Dec 25, 2008
Now, to our monthly dose of mindless entertainment-The Seven Day Story Suckfest (TSDSS [Say it ;)] ). The blog will get updated daily from 25th-31st December, 2008. We are going to have all kinds of stories, some short, some shorter, some dumb, some…well you know it. Right now is almost 1.32 AM on Christmas morning and the first story will be here in less than 24 hours. We don't know what its going to be, and we are in for as much a surprise as you are. Great or what?
On a side note, we are planning to write each of the stories through these seven days on postcards. The kinds that Indian Postal Service sends, which are cheap, (50 Paise or so?) and which can be sent to YOUR address. We'll pick one comment out of the comments on every story and PR boy will contact the person for their snail mail address and mail them a postcard. (if the person is interested and has a valid postal address).
The postcard thing depends on PR boy making a trip to some post office and finding out if they still make those things. If nothing else, it will give something to do to the Indian Postal Service when(and if) the post cards get mailed. And maybe, sometime in future when we are big shot something you can sell the post card in an auction to arrange money for your stay in an old age home. Just a thought.
All you have to do is leave a comment on the story and have a valid postal address in India. Maybe next year we'll have something for any international readers.
PR boy informs us that more people are reaching us on Facebook. Good. Finders keepers, eh?
See ya tomorrow!
*Some people never go mad. What truly boring lives they suffer.—Blackie Lawless.--Contributed by PR boy.
Dec 22, 2008
What will she think of me if I do it?
Will she leave, or will she strike me in disgust?
Words rumbled and jumbled in his head, he had to find a way soon or there was going to be trouble. He looked behind him at saw a waiter in the pathway, if only he could reach his leg to the side and trip him and spill those drinks…he found out in a second that he could.
The waiter missed seeing the leg and was soon making acquaintance with the cold floor in a puddle of the drinks he was carrying. Some of it, as intended spilled on the skirt of the girl.
"Excuse me dear, I have to use the rest room." she said and left.
He smiled contentedly, gave in to his urge and started to suck his thumb.
It's not always about blood, violence and gore. We are going to have a seven day story fest soon. Most probably the last seven days of the year, give me a reminder if you don't see a story here. My PR guy told him that people have been contacting him on Facebook, which is cool, if you can find us, you can add us. Cheers!
Dec 14, 2008
And on I walked towards the elevator.
I placed my finger on the single button to call the elevator, the pin prick brought back memories from the years I had spent here. A drop of blood stained the button that hungrily sucked it up, becoming a neutral color again. The elevator door opened with a jarring ping. Bright white light poured out from the elevator and I got inside, the doors closed, then opened an instant later and I stepped out in dad's study.
He sat in his swivel chair with his back towards me, looking out of the window at a flock of angels who received the newcomers into Heaven and showed them around. A group of Cherubs flew in circles playing cherubic games with each other, somewhere slow music played, a stream gurgled and birds chirped in wholesome trees.
"This is one fucked up place, son." he said to me without looking in my direction. He swiveled his chair to face me and I saw the lines in his face had deepened, and an extra chin was subtly making its presence felt on his neck. He wore a track suit of a boring color; it was his day off. He didn't offer me a seat so I kept standing.
"Why did you call?" I asked.
"I have done some fucked up things in my time here and one of my biggest mistakes was throwing you down. No hard feelings, but you have to look at things from a PR point of view when you are creating universes and someone decided to fuck with you." he said, seemingly lost in a world of his own.
I waited for him to answer my question.
"And then, you walked away from your responsibilities handed out to you." he looked at me with a dejected look in his eyes.
"I was sick of handling Hell for so long, so I took a permanent early leave."
"I want you to take back control of that place, I cannot manage hell and heaven both at the same time."
"Fuck you very much for calling me but I quit that shit once and for all."
The next few seconds were a blur of anger, hate and madness that streamed from the old man's existence onto me and then I fell again, for nine days and nine nights. I guess, you can only get that far by saying 'Fuck You' to God.
The intro to this story will always remain somewhere in the book of best lines written on this blog. So, there, the final part. If the complete story doesn't make sense then relax, it doesn't make sense to me either, and I wrote this damn thing. The basic idea here is that what if Lucifer was the son of god.There is a dog crying outside here like someone shoved a stick up its ass, and I can hear the whistle of a train somewhere in the background. Time to set this baby to sail. More madness coming your way soon.
Dec 11, 2008
If there was ever a bunch of meaner motherfuckers in Hell, these fuckers in front of me would have eaten them alive and asked for more. From left to right in a neat row stood some of the most fucked up specimens of demonology that even Lucifer had refused to call his own. Still, I had to cross them, one way or the other.
"I, Dumrak." said the demon.
I stood there, looking at him, feeling strangely aloof from the way the whole situation was going to go.
"You," it said pointing the club at me, "dead."
"Aww Fuck!," I said, "Guys, look, wait a second here."
"Hwwgrrrrrr." Dumrak grunted.
"Look, the thing is that I have to cross this place because I have an appointment with the big man on the other side."
Thirty seven multicolored eyes from the horde of demons looked at me like I had told them a funny joke without the punchline. So, I took a deep breath and said, "It's just that it's gonna waste my precious seconds in killing you all."
No sooner did the words leave my mouth that they all charged at me like a herd of maddened elephants. The ground beneath my feet shook and the noise levels of the whole place went up a few decibels with the war cries of all the demons. I just waited for them to get closer.
And closer, and closer.
I could see each individual hair in Dumrak's head quiver with the strain of running with the heavy club in his hand and the rest of the hoard was almost euphoric with the hope of a kill. It was good seeing that they all had not lost the spirit for the hunt, but still, they would all have to go…down.
I tapped my foot once on the throbbing ground and the void opened up all around me. The demons stood on empty blackness for a second, staring up at me with hate, anger and finally fear in their eyes. Then down and down they fell into the darkness, like apples from the tree of knowledge.
The ground became whole again and I walked forward, into the lungs of hell, to meet dad.
More, in a day or tww, where we put this tail to an end and reveal the identity of the protagonist.
Dec 9, 2008
Cold tendrils of mist fogged around my feet as I walked on the cemented path between the graves. A full moon shone on the graves and gave the mist an eerie blue color. A cat observed me from its perch atop the cross sign of a grave. It bent its head to the side and looked at me questioningly. The question in its eyes clearly said, "Where the fuck do you think you are going?"
Thankfully, I had the answer in my pocket. I took out the ziplocked plastic bag and opened it, the stench of a freshly dead mouse was no less worse than the stench of a long dead mouse. I kept the mouse corpse on the grave and the cat jumped down from its perch and calmly sauntered down towards me. Clearly ignoring the dead animal, it wrapped itself around my legs, and I obliged by picking it up. The cat rubbed its head on my jacket and I scratched it behind the ears. It looked up at me and said, "Now give me a kiss, pretty boy."
"Oh come on Maggi! Do I have to do this every time?"
"You can do it after I have had my dinner." she smirked and gestured towards the dead mouse chilling on the stone grave.
I bent my head and kissed the cat on its small wet lips.
"Ah ha!," said the cat, "as tasty as always."
"Can I go now?"
"You can but you may not."
I sighed, Maggi could be an irritating bitch sometimes.
"Please." I said.
"Ok handsome, you may proceed."
And Maggi jumped straight on the grave, bull's eye on the dead mouse and disappeared somewhere in the darkness.
I made a symbol in the air with my index finger and the portal to another dimension opened.
Fuck my luck, there was already a line of demons waiting before me.
Dec 6, 2008
in the first few days of december, and with aid of my selective memory
i have conveniently forgotten the date. Anyway, here's to more years
of mirth, madness and mostly bullshit.
Thanks for reading:)
Once A Story A Day recovers from a virus attack on the headquarters,
irregular posting shall resume.
Sent from my mobile device
Nov 30, 2008
I flicked the Zippo's wheel, the flint caught the flame and started to burn with a slow sputter. Shading the flame with my hand I lit the cigarette in my mouth, taking a deep drag to let the flame catch. The minty taste of the tobacco filled my mouth and I flipped the lighter close.
