From the lone wolf’s track

As she walks from those different sequences of the same sidewalks she moves her lips as if chanting something so religious that she is deeply devoted to. And then she looks up and sees people and she sees those stories floating above their heads or sideways. Those aren’t necessarily real ones, but they are what she wants to believe they are. And then she does what she has been doing for so long, make it all up.

She makes up stories of how it could be, how it must be like to… or how it would be and she smiles sometimes but sometimes she wonders too long for her to notice she has reached her destination. Her stories come from her everyday journey, on different tracks of the same mind.

These are the stories from the sidewalk (the name was already too popular and copyrighted for me to take it as my title) which come literally from the sidewalk on the way back to her home.

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Killing me softly-A Sinatra story

It all started with the setting of a lavish restaurant where Sinatra entered in the most extravagant suit complimented by a hat along with the company of more extravagance. The entire room smelled of champagne, caviars and diamonds and he was trying to find love in the fake laugh of the beautiful woman sitting before him. Then he noticed the singer who had been singing in a moderate volume with a music which failed to match the setting and was more real to the ear than Sinatra could expect from such a place. In that split second glimpse of the band, the background blabbering of his wife and the twinkle of all the crystals that her cherry blonde hair strands wore took him someplace he remembered the most clearly.

Everything was brassy, the chairs, the tables, the bar and the drinks. An old place that felt young as it hung music on its walls that rung there permanently in there own spaces and with time each one got its chance to come forth the loudest. And here Sinatra entered with a group of boys wearing faded and stained shirts and trousers with suspenders. Each of them having a drink to hold and their youths painted on their faces.

It all began rapidly and ended even quicker. He saw her there dancing and singing, laughing through her dark maroon lipstick and eyes closed as she lived in that second when the beat jumped through her flowing cherry blonde hair. He went to her and matched her rhythm and they danced like it had all been choreographed before, the  conversations. He told her what he was and she could understand exactly, his pain and hurt. She could make people cry with her voice but he was susceptible because he had her and so he had control. A studio apartment, instruments, bliss and them sleeping together on a mattress.

The split second ended and he was back in the age when the face reflected lesser than what he had lost in time. The singer wore a glitter dress and sang like the nightingale did, and he sat there looking at her singing his life. The love and hurt; the smile and pain; him and her; everything. His love still dissolved in her youth once married to music, and he desperately wished for her to sing him back to the time. Her voice was killing him softly and he was no longer immune because he did not have the control, he could not have her.

“She sang as if she knew him in all his dark despair and then she looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. But she was there, the stranger, singing clear and strong. Killing him softly with her song, telling his whole life with her words, killing him softly with her song.”

via Daily Prompt: Brassy


I have seen dots of lights all the time. I have been seeing them embedded permanently on the blue fabric right above my head; I have seen them sparkle my eyes when I look at the Sun through the web of branches and leaves, and I have seen them suspended on the vertical plane making outlines of hills to separate them from the sky. But today I saw something that I had never seen before. I saw dots of light, the same yellow sheen that recurrently twinkled, floating. I saw groups of such dots that illuminated the grass on which I rest at a time of dusk when its not bright enough for them to not be out but not dark enough for me to not be out either.


“Do you remember how in our childhood we would get fascinated by anything and everything?”, she asked me.

“Yes”, I gave a transient chuckle with a mix of happiness and sorrow, and realized how nostalgia works, it gives us happiness from the recollection of the joy of past and then there comes the knowledge of how we can never get that back.

“What do you think happened?”

” I think maybe we just stopped looking from the same kaleidoscopic eyes. What do you think what happened?”

