife across their heart and walk away; out of the dark mysterious night and disappear. The next morning she would be back as the cashier at the hardly-shopped-at grocer. Disappearing did not always have to be about going away.

The killing

She's got fish eyes this one. Perfect, delightfully curved and analytical. Fish eyes. That what they are. Looking into them he is reminded of all the times he was hiding from himself, the world and life. He thinks, it was a gaze as direct as this that kept him behind the curtains. She hopes to God he can't read her mind. If he did he'd probably roll around the restaurant floor and laugh his diaphragms off!!! She wanted to stand under a neem tree, eat ice gola's and talk life, love and philosophy. She wanted to stop people from looking at her like they owned her very soul, she wanted him to stare all those lecherous fools down, she wanted to walk out of this restaurant without a proposition ringing in her ear. She wanted for once in her life to not be reminded of her means to her daily bread.

She could go on wanting, but reality caught up rather nastily. An old client of hers walked up to her, dropped a wad of cash and said "8:30 tonight, the usual place; this time I booked us a penthouse suite." The tears welled up involuntarily and the man sitting in front of her changed from knight in shining armour to a morally upright member of society. This time she didn't bother to hide the contempt. He was here because she wanted him from the time he set foot in that house. He had come there to meet Meetha. She staged an accidental encounter at the mall yesterday and here they were, coffee and conversation. Just like the hoarding at this "joint" promised. Except this conversation was becoming more of a farce by the minute.

He got up to leave, and she couldn't wait to see him again, she knew he'd be dropping in to see Meetha again tonight, she was going to switch with her. She knew penthouse man wouldn't worry, he just needed the service. That bloodthirst she had kept at bay for so many years was back. The last time it was her father, the orgasm from that had yet to find its equal, tonight with this man she was determined to make it unforgettable. There was no better way to kill a man than to ride him and slice his neck as he came...

P.S: I have no idea where the hell this came from. Shyte!!!

I am this

So you wanna write poetry?
Hit ‘em hard with the words and vocab?
Then go ahead and write.
Let the words spill out of your gut,
let them form slowly and steadily in your head
until it all builds up and just spills over.
Because sometimes the thoughts just cannot keep themselves still.
Write then,
you writer,
sucker punch them readers of yours
With words;
let them clutch their guts in pain
as you hit them.
Write...
you voice of the pen,
just fucking write.
If you don’t talk now,
the silences will swallow you
and later, even if you try to speak
they’ll only hear babble.

The Apple Cart Theory of Creativity

You upset the apple cart, and all those apples fall out and you go and make apple pie with it. Just so you know that apple pie will be perfect. The crust will be perfectly crumbly, the filling will have just the right blend of cinnamon and sugar and apples. That apple pie you make when the apple cart is upset is what I call creativity. I mean do you ever see creativity being inspired by sunshine and moonstars? Creativity like a lot of good things in life comes to you when the apple cart is upset!!!!

Reader, I do agree that it does seem highly plagiarised and severely inspired by the "chicken soup for the soul" level "lemonade" analogy of life. But I like this one better, because sometimes a better kick than chocolate is biting into some really sumptuous apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. That moment of bliss, and pure joy in eating something beautiful is what I call life. Lemonade is never quite perfect, it is either a tad bit too sour or a tad bit too sweet. There is such a thing called the perfect apple pie. We have all eaten it sometime. That perfect pie is what this theory is based on. The ability to put one's mind into something and create perfection is creativity in my opinion.

So then reader mine, to that moment when the smell of fresh baked pie inspired us to take a bite and experience perfection. I toast this slighcha plagiarised but nevertheless original theory!!!! :-P

Shruthi

Silences

There is a room and two people in it. The day outside is bright, sunny and humid. The air conditioner is humming so loud you had to scream a few decibels louder than usual to even whisper. There is a television on, playing inane entertainment that gets worse in degrees as her finger flicks the remote. Somehow, there seems to be no tension in the room. Its just him and her, and a room. The conversation moves from things mundane to things probably relevant in a reminiscence 50 years from now. Then, without even asking the question emerges, in butterfly touches, in measuring palms, in just lying there in each others arms and pretending to not know what it was leading to. Out of nowhere the passion explodes, one minute is quiet, and the next there is desire. A melding of bodies, with so many questions that form in the sweat beading their skin. Questions that get asked as they slowly stop and regain that staccato rhythm of vagueness again. The clothes come back on, the masks are back it doesn't seem like the moments of naked reality will ever return. The memory of pleasure recedes in a corner of their minds. They sit in their private silences in that room, thinking back. It is time to leave and the neutrality of banter creeps in again somehow. The drive back is simple enough, so is the parting. Tomorrow, as it always was, is and ever will be, is simply another day.