I took the cigarette from my mouth and placed it between her lips. She took a satisfied, long drag, touched my cheek and said, "You're a sweetheart."
And I felt loved.
I could have written more, but I think nothing more can be written after this.
A humble and insincere thanks to everyone for reading this whole week. A summing up post tomorrow and then...who knows!
Nov 29, 2008
A tentacled figure rose out of the fog, and hovered silently over the boat. It observed the entangled couple with the interest a child shows in a new game.
The girl opened her eyes mid-kiss, noticed the floating tentacles and leapt off the boy with a startled yelp. The boy looked around confused at the green mist that was now covering half their boat and tried to calm the girl, but his own rising panic was enough to send the girl into a crying fit of hysteria.
"YOU!" thundered the green tentacled figure and pointed at the girl. The girl stopped crying at once, her tears choked back by the fear of the unknown.
"It's bad manners," the floating form said, "to open your eyes when kissing."
Really bad manners.
Nov 28, 2008
But the man continued clapping. He sat cross-legged in the dust and clapped a rhythm with the steady taps of the fingers of one hand on the other palm. His head lost somewhere in the lands behind his closed eyes. His clapping made out a rhythm sad and melancholy, calling some Spanish senorita to one last dance.
Some dusky beauty with a twirling skirt, anklets on her feet, legs brown in the sun, clothes clean, yet stained with dirt and sweat of her life, her hair black as the night, tied up with a bandana the color of rainbows.
The man opened his eyes and looked at the girl, so unlike the girl in his mind, who threw a coin in front of him. He continued with his clapping, a beat now asking questions, cajoling, and teasing a reply out of the new listener. The hair gel in his hair melted slowly and shone on his head like a balm for madness.
The girl looked down at him, smiled, and said, "Sorry hon, not today, maybe tomorrow."
The man smiled back, nodded and kept on clapping.
The slow net connection almost seemed determined to not let me post the story before 12 today, but well, here we are, 11.41 PM IST. This one was inspired by the beggar I saw on the bus station who was asking for, well, money, but then I thought, hey put him in a sit and see how many people will give him money. And then, would babes pay him more attention than they were doing at that moment? Ah, I digress.
Nov 27, 2008
"What is it today man?"
"What asshole! Didn't you see the TV? There is so much terrorism out there!"
"So! SO! So?!! That shit is bad dude."
"Oh yeah? How?"
"It's like, man, this shit is like, disturbing the peace and all that and killing people man, and innocent people!"
"Lot of innocent people?"
"oh ah. Well, ok. Hey, look my torrent just finished downloading!"
"What is it?"
"The new Max Payne movie man."
"COOOOOL! Let's watch!"
I almost didn't post it. But I did just now. Can't say the shit doesn't affect me, but its like a routine now, this terrorism thing. It's sad and complex, and we can all cry ourselves hoarse in blogsphere but it won't make difference worth one paisa. So, what to do? I don't know, but what I do know is that half of you are downloading something even now, cuz I am.
Fourth story, 11.35 PM IST. Three More to go.
Nov 26, 2008
"Shitfuck." Jerra said to no one in particular. She was alone in the elevator when she had taken it from the ground floor and no one had stopped the machine till the 31st floor and this was where the elevator stopped, by itself.
She pressed the emergency button on the panel but it remained dead as a dodo. She rummaged around in her bag for her cellphone but it wasn't there. In the darkened box, Jerra slowly started taking each thing out of her handbag and started throwing it on the floor. After a while when the floor around her feet got crowded with random articles of female survival, still there was no sign of her cellphone. She slammed the bag on the wall in frustration.
"HELP! Somebody Help!" she screamed in panic, but no reply came back to her. She felt the slow shiver of panic make its way up from the base of her spine to the back of her mind. "I'm gonna die here, oh my god, I'm gonna fuckin die in here."
The first tear crawled out of her eye and started its journey to the floor through the way of her cheek. A sharp fingernail stopped the teardrop on her cheek and drew blood as it dug into her skin. She winced in pain and jerked back from the hand.
"Now, I'm not the one to scare my meal, but I don't like see a pretty girl crying." the bass in the deep voice made the walls of the elevator vibrate.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?" she asked between sobs that were on verge of turning to cries.
"Ah, stupid meals, should have taken the stairs. Hush now, and I'll make it quick."
The thought of being trapped in a small metal box in darkness kind of scares the shit out of me. I prefer the stairs. Always. This is the third story this week, 10.36 IST. See ya tomorrow!
Nov 25, 2008
She walked into that dark place with the confidence of a lioness walking a kindergarten. Everyone was a prey for her and her demeanor made it clear that she was not someone to be fucked with, metaphorically.
Her elegant black backless dress and the short crop of hair did little to hide her elaborate dragon tattoo which shimmered and sucked in the darkness as she moved. The tattoo wove its way starting from her shoulder to her back, curving its way around her waist and vanishing somewhere which every man in the club wanted. We were all pretty sure about the tail of the dragon while its teeth bared their malfeasance at us.
She walked up to the bar and someone had already placed a barstool even before her bottom started to descend into horizontal from vertical. The barman polishing a clean glass with a dirty cloth moved in her direction with a leer on his face.
"What will it be then m'dear?" he asked.
A shark-ish grin made its way on her face with the sluggishness of a drunk man trying to wake up.
"The same as always dude, a beer and a double cheese hamburger." a rough voice said from her mouth and almost all the people in bar who knew the voice did a bottoms up to drown their sorrow. It was Psycho Mike-o's voice. Psycho Mike-o who always said he was a woman trapped in a man's body. The most obnoxious piece of shit to ever set foot in Ten Thousand Elephants bar.
She turned around on her stool and addressed the bamboozled group of people in the bar.
"Hey guys! Nice surprise or what? The doctors who changed me said my voice will become more like me once I'm down, if you know what I mean." she added a wink to her sentence that made everyone cringe.
And in the silence that engulfed the bar, someone sighed.
"You all can call me Myko now." she said as she put the beer mug to her lips and drained it in one go.
Pretty misleading, no? It's ok, you should've gotten used to it by now. 11.08 IST here. I'm planning something short and violent tomorrow. I didn't like the word length on this one, but well a story has to be told! Cheers! ;)
Nov 24, 2008
The destruction caused by the cube rain was unprecedented. Cities were demolished by that evil rain on that dark night. The cubes piled up on themselves in the streets, they didn't melt and they didn't vanish with the sun. They got stuck in the wheels and the insides of the machines that were brought in to clean them up. The acids didn't melt them and cleaning them by hand was nigh impossible. The waters in the rivers clogged and froze within itself due to some strange reaction with the cube rain. Electric wires snapped with the weight of the cubes as they stuck and clung to them. Most displaced cubes turned to a slushy, pink colored goo every night (the darkness seemed to have something to do with it) and this made it impossible for people of the world to wade through the sludge every morning. The cubes that were not moved from their positions were the same come morning.
So, after due considerations and several votes in the upper echelons of the government, the parents of the world did the only thing they could do.
They let loose the kids on the streets.
It was a grand day for the children of the world. They picked up the solid cubes and ate, ate and ate till their teeth were sticky and they hands smelled of strawberry, mint and kiwifruit. Every night the mothers and father of the Cube Cub Army brushed the teeth of the gallant soldiers with industrial strength toothpastes and then in the morning they were on the streets again, cleaning the cubes by the only way they knew, the only way that was possible, eating them.
A year passed. Most streets had some semblance of cleanliness though the pink goo was still present in places.
Then, they sky grew green once more.
And it rained bricks. Of different colors.
Right now, 11.32 IST.
More madness tomorrow!
Nov 22, 2008
Nov 21, 2008
Fading is the sun that shone
We must speak of other matters
You can be me when i'm gone.
Flowers gathered in the morning
Afternoon they blossom on
Still are withered by the evening
You can be me when i'm gone.
Sent from my mobile device
Nov 12, 2008
Except a thin, dead, non pulsing line on the cardiogram monitor of online communication.
It all began when the scientists made the computers able to smell, giving them one more human sense and then in a some god forgotten part of the world, a geek made a computer 'feel'. Sadly, that computer was connected to the internet through a hi speed broadband connection. The "feelings" spread like black cloud over the sphere of worldwide communication. It was dread, fear, sadness, resignation, shame, depression, anger and suicidal tendencies all mixed into one lethal cocktail that fucked up the internet.