“I think we stopped stopping to give time and just see. “

Lines of a Lover

If I could read your lines
Sit right there and go through your part
So close as if studying all the topographies
of your journey reflected on your skin
The lines that tell me the stories
with the highlights of your scars

Its beautiful because I can almost see the lover
in your eyes covered with the sheen that has not yet died
The lover who waits in the hope
the entirety of her revolved around him
She revolved around him
gracefully holding a cup following him

He never admitted but he knew
he saw from the corner of his eye each time
how she refused to stay awake
how she held him when he screamed and tried to push her away
how she cried to induce the same
and he would finally give up and crouch to fit his giant exterior on her small lap
crouch to fit his giant ego into her small kind eyes

Then I would look at his spectacles
that see a different universe
one in which our truths are not the same
unluckily for me I can’t peep into his world
Because the glasses don’t reflect him
they only reflect the ones looking at him


Oh our victorious king,
how glorious is your reign upon the vultures of our land

Oh our victorious king,
how tasteful is the feast of the cultivated poisoned soil

Oh our victorious king,
how luxurious is the blood-stained throne

Long live the king,
Our victorious king,
May you spend the rest of your life wondering where the victory is

That drawing

In her news feed she saw a post, picture of a drawing made by him. The drawing had a guy and a girl, the guy with demon’s thorns and the girl with angel’s halo. The guy was giving yellow flowers to the angel, and the drawing had some words that said,”Don’t get too close, its dark inside. Its where my demons hide.”

“Oh my god, its our song. We used to sing that together. The girl has hair like mine but is it really me?” she screams squeakily. “Wait, it can’t be me.”
“Wait, it is me, the girl is wearing a wrist band which he gifted me and I used to wear the same thing.Oh my god!!! I can be his saviour and kill away all his demons.I can be his light.”

“The darkness in you is beautiful, I will not destroy you. My light will stay at its end, keep your darkness on the other, we’ll meet at the line that divides us so that you finally realize how much I love these demons you talk of all the time.” a comment said which was by another girl who loved him badly.

The disguise

And so the moon comes at nights
orange, completely disguised
my lover he calls himself
as I wait for dawn to see my love.

Jiggly skin

“I remember when I was younger than my grandson, I used to play with my grandmother’s inner arms, the loose hanging skin jiggled so playfully with me so that her wrinkled skin would amuse me to compensate for her lack of energy.

Now my grandson does the same to my inner arms, and asks me similar questions that I used to ask when I was his age. Its funny now that I think about how this cycle is going to repeat itself for generations to come.”

My grandmother used to say that all the time whenever I would play with her inner arms. Unfortunately my grandson doesn’t play with my wrinkled body or ask me questions, he just stares into a screen and says it can answer all his questions and that it can play with him anytime he wants.

via Daily Prompt: Jiggle

What do you see?

The teacher turned on the projector and went on to open the file which he would use to teach the class. The projector seemed to have known something from the beginning because it started playing a game with the two who sat in the front. The projector painted on the white screen a blurry sky blue image with foaming white smudged as we went below and all this framed by two vertical lines again blurred that stood around the blue. The girl in the front found it beautiful how the projector knew her so well. The boy who sat next to her saw her and asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing, its just so beautiful.”

“What do you see that you find so beautiful?”

“Just look at that, doesn’t it seem like someone had been trapped in the dark container for a very long time and finally the door had bee opened and so this light has made his vision blurry and soon everything will get cleared out and he will see a clear blue sky with white ocean calling him.”

He smiled and asked her,”Can you see a boat?”

She kept looking there, she loved the game.”Yes.”

“Tell me what do you see exactly? What came into your mind when you thought of a boat?” he asked her.

“I see a boy standing on the boat looking the other side. The boy is thin, dark and wearing only shorts exposing his skin. His skin seems to be wet, but thats all.”

Then the teacher’s voice got amplified somehow so she looked at the teacher but she only had one question running around in her mind.

“What do you see?”

He smiled a little and said,”I see a boy standing on the boat and then diving off into the ocean.”

She imagined the feeling and the sound of the boy diving into water, exactly how the boy would feel at the moment of splash when he would experience the thrust of the surface and how every sound would be diminished once he gets inside and feel his constant amplitude of a beautiful symphony. How light he would have felt. But only later did she realise that perhaps their visualizations were more same than she would have thought because she understood that the boy she imagined had come out from the ocean after the boy he imagined was done with the water.

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