Short stories

The Outsiders

From the balcony of her window, she could see the sad, thinking man, like her, sitting near his window, looking out into the space and cool of the night, wondering if there were more to this same-same routine he had come to call his “life”. He was not unhappy; he was by all measures what most would call a happy man, who has everything one would hope for in a suburban neighbourhood. A self-made man, he achieved career and success early in his life, with family comfort dropped on his lap a decade ago when it was deemed necessary for a man of his age and status to have a fitting wife and a tidy pack of children. He was well-liked by his colleagues as he gave a measured amount of care and concern about each of their lives, and he was held in high regard by his superiors for being neatly efficient. Alas, it seems to the outside world that the only thing he lacked was a Lassie-type hound to complete the middle class dream of white picket fences and unmessy, uncomplicated contentment.

The woman, who had been watching this man for several nights now, sensed the deep currents of unhappiness in this neat package of an executive. She had seen his eyes furrow when they wandered into a destination somewhere far away from where he now was and although she was too far to see, she imagined that she caught glimpses of tears as whatever he was thinking of was too impossible to attain. Every day at midnight, he would pour himself a glass of Scotch on the rocks, drink a sip of it, lay a coaster neatly for fear of spoiling the wood of his side table, then lay the glass calmly on the coaster, before raising the glass again to drink more of it. Was it just to numb his senses to the daily act he had to perform? Or, was it to intoxicate himself so that he could arrive at that place where he so yearned to be? The woman, who escapes to her window to catch a breath in the starlight, amused herself by thinking that this man knew the secret destination of where they both wanted to be.

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Oh, Happy Pain

Artwork by Miss E,
a good friend

When I awoke at morning,
I felt my skin cracking,
‘n my heart burning,
my head exploding,
my soul bawling,
my legs melting,
my eyes raining,
my lips bleeding,
my face swelling,
my ears splitting,
my cries deafening,
and my hands awanting.

Truckling down to ennui-knees,
mirrors sliced my humanities,
I put up with my indignities,
I grasped at my sanities,
I fought my absurdities,
I resisted my Tofranils,
I licked all my injuries,
I snorted your decries,
I puffed idiosyncrasies,
I tipsy, dallied with deities,
I ran, and sang as remedies,
I lay happy, soaked of Chiantis.


The Interview

Hey! Mister China Man,
take your lusty toad eyes away from my chest,
and focus on what I’m saying about my best,
instead of undressing my respectable black shirtdress,
and allowing your gaze to pierce through my black-laced breasts.

Hey! Mister China Man,
keep your crooked deviant smile away from my bare skin,
and take in what I’m saying about my wins,
instead of ravaging me with your repugnant grin,
and allowing your mind-germs to attack me like vermin.

Hey! Mister China Man,
tie your slimy viny outstretched hands away from my body,
and listen to what I’m saying about my summa cum laude,
instead of asphyxiating me with your clammy phalanges,
and allowing your near-touch to violate me utterly.

Hey! Mister China Man,
chain the one-eyed thing away from the fruit of my flower,
and look beyond the blinding cover and see the heroine under,
instead of pillaging my maidenhead with your shrivelled monster,
and allowing your papier-mâché ardour to crush my hard-earned valour.


This Morning

The light broke my eye-windows,
and I saw you lying beside me,
with a smile on your just-awake face,
your soul walked into mine,
and pulleyed my heart closer to you.

Millions of miles apart,
yet I feel you so near,
I could hardly catch a breath,
as your breathing hugs me,
and your heart-arms capture me.

Lying with her, I wonder,
are you thinking of me,
in my wild bed of roses,
full of thorns and pricks,
waiting to kiss your tortured soul.

For this morning, at least,
you have me in my mind-arms,
drunk in the water of love,
taken hostage by your crazy eyes,
and the sun in your red hair.