Soon, the net addicts were scrambling over to government secured lease lines to check their emails, myspaces, and facebooks, little realizing there was no one on the other end who could send a message. The MMORPG grounds were vacant, the blogs were not blogged and no one was twittering anymore. Radio became popular and television got more unpopular, doling out its breaking news bullshit to anyone who would care to watch.
We, the geeks, the fat kids of our generation, went out and said hello to our neighbors. We took the dog out for a walk. We went for a jog. We went to libraries instead of googling for information. We bought CDs instead of downloading songs. We started to read books. We started real relationships. We wrote on paper with pens and pencils, wondering, for the first time in years, how our handwriting got so bad. We stopped jerking off to porn and tried, unsuccessfully to get laid.
Most of us perished in the process. The rest of us, Geeks, started rebuilding the internet.
Humanity never really gives up. We were too gory in last story, how's this one for a thought?
Things are heating up at The Fucked Up, and we are making preperation for a Seven Story Suckfest. Soon, keep watching this space.
Oct 31, 2008
A man walks through the streets of the city. On closer inspection you might observe that the man is not walking on the ground, his feet just float an inch below the road and the ground melts around his feet to give him way. His dark coat trails his way behind him as he moves right and left through the city that slowly breathes in the darkness and breaths out fog and fear.
He feels the frigid fingers of fear ease their way into his soul and he stabs down a disconcerting feeling of fear in his heart. He moves on through the ground slowly, reaches the top of a sewer and slowly melts through the iron cover below the street.
"Hey honey, I am home." he speaks softly into the darkness of the sewer.
A meat cleaver shrieks through the air like a maddened eagle and buries itself in the man's head, chopping it into two neat semicircular halves.
"Aww, Baby!" his disembodied mouth speaks, "I got held down with the guys, we were watching football at the pub and I had just one more beer, that's why I got late!"
A kitchen knife spins and slices through the squalid sewer stench and chops the man's head clean off his neck. The head falls to the wet floor of the sewer like a small bag full of dog shit. A rat, as big as a small cat, immediately shooms out of the darkness to inspect the new addition to the filth on the ground.
"Gh-UCK, Gh-UCK, Gh-UCK." his face swears at the rat.
The rat turns to move away from the head when a steel fork impales the little creature's head to the moldy ground. The man tries to gulp but there is nothing to gulp from under his chin, without a throat his head rolls like an imperfect football on the uneven floor.
"Here she comes." the thought bleeds through his head.
Lying on the floor he only sees her high heel slam itself into the side of his head and as his head bounces off the walls of the sewer, his only thought is, "Seems like she's in the mood to play football."
Football, Soccer, Whatever. November is here. I like November. Either the second or the third week will be a Seven Story Salad. Geez, I am such a genius.
Oct 26, 2008
The mermaids were swimming all around me. Laughing, cajoling and performing complex maneuvers in the pristine blue green waters of the lagoon. I watched their perfect half figured with a child-like fascination. The smooth curves of the breasts where the tiny nipples stood out like miniature mountains. Their hair halo-ed around their heads and their laughter ringing in my ears.
One mermaid brushed awfully close to me and licked my ear with her soft, wet tongue.
"Ring, Ring, Ring" she sang in my ear.
I smiled at her.
I puked in the water, turning it a shade of bad brown, filled with pizza toppings and pieces of chicken souls.
I rummaged through the pockets of my jeans and brought out my old and trusted cellphone that had stood by me though soberness and drunken orgies.
I pressed answer and Boss said a name. And a price. Which was a lot. Enough to make my drunken body get up, get the bullets for the gun and go out and get a cab for the target's office. I would have taken my own car, but you know, drinking and driving do not mix and I was drunk as hell making my way to an earthquake of a hangover.
Then, something snapped inside me and I rushed through the doors. The whole world tiled at crazy angles and I wanted to be with the mermaids again. I told the receptionist that I had a meeting with her boss and she told me to wait for a few minutes. I stood there like a defiant jerk, checking her out. Thinking of her, in a tight leather suit, and long leather shoes. She looked hot in my imagination and then she said something. I leaned closer on her desk and she pointed one manicured finger in a direction left of her. I saluted her a mock saluted and walked in the direction of where she had pointed.
The realization hit me in the face like a wet towel as to why no job is worth doing when you are drunk as hell and have a deadline to clear.
There were six of the target sitting in the chairs and each one of them was buzzing around the edges that made if tough to focus on any single figure.
"By dying." I said and then I shot all six of them.
A mermaid floated by from the window and start swimming around me.
Ha Ha Ha. I loved this one. The story was built around the one sentence "I shot all six of them". These six words have been troubling me for the past three weeks, screaming, shouting, cursing my attention and wanting to be written. The mermaid reference is taken from Snatch movie, where Pitt falls through the boxing ring floor and into water where mermaids swim around him.
In othe places, Poetry blog is getting lot of drinking related poems. If you love drinking, or do not, please head over to The Poem Blog for some kick ass psychedelic poems.
And we are ranting like never before at The Fucked Up blog which is not meant for kiddies under 18 and also not for lazy buggers who read this blog at work.
And, we are having another 7 day story run somewhere in November. Go me~!
Oct 21, 2008
He kicks the door in, the gun arm rises and two sizzling shots turn the first two men to brain stew. He finishes off the tall one, who got shot in the chest, with his khukri. The jugular spills ruby red blood like a fountain of death. He wipes the large knife off on the man's jacket and fills two more slugs in the ancient gun's chamber.
In the next room, three men are sitting and playing cards, he calmly opens the door and before they can reach for their gun, three silenced shots paint the walls with their brains.
He walks on through the place, silently going about his work, killing people and saying hi. He shoots a few computers as well, and feels more satisfaction in it than he ever did in killing all people. Bodies are strewn across the hall now, he took his time with them, shooting them in the legs and later finishing them off with the blade; the blade that somehow seemed to call him to feed it, like a crazed animal, it called for blood and it called for death.
He finishes off the floor and then takes one more look around to see if he had missed somebody. He had not.
He reaches the elevator and presses the button to call the it to his floor. Once inside, he presses the button for top floor, to the office of the head Pig.
And his cellphone rings It is the head Pig. He answers it.
The stream of profanities from the pig's side ends in the 45 seconds, with pig screaming "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???" at him.
He answers that he is in the lift and coming up to meet him.
"Good," says the pig,"can't wait to see you."
No relation of this story to past, present of future circumstances. Office shootings are somewhat a rosier version on the TV and radios, and newspapers. But it is very much a reality and it exists within our system.
Oct 14, 2008
Seven stories, seven days, and lot of madness. Heck, I loved doing this. Made a lot of new friends here, yes, I mean You. We are friends now. You brought this upon yourself, and now this blog will hound you, you will check here multiple times a day to look for new stories and you will exult (woo! what does THAT word mean?) when you find a new story and you will ..umm not exult (again!) when there are no updates. And you will tell all your friends that you have found a cool and superawesome blog, and you will link to this blog and leave a note so that the blog can keep track of what naughty things you have been up to on your blogs.
Right. Enough quasi-subliminal messages in one post.
But, girls and guys, it's been a wonderful one week of getting in front of the laptop every night and writing something new, and then getting your awesome feedback during the day, it's been wonderful,really.
I might even start doing weekly writing runs every month based on the feedback that I got. Not every week, because, frankly the medium of blogging is its own enemy. Every time a new post is up, the old posts are pushed down and then they are a part of the history that has less and less chance of getting read. While some might dig the archives, but how many?
Anyway, I write, and I hope there will always be someone to read!
Ok, I am digressing here.
Now I forgot what I wanted to write here, yeah, first thanks to all for reading, and double thanks for leaving comments. Regular, slightly longer stories will continue after I take a breather of a day, or two.
Yeah, well that's about it. If you got a question for me, then now is as good a time as any to ask it. Any suggestions, comments, offers for publication, death threats, poo parcels, books, comics, money are also welcome.
If you are looking for more of the my writing, you can check out my poems at Poetry, and you can check out rancid wrong and fucked up opinions at The Fucked Up ( This blog is adults only and NSFW[that is Not Safe For Work], if you do not have an open mind and you comment there, I will be as rude as possible and tell you the things you can do to your body openings with a chainsaw and a flamethrower)
Oct 13, 2008
Yes Sir! Yes Mam! This is at the ungodly hour in the morning when the losers of the world sit online waiting for someone, anyone, everyone to come online. They put spirits inside them and blow out sweet smoke and get ready to pour their guts out in streams of zeros and ones.
Bits, bytes and datastreams of emotions flying all over the internet and everyone loves it. 'We are communicating,' they say, 'thou shalt not disturb us!'
They spend their day for these moments, these rabid desires that make them want to 'communicate'. The rope of their life held together by this fucked up desire to be alone and yet, be wanted, be missed, be kissed, be fucked.
By someone. By anyone. By everyone.
They love it.
This might be about me, this might be about you, this might be about anyone or everyone of us.
Tomorrow, we sum up the sum of past seven days. Hope I will see you here tomorrow.
Oct 11, 2008
"They had an angel in there once." said the elder boy.
"What happened to her?"
"They freed her into the world."
"Cuz' she was going to have babies."
"Ha, kidding me again, are you?"
"Nah, mum told me herself"
"Hey guess what? Last one to reach home is a fuddu."
The boy ran, spreading his wings, and took a mighty leap into the evening sky.
When you reach the last word and still don't get it, well, read it again from the beginning. :) If still there is confusion, then I guess the title should make it clear. Oh, what am I saying, you all are intel enough to figure it out on your own, aren't you? ;)
For tomorrow, and the last of these seven (unrelated) tales, is not quite a story, more like a monologue, but I can assure you, it's interesting :)
Thanks for the comments everyone, really makes it worth checking my email 60 times a day!
Oct 10, 2008
"Chill love, no one will know." he comforted her.
"Yes, but it is still... so wrong."
"Only if we get caught."
She smiled."You sure we won't get caught?"
"As sure as I was yesterday."
"You are one horny bugger."
"And what about you?"
She laughed shyly and slithered down his body somewhere in the darkness below.
He gasped as a knock on the wall startled him.
Yes, he managed to squeak out.
A voice followed.
The confession booths [?] are so comfy and cozy. There have been some interesting comments on some of the past stories. There are the questions that I feel need answering in a proper manner, so there will be a post after Sunday's story, where I will try to answer all these questions/comments the best or the worst I can. Thanks for the comments everyone, I really look forward to your feedback, to take names, Sakshi, Jadis, Queen Bean, Kris, Kartik, Impressionist, AJ and everyone else who read but are too lazy to leave a comment :)
Oct 9, 2008
The band kicked the show into high gear with the fourth song, "In Your Love Car We'll Ride To Hell".
The crowd sang along and just as the song reached its crescendo, a pink limousine crashed from nowhere bang into pentagram drawn into the center of the stage.
Bewildered, the band looked on as the door of the big car opened, swirling black smoke dispersing from the inside of the car to reveal a thick set man in a black overcoat, a hat shadowed his eyes, and a sliver of light shone on his sharp teeth that shone like blades.The driver of the car smiled at the band members and said, "Let's go kids. The Darklord sent his Love Car to receive you guys."
The crowd went wild.
This was written with the idea of keeping it under 100 words and still reaching some kind of conclusion. Indeed, a conclusion it is, the crowd just wants a show, even if the performers are getting fucked by a psycho demon on the stage. Ah, another day, another story. Tomorrow, two people, making lov...no, having sex.
Oct 8, 2008
He looked at her and thought of all the things that he wanted to do with her.
He wanted to create a perfect life with her at the center of his universe and him, all around her.
He wanted to do all the Bollywood things with her. A dance in the park, around trees, with multicolored extra dancers. He wanted to walk with her in the rain, holding the umbrella for her while he got drenched to the skin. He wanted to act like a clown for her and make her laugh. He wanted to carry her in his arms through the potholed streets of his village somewhere in the vicinity of New Delhi. He wanted to present her to his parents and beg his mother to take this girl as her daughter in law. He wanted to wake up next to her for the rest of his life and watch her face the first thing in the morning. He wanted to make babies with her and make her the happiest girl in the world.
She looked at him and thought, "Fuck, I have to fuck him."
Note- What you just read above has been polished, and edited and redone in more ways than one. Can't argue with the fingers and the mind controlling them. Anyway, below this note is the story as it was written originally. I am too fuckin good to you people! Onwards Alexander!
He looked at her and he knew he wanted to make 'sexy time' with her. His over-imaginative mind drew up a vivid image with her at the center of his universe and him wrapped all around her.
The image in his mind was decorated, among other things, with a jar of honey, a pair of garden shears, candles, matches, cigarettes, a feather, a full chicken, a bottle of sauce and rope that would have gently held her. Tied up and ready for some sweet love treatment.
There, we are done for Wednesday. Weekend is almost upon us. Tomorrow, we rock with a band :)
Oct 7, 2008
Friends! Fellows! Enemies! and Office Assholes!
With great regret the management informs you that our beloved coffee machine passed away on the night of October 6, 2008.
What a great run it has been, for 5 years, 6 months and 7 days the great coffee machine served us with coffee that was lighter and sweeter than the water from office cooler.
And for years, we have cursed and tried to enjoyed the taste of the 'brilliant' coffee from the machine. While some say the coffee machine was murdered, or by natural causes it died, while a great number maintain that it was
But guess what? After examining the corpse of the machine, the Doctor Mechanic informed us that all this time, the coffee bags in the machine
the tea powder.
I wonder, why does the coffee at my office taste funny. Like something died inside the coffee machine and I am drinking brown machine piss thickened and filtered through a dead thing's corpse. Maybe, today the coffee in your mug will taste a bit different.
And, for people in or out of love, tomorrow's story--"The Fuck"
Oct 6, 2008
Short and deadly. That's how we roll. Tomorrow, a coffee machine dies.
One down, six to go.
This week, 6th to 12th October, we put the blog's name to test. It says A Story A Day. Everyday? Maybe not. But, let's do it for this one week. For old time's sake.
So, bring your friends, tell all you care to tell about, grab the RSS feed, bookmark us, just don't miss it.
Right...as I realise I suck at making any kind of announcement, so I will put it down in simple terms. I am going to write seven stories, unrelated to each other, everyday on this blog for the next week. There. That is simple. First story in less than 24 hours. Be here or be the equal sided rectangular thigie.
Oct 2, 2008
The politician sucked on the big cigar with deep concern in his eyes. His brain involved in rapid calculations of how he could use the present Fucked up situation to his advantage. He looked out of the window and saw that his bull dog Fuck was still hunting the neighbor's rabbits and rabbit corpses were strewn across the lawn like a hurricane had mowed through them.
Blood and white fur decorated the grass like a message of violent graffiti. Fuck was currently licking the brains of another dead rabbit whose skull it had crushed between its steel tipped teeth. From the rampage in the garden in was evident that the neighbors were going to be pissed as hell when they came back to see their herd of rabbits dead and fucked beyond any repair.
The politician thought about various ramifications of Fuck's debauchery on the rabbits, the media were going to lap this up like hungry sharks in blood filled waters.
"Politician's Dog Mauls Innocent Rabbits"
One picture of dead rabbits with it and the cute factor was going to turn the tide of public support against him. He might lose the elections and he might have to put Fuck down as a casualty of war. He looked from his window at the little dog happily munching on the rabbits and his heart was filled with such a great emotions that his throat choked for a moment and tears made their way into his eyes from some woe-begotten place in his cold dark heart.
He remembered when he was just a child and he had let Fuck loose on a group of teenagers who had been teasing him at school. The doctors had to chop off the gangleader's leg* because Fuck wouldn't let go of it. And the time when Fuck had won him the election by chomping off the jugular of his opposing candidate. The memories were too many, the gratitude too much and the politician just could not think any harm coming to Fuck. He made a decision in his mind. It would take a bigger tragedy to avert any harm coming to Fuck.
He got up, opened the secret compartment in the wall and took out the sniper rifle from its hiding position. This was the latest model with disintegrating bullets that left no trace.
He positioned the rifle by the window and waited for the neighbors to arrive.
Down in the garden, Fuck chased another rabbit and chomped home on its head.
*After Fuck had already devoured his balls.
That was Fuck-ed.
You can read a vodka fueled rant about Mohandas's Birthday at The Fucked Up blog. F-bombs rain in this post.
For those sensitive at heart and dealing with depressive, manaical state of mind, a Poem about being fucked up but alive. Not cuz life can fuck you more in that case, just happy to be alive types, click here to read.
Ah there, entertainment for deranged minds }:) Enjoy, tomorrow you might die.
Sep 29, 2008
Where we talk of books, music and other things.
So, other than pissing people off and wasting my weekend away, I have been listening to some fuck awesome music. Firstly, last week I got Metallica's new album Death Magnetic...this shit is good, heavy and some songs are catchy as hell. Did I say catchy? just listen to the chorus of All Nightmare Long and you will know what I mean.
Other than that, got Monster Magnet's 4-Way-Diablo. I really like the kind of music these guys make, weird lyrics, rocking tunes, and kick ass song themes...even though I might not understand the hidden meanings and all of the songs, they make a cool listen. Get Monster Magnet if you haven't heard them till now, they are Good!
A friend passed on full discographies of The Beatles and Led Zeppelin (who are touring, as another friend just informed me. Any lucky people? Please go and watch.)
And, been reading Jeffery Archer's As the Crow Flies, which is a good book in a totally Archer kind of way. Also been looking for Richard Morgan's "The Steel Remains", this book is on my definite Buy list for this year, and please, if someone finds an ebook do pass the link! I am also re-re-reading Morgan's Broken Angels and even on the third time around this guy shocks the shit out of me, definite toilet reading I tell you!
On the blog front, Neil Gaiman's blog is a definite must read for anyone who wants to know how tough/tiring/trying/totally awesome it can be to be a writer. Another writer whose blog I have been following is Jeffery Somers, he of the Avery Cates fame, wrote the Electric Church and Digital Plague, both nice books...the third part Eternal Prison is coming soon! which is also on a must read list. Two more books on must read lists are Patrick Rothfuss' follow-up to "Names of the Wind">>> A Wise Man's Fear and Jim Butcher's Dresden Files 11..both books are going to be released in April 2009. Gosh, the wait!
Phew, too many books. Also, I wrote a short about a man and a corpse and a conversation they have, I still need to brush it up a little bit and I will post that or something weirder, in the next two days...in case you want to read some rhymes, you can always head over to the Poetry Blog...where we go psycho like we go psycho nowhere else.
What else! Hummm....oh yeah, there was a talk somewhere on this blog to do a short story contest, that idea has been abandoned...I thought I'd better leave the contests to experts like Jason Evans...neither do I have the experience of the expertise to do justice to the time and effort people will put in in writing stories. Maybe, someday. We can all have hope, right, it is free.
So, this is this. Let's crank some more crazy tales this week. The total stories written on this blog has crossed 200 mark, somewhere around 230-240..give or take a few.
Hope all is well in your corner of the world and life is treating you like it should :)
Cheers! and buh bye from my side.
Sep 24, 2008
I ignored it all the best I could. But then, the Sunday newspaper was gone. Not completely gone, just the cartoon section from the whole issue. And there I was on a bright sunny Sunday morning, standing at the kitchen counter in my morning gown, with a cuppa coffee in my hand and a newspaper without the cartoons page.
"This is so not done man," I said to the wind in the kitchen that stirred like a chuckle escaping from a fat man's throat.
As soon as I had said this, the tap in the sink turned on by itself, gushing out something black and fizzy. I moved forward to turn it off when it turned off by itself. I turned around and I heard the sickly smelling liquid rushing in the sink again. I turned to close it and it was gone.
I poured my coffee down the sink, rinsed the cup with the water that smelled suspiciously like Diet Pepsi and set forth to perform the techno exorcism for the ghost of my dead hard drive.
If there is one thing I am sure it is that the hard drive died because of old age and not because 99.9% of its space was occupied by illegal porn that my friends had stored on it. But anyway, I had an exorcism to perform and soon I was rummaging through my drawer for the different articles that will help me get rid of the cartoon-page-thief ghost. I marked out a Venn diagram on the now defunct CPU cabinet which now lay on its side like a dead dog. Then I colored the circles in the diagram with pink and black wax crayons, I placed a picture of Steve Gates above the Venn diagram and muttered the exorcism rap. It went something like this;
You were the hard drive, YO!
Once you were alive, YO!
But now you are dead, YO!
So get outta my head, YO!
Betta not be a whore, YO!
Betta not ask fo mo, YO!
Just want you to know, YO!
We want you to go, YO!!
Thus, it was done and I was rid of the ghost of the dead hard drive, but I missed drinking Pepsi out of the kitchen tap.
Woah! This one was intense! Not shitty enough for you? Then check out a poem about a sea of shit.
Sep 20, 2008
Night. A vast, barren field. Rain.
A figure lies in fetal position in the middle of the field. Rain soaks the person's clothes, wets the hair and the water collects in small rivulets around the figure. Somewhere near, a bolt of thunder strikes hungrily on the naked earth's bosom. The figure wakes up, startled by the crash of thunder a voice in its throat rises up, somewhere between screaming and crying.
He closes his eyes against the rain and lifts his hand over his eyes to shade them and look around himself. He feels the water cascading down his face and licks the droplets from his lips. Water is something new and amazing and he takes his time to savor the strange wetness and the unknown taste of the liquid.
At the edge of the field an orange light slowly blinks like a beacon calling him home. He gets up and starts walking towards the blinking light. The walk through the muddy field strips him of both his shoes and lower parts of his jeans are soon the black, brown color of field mud. Something in the collecting water swims past his feet and he quickens his pace towards the light that now blinks with a rabid urgency.
He crosses the field, jumps over a small pool of water and steps on the road. The light transforms into a complete vehicle as he draws nearer. A woman's body lies half slumped out of the door of the vehicle and blood pours down her cracked skull, collecting in its own small pool near the wheel. Something in the sight looks hauntingly familiar to him but the thought swims away like a shark before the harpoon of memory can pierce its hide. He lifts the woman's hand and tries to drag it out of the car, but the she is trapped by his seatbelt. Somehow, unlike water, he is familiar with the concept of seatbelts, and as he leans in the car to free the woman from his seatbelt, a hand slowly caresses his neck. Fingers, wrinkled with rain water, touch his neck in such a loving way that he would have preferred it if he didn't know it was the dead woman's hand.
"It's so good to see you again, hon," the dead woman's throat croaks.
He lifts his neck slowly and looks at the other figure slumped on the steering wheel. The seatbelt has chopped him into two pieces and the torso lies comically stuck on the wheel by its own blood and staring straight at him. The realization that the body is his own shyly knocks its way into his head. The fingers caressing his neck, now encircle his throat slowly, each finger growing abnormally long and the nail skewering into his skin.
"Hon, you never got the brake fluid changed, did you?" the dead woman's voice speaks again.
"I did dear, I did." he tells the same lie for the third time in the day.
Scared? Bewildered? Shocked? None of the above? Oh well, maybe kicking this link will help.
More keeps on coming.
Sep 12, 2008
This irritated many of her friends and Vitra was absolutely oblivious to it. So, her friends got together, polled a vote and decided to chop off her fingers. One by fucking one.
She cried, and she begged them not to do it, but by the time one finger was chopped off her left hand, the dance of the fingers was destroyed. And one by one they fell. Except two. The longest fingers on each hand. Her friend took the rest of the digits home to hang on their doors as lucky charms and to scare would be finger dancers, thieves, beggars and small animals.
Vitra recovered slowly from her wounds and used her middle fingers to fuck her friends off.
Since that day, Vitra's two fingers danced The Fuck Off Dance on the dance floor of life and life couldn't have been much better.
This is dedicated to a teacher in my college, who had an electric way of telling things. I never heard, only saw. Oh well, sweet youth.
Are you following me on the blog?
And, there is a stellar poem on Black Fairies on Poetry, check it out!
Sep 8, 2008
Sep 5, 2008
*Author's Note- Looking at a satellite passing overhead tonight I thought of this story. Be prepared for a horrifying, blood curdling and gut chilling end of this short story. Children below 18 please do not read. Here we go!>
Zorak floated like a corpse in the zero gravity graveyard. His arms splayed out like Christ crucified, his space suit dirty and held together in places with duct tape.
A small beep sounded somewhere on the edge of Zorak's consciousness. He opened his eyes to the empty space station and hoped against all hopes that there was some message from earth. Ever since a passing asteroid had smashed the communication aerials, all efforts to repair it had proved futile.
And then there was the virus, which came with an email.
The Russian Demetri's girlfriend had made a 'video' for him which he downloaded from the email on the onboard computer of the space station. All the men in the crew appreciated the video highly while the women scoffed and sulked in the corners of the space station. None of them knew about the virus that came with that video, it corrupted the oxygen supply systems and one by one each of the 12 oxygen suppliers in the station shut down. By the time they all realized it, Zorak was the only one left from the crew as he was breathing on auxiliary oxygen already.
Zorak took a deep breath and held it inside. His auxiliary oxygen meter was already in the red and he knew that he would have to make every breath count if he had to contact Earth. With the last dregs of the station's power, he ventured out for his sixth space walk for repairing the communication channels. As he hung in space like a dead man on a rope, something fizzled in his ear piece, a voice, calling his name, over and over.
"Code 667. Code 667. Please send help, we have had a virus attack on the space station." he spoke into the mic in his helmet.
"Zorak! Dude! Wasssap dawg!" a cheery voice answered from the other side.
"WTF!!" Zorak said, the spanner in his hand fell in space and stretched its tether to its limits.
"Exactly man! WTF? How come you are alive? My virus was supposed to fuck all of you up and sink that flying piece of shit in the strato-fucking-sphere."
"I used auxiliary oxygen you fucker, I'm not dying that easy."
"Oh yes, you are. I'm sending Miss Nuclear Missile to say hello to your Mr. Space Station."
"Like fuck you are."
"You are like, so dead dude! Now gimme a deadly smile, I gotta click your pic and put it on my facebook. The chicks on my friendlist are so gonna dig this astronaut dying in space shit!"
Sep 1, 2008
He kept it to himself. The bastard. This is what happened.
Turned out Azz had been eating chicken from the other party too, the other party in question being the girl I had my eyes on. So, she gets teleported at my place, with her eyes bloodshot, her breath reeking of expensive whisky and her hair in a tangle worse than a bunch of snakes in an orgy. Her face looked like the demolition zone of destruction of a makeup kit and her clothes were crusted with vomit, sewage, other colors and things that crawled with small tentacles. And, she was angrier than a rhino that has just been de-horned.
All my desires to be anywhere in the 10 foot radius of her were raped mercilessly by the way she looked. I looked at Azz's hands.
"Dude, this is so not done."
Azz burped in sympathy, the stench of burnt and digested chicken filled the air.
He clicked his fingers and the girl vanished in thin air.
I sat down sadly on the wet grass of my garden and thought about the PSP I could have asked for the three chickens.
"Maybe next time little brother." Azz said as his hands slowly disappeared into the darkness.
Yup, that's about as far as we will go with Azz and 'I'. More madness will follow. Oh and if the story didn't make any sense, please do read the last two posts. :)
Aug 28, 2008
And so, chickens. For fuck's sake.
So, this old friend of mine downloaded an album off some satanic torrent site and gave me this weird fucked up 'music' that was all screams and chants in some language I didn't bother to understand, but I must admit, the noise was good.
I was laughing my guts out when two clawed hand appeared out of the darkness beyond the fence and chucked off the chicken. I nearly pissed myself in fear.
"Delish," it said, "ask your wish boy, cuz I liked the taste of the chicken and I like your taste in music."
But, that is in the past, right now, let's get these three chicken out. I got some gasoline and I feel kinda pyromantic.
This one was written without any music or internet to bother me and just to make it clear, I never really set a chicken on fire, but I have given it serious thought at times.
Aug 27, 2008
"Right, let's talk." I said to the darkness and the world around me buzzed with the steady hum of power, a whisper of evil and a silent grin that would have made a shark proud.
Aazthooth's clawed fingers rested on my shoulder, drumming a slow beat to a song I'd never heard.
"It's Ozzy." said Azzthooth, reading my thoughts, "from his next album."
"This is just plain wrong man." I said, "now I'll be looking out for his next album with so much fucking anticipation."
I could feel Azzthooth's grin spread wider above my head, the bastard was enjoying this.
"So, what's it going to be this time, little brother?" he asked, neglecting my thoughts.
"Ah, you know, there is this…"
"…girl in your school." he completed.
"Yeah man, and …"
"…you want her."
"You know me Azz, and you know how it is."
"Yes, yes, I know, I know."
"I could sacrifice a chicken you know."
"Just a chicken for a full chick?" he scowled.
"Ok, two, I can't steal more man, you know my dad, he will fuck me up."
"She's a virgiiiin." Azzthooth sang with a snicker.
"Three chickens, and that's it! I'll do them on a moonless night too but I'm not topping that."
"Shake on that." Azzthooth spat in his hand and lowered the sizzling palm towards me.
I shook his hand, the warmth turned to a searing heat and the smell of my burning flesh filled my nostrils. I winced at the pain, but somehow the thoughts of getting laid dulled the throbbing pain in my hand.
"Right then," said Azzthooth, "I got to go get some spells working, you better catch them chickens!"
This piece started as a writer seeking inspiration from the demons, but wait! That was Faust!...so, it materialized into what you read just now. Next part? Oh surely! But I have no freaking idea what will happen in that…let's see.
Oh, and a story contest, soon…
Aug 23, 2008
This is not a story, I like to make that clear in non-story posts because once or twice some of you have commented on personal posts as"Hey, nice story!!!". Makes me think that I am the only living person out here and ALL(except 1,2 or 3) of you are robots controlled by aliens who are having fun at my expense! But strangly I do not seem to care.
Right, the last two stories have been pretty psycho even for me, no, it was not the amount of violence, there was very little anyway, it's not the amount of fuckedupness in those stories, its not the lack of comments that all you lazy readers do not write for the pleasure of my mailbox. IT is that I barely remember writing these stories.
Am I getting amnesia finally? I mean 243 stories and almost equal number of poems at my other blog Poetry, am I finally cracking up?( As if I wasn't a lot of cracked already) Though this business of not recalling wrting these stories is irksome but somehow I do not mind this. I mean as long as the stories are getting written, besides, I am sure that I wrote them because they are saved in my laptop only. So, that is settled.
I have been thinking about some things, first about a story writing contest, with cash prizes. Ah, that catches your attention, no? I'm still thinking about it, I do not know if anyone of you would like to take part in it. Leave a comment if you would like to see the contest in materialize here, and I will think up some fucked up rules and equally fucked up prizes.
Second thing is the color scheme of this blog, I am thinking of going simplistic. Why simplistic you ask? Well the black background takes considerably larger time to load on my internet connection, and with the widgets and all its quite a wait. Any thoughts on that? Do you have any suggestions for the blog's look? Something you'd like added or something you'd like removed? Seen any tempelate worthy enough of ASAD? let me know.
Right, so two things, contest and blog looks.
As all personal non story posts, this post too shall be removed, whenever I feel like it!
Aug 22, 2008
She surveyed the carnage around her, something moved in the rubble and Slicha called a nuclear strike from the built in mic of her helmet. She saw the missile approach, her adrenaline built up in anticipation of another mushroom cloud…then everything went black.
Pitch black darkness surrounded her. She opened her eyes and looked at the leaves of a tree in the park hiding the sky. The VidDrug had worn off and she didn't have any credit left in her cellphone to order more. She cast a look around herself.
Wind fluttered through the pages of her book lying on the grass. A bright sun shone on the afternoon sky, a medley of clouds made their way across the blue. The air was heavy with the promise of rain. Somewhere in distance a shotgun blast rang out and roused a flurry of sparrows from the trees.
Slicha picked up her book from the grass and stuffed it into her bag. 'fucking humans' she thought. She quietly walked through the grass, purposely smothering the grass with her shoes.
The large building that she knew as her house loomed like a brick giant in front of her. She placed her hand on the security keypad and the door chimed open.
"Hey Slicha!" the house spoke in a cheery voice, "welcome back from school, what would you like to eat today?"
"Shit." Slicha grumbled at the cheerful tones of the house's voice.
She walked into her room, slammed the door and put on music. Loud music, the kind that made a person's eyes bulge from their sockets and their brains melt through their ears. Slicha selected a scalper from her biology kit and fit it with a new blade, the old one was rusty with blood. Then, she stripped herself of every single piece of clothing on her body. For one crazy moment she contemplated walking out in the world, free from all the bonds of shame, respect and sanity. Then the cold steel of the scalper dragged her back to reality. She stepped into the tiny bathroom attached to her room and turned on the shower.
Trickles of blood followed the water into the drain, as Slicha dug the steel into her skin, strengthening her bond with reality.
I'm half asleep and hungry as I write this, both out of choice. And it is the most fun I have writing sometimes, writing to escape my illusions. Shit, there is no deeper meaning to the stories, so don't even bother to re-read. G' nite.
Aug 16, 2008
He loved the way the raindrops pitter pattered in the horse shit on the farm and made the whole farm smell of wet horse shit. He knew his father would force him to clean the horse shit come next morning, but he still loved the smell.
He loved the way the whole farm turned into an unwilling quicksand on rainy days and sucked at his shoes as he ran in the rain. One time he lost a shoe to the quicksand and his father had made him dig through the whole field to look for the missing shoe.
He loved all the snakes and creepy crawlers that came out with the rain and climbed inside the legs of his half pants. Even in his later years he could not forget the incident of the poison making everything twice its size in his trousers. He still heard the hyena like giggles of the nurses.
Still, he loved the way the rain made the power lines buzz and crackle with electricity and many times the wait near the power lines was rewarded by the transformer blowing up with a loud bang. He loved the smell of burnt plastic and electricity in the air.
Above all, he loved the loud sound of the thunderbolts sticking the tall iron bars his father had dug in the field from keeping in the animals. Ryle clearly remembered the day when lightening had struck an errant cow that was standing in the field and made instant barbeque of the poor animal. Ryle and family feasted on the cow for the next whole week.
Ryle liked the way his father stank of whisky on rainy days and his mother smelled faintly of antiseptic. With years, his father smelled strongly of whisky and his mother smelled more and more of blood.
Time passed, rain kept on falling and as Ryle grew he loved every drop of the rain.
A human mind has a great capacity to ignore the important, and distract itself with the mundane. Way to go Ryle.
Aug 13, 2008
Our ancient bones creak in rusting joints. The muscles knot up and we writhe in our aeon old sleep. The world that we once knew is, but a dream to us. The sky beyond our closed eyes changes colors from black to gray to black again, but we only feel, we do not see.
The things that we were once, we are not those anymore. Like fallen giants, we rot. The world we were promised, never given to us.
So, we wait. We lie dreaming and in this dreaming we wait. We wait for the worlds to end and we wait for time itself to collapse on its feeble legs. We wait for the last winks of the galaxies.
We wait, for the end of Death.
We wait, for the end of this dream.
And when there is nothing, we shall awake.
To create again.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Aug 7, 2008
I just lay there twitching, my hands and legs tied to the operating table. The walls around me decorated with sharp steel and black drying blood. I closed my eyes and tried to focus as she shifted gear into the second para of the song. She sang with a calm that betrayed the face of the woman who had stuck knives in my legs and knitting needles in my arms. I could no longer feel the pain though. It was just a dull throb that rose and fell with every breath.
The world around me swam in a swirl of black, white and a song. She was in her element, singing to me. Swansong? A request of the dying? A good luck for my journey to hell? I do not know.
"You liked that?" she asked.
"Fuck you bitch." I replied through broken teeth.
Her grin flashed in the darkness of the room as she raised the guitar over her head and smashed it in my face. The wood broke and dug splinters into my already broken nose and sent a loose tooth in my mouth spiraling down into the void of my throat. I coughed, choked and swallowed it.
"You liked that?" she asked again.
I tried to breath in some air to hurl another profanity, but my blood bubbled into my nose. I tried to open my swollen mouth but no air came in, I tried to move my neck and a weight, heavy as a sack of bricks settled on my chest.
She was there, sitting on my chest, her hands around my throat, her fingernail digging deep into the side of my neck.
She was right where I wanted her. My face turned blue as I stopped any attempts to breathe. My heartbeat slowed, her screams thrummed in my ears, and I grinned through broken lips as my liquid nitrogen filled radioactive heart exploded through my chest and right into her.
Her heart-fucked body slumped down on me as I took my last breath and laughed.
Somedays I forget why people come to this blog, and then posts like the last post happen. When I remember why people come to this blog, heartfucked things happen.
Aug 3, 2008
They are strewn across this frigid world
I pick them up, word by word
Trying to string these slippery diamonds
Into a coherent string
They are a peep into the future
They are a fleeting look at the past
They look at me sometimes
Sometimes they look at you
They exist in this, that is not now
They exist in this, that is somewhile else
My only consolation, they exist
So I dive into the dark every night
Searching for another slippery diamond
Stained with memories of future
What writing stories is like for me.
Jul 30, 2008
The enemy snipers were a fucking rowdy bunch.
They shot at us even on Sunday.
I was drinking my fourth cup of coffee when a bullet smashed the mug and I was left with a handle in my hand and a mug full of scalding coffee on my newspaper.
The cartoon page was ruined, and so was my half solved Su-Do-Ku.
That blew my lid off.
I put down my pen and picked up my cellphone. I pressed "1" on speed dial and called up an air strike on the enemy bunkers.
For the next one minute, the sweet "thuff- thuff" of carpet bombs filled the silence of the desert as they dropped on the heads of the enemy.
Eat this you fucking naughty snipers.
Then I ordered a fresh newspaper and more coffee.
There are some routines one should not change on a Sunday, just like coffee, Su-Do-Ku and newspaper cartoons.
No paragraphs, just sentences. Why is this in middle of the week, you ask, well, what better time to wish for Sunday :) Just 3 more days!
Jul 25, 2008
[This is turning out to be a fun week :)]
------------Here we go!----------
I killed the engine and got off from the bike. This was utterly weird. I was surrounded by dense foliage and I could see small insects, unlike any I had seen, buzz in and out of the leaves.
I felt stares on the back of my neck and I turned around to find a group of tribal men staring at me. They all held crudely made weapons of stone, wood and roped improvised into various knots. They all stood there with their mouths open, a mixture of fear, awe and respect sloshing in their eyes. I realized they were not looking at me, but my bike which stood behind me. The bike's engine made a 'tik-tik' sound as it cooled. I put a hand in my pocket and thumbed the auto-starter button the bike's key ring. The bike roared to life and the foremost of the tribals shat himself.
The next moment, every one of them was flat on the ground speaking incoherently in their native tongue. I got on the bike, kicked it in gear and sped off from the forsaken jungle.
I drove till I reached the speed of sixty six and then I was back on the road, highway 666 to be exact.
Jul 24, 2008
[This was the second intended story for CON. The real problem was getting the jeans off while riding the bike, then a friend showed me a "stunt video" where this was done. Some bikes do have good balance. Enjoy!]
It was a beautiful night. Dark clouds painted the sky and the moon hid behind them like a coy lover. A bike roared through the night with a girl clad in black gunning the machine for all its worth. The bike's engine vibrated between her legs as the machine ate the road and threw up chunks of darkness behind her. It was just her, the bike and the road. She didn't care where she was coming from or where she was going, there was just the drive.
And so, she drove.
At 60 km/hr she took off her helmet and tossed it into the darkness. Her hair trailed behind her like wild lightening. She shifted the next gear, left the handlebars and with a deft move took off her black leather jacket. The wind took the jacket and for a second it looked like a giant bat following her, and then it was gone. Her black Metallica t-shirt was next to go, and as the wind caressed her naked body the chill in the air made her flesh awash with goose bumps. She lay back on the bike, lifted her legs over the handlebars and in a swift moment her jeans were in her hands.
Then the rain started to fall, large hailstones fell like rocks on her. Skin bruised and then bled where the hailstones hit her.
"Oh fuck." she thought as the bike skidded and the road opened its arms to meet her.
Jul 23, 2008
* Clarity Of Night contest is over, please head over the blog and say congrats to the winners. Yours truly managed to lose once again, but as the writing of the story "The Name Of Hope" went, I felt there wasn't much fubar element in it. Not my type and not my style and well, no one died in it, there were no swear words and no nothing. But that is gone now, like the past 5 CON contests I took part in (Nice, that abbreviates as CON...hummm)
Anyroad. Before my mind rambles on and on to weird places, while writing a story for CON contest, I actually wrote six, but rejected each one of those for one or the other reason. This means there is a lot of "text" that remains to be published and what the readers of CON escaped, the readers of this blog will not be so lucky to escape. So, I give you the first story, It's called "Bitch Fuck". It's a love story, of course a fubar love story. No one actually dies here, but let's just suppose the main character drives into a truck load of iron rods. Here we go!
"Go faster little fuck." The bike said.
Sweat poured down my forehead into my eyes and I blinked it away. I was already doing 60 km/hr and she was still telling me to go faster.
The bike covered the road like a demon chugging down darkness as it rides out of hell.
"I'm fast enough for tonight." I told the bike.
"Please do not call me that."
"You can be a total bitch sometimes you know."
"But I'm your bitch. No?"
"How fast did you say you wanted to go?"
There, wasn't too bad was it? No? Ok, 5 more to go :)
Jul 21, 2008
Somewhere ahead a truck had turned turtle and all the traffic was being diverted through other roads. The black biker wore the archetypal biker gear, dressed in black from head to toe, all leather and all style.
Inside the helmet the biker head was filled with fear. Pure crazy, batfuck insane fear. It sloshed through his body and his heart thudded in his chest faster than he could drive his bike. All around him death sat every vehicle. In every car he looked, The Reaper was present. He sat hunched in between people or sprawled in the back seat and in one case sitting on the hood of the car, his scythe resting in his lap, its blade sharp as the first shaft of moonlight and hungry for life.
The reaper stroked the shaft like one strokes a terribly good puppy, he looked at the biker and nodded at him, just like every other reaper had done.
The biker drove slowly, not moving his head but using his eyes to look into the cars.
For a second a sound attracted his attention and he looked upwards, as a plane passed overhead, a small shape sat on its wing. The cloaked shape waved at him. He didn't wave back. He brought his bike to the bridge's periphery, a large truck stood there, "Inflammable" written on it in large letters. A hooded shape sat on the passenger's side of the truck.
Up in the sky, the plane banked in a tight circle, lost altitude and headed for the bridge. People ran out of their cars, trying their best to get away from the falling death. The biker took off his helmet, tried to get off from the bike but someone held him down by the shoulders.
He looked back and saw Death's hollow eyes staring back at him. The plane swooped low like an eagle moving in for a kill.
Then, Death grinned.
Now that I have written this, this remind me of the final destination movies.
Jul 15, 2008
The demon Azeragoth was having a very bad night. He was behind schedule on the killings, he was feeling strangely happy for some weird reason and his amnesia was not helping him remember why the Big Boss was pissed off with him.
His iPhone buzzed in his black leather jacket pocket and the sudden vibration shocked him for a second. He was taking his time getting used to- stupid but useful at times- human technology. He took out the iPhone and saw a reminder on the screen. He put his only nail less and manicured finger on the screen and opened the reminder window.
He ticked "Tortured the rude victim"
He ticked "Showed her sign of hope and freedom."
He ticked "Tripped her with tail as she tried to run away, tied her back to the pole."
He ticked "Ate chicken and drank beer in front of the thirsty and hungry victim."
He ticked "Tore off her fingernails."
He ticked "Tore off her toenails"
He ticked "Hacked her living body into large chunks."
He paused at the next point.
It read, "Fed Drinkoo."
"Awww shit." Azeragoth swore.
"Drinkooooo" he shouted into the sky, "here girl, come to daddy, snack time!!"
A black shape, larger than a Boeing 707, landed with a thud in front of Azeragoth. The ground shook with Drinkoo's weight, her wings created chopped off the trees on either side of her and her breath made the temperature of the whole valley rise by considerable degrees.
Azeragoth kicked the human head high up in the air and a tongue like an anaconda lapped it up from mid-flight.
"Nice catch baby!" Azeragoth shouted, and tossed another piece of human anatomy in the air
"Here sweets, break a leg!"
Some people just don't learn any other way.
On a side note, the nice Mr Jason Evans is holding the 9th Clarity of Night Short Story Contest. I am going to send my entry, you can find out more about the contest at www.clarityofnight.blogspot.com. Great place to make new friends and learn about writing stories. Give it a shot :)
Jul 4, 2008
Death can sometimes be a funny little bitch.
Just like she was funny for Jeister Mok, The Man Who Could Not Die.
Mok did die in the end. No one escapes the sister of Morpheus and the daughter of life. Death gives everyone a chance for a date. Last date, of course. But Mok had avoided his date for the past three hundred seventy six years to be exact. The day he died was his three hundred and seventy seventh birthday.
Mok sat in the balcony of his mansion, overlooking the vast sea and the mountains as a flock of seagulls flew in a perfect V formation into the sunset. The setting sun cast its orange hues all over the water and everything was made from liquid fire that God himself had used to paint the heavenly scene in front of Mok's eyes.
He picked up the glass of vodka and took another sip that burned down his old, old throat and settled like a mini nuclear explosion in his stomach. His entrails were on fire the second the vodka reached inside him. He squirmed in his chair and slammed the glass back on the big mahogany table. (The table deserves a mention here. It was a massive piece of wood that could house a small family, a kitchen and two bedrooms under it if need be. In short, it was a massive table.)
And so, he drank. And so, passed the hours.
Mok saw her and squirmed in his chair, his breath became ragged, he gasped one final time and slammed his hands on the table.
"So have I." squeaked Mok as a figure extracted herself from under the table and bolted for the door. Death snorted in disgust, grabbed Mok's head and slammed it in the mahogany table.
Again and again and again.-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
If you figured this out, buy yourself a beer for having a twisted mind. If not, don't bother to ask. ;)
And forgive me if the formatting is fucked up. We are not doing too good on bandwidth here and have to make do with lot of crap floating around on the internet connection.
Next story, soon.
Jun 25, 2008
The whole city had gone mad.
My neighbors had just killed their dog and were putting it on a barbecue in the middle of the street. Their son was beating his sister with hisleft leg. He hobbled on one leg as the girl teased him.
Their parents laughed.
A dragon flew outside my window, a pizza box held firmly in its jaws, its massive wings darkening the mad night. The pizza box dripped with blood, the dragon's teeth firmly clamped through it. The dragon saw me and winked at me.
I looked outside fascinated and disgusted by the sights I had never seen before. Little dinosaurs ran in the garden grass, no larger than small rats. There was a car laying on its roof in the street, another car lay on top of it, they both moved in unison, metal crunched into the gravel with their back and forth motions.
The neighbors were finished with cooking the dog and now the whole family sat on the road and watched the cars twist and turn around each other.
They all ate the dog. The boy's leg was cooking on the grill next.
Somewhere around the next street I saw a bright flash and a mushroom cloud of smoke, dust and debris rose from between the buildings. The glass on my widow exploded into butterflies and they all fluttered around my head.
There was a knock on the door of my room and I pulled myself away from the window. The window called me back in strange, sweet tones. I opened the door and Dad stood there with a shotgun in his hand.
The hole where his head should have been, grinned back at me. I took the shotgun from him and slammed the door in his face or whatever was left of it. The black metal lowed in my hands and the next second I was holding a black cobra in my hand.
"Kiss me." said the snake.
Precisely the reason why you come to this blog.
More madness to come your way, regularly! :)
Jun 14, 2008
The Parallel Puppy was not cute, it was an accident.
I swear...Fuck, it was a horrible accident. Let me elaborate.
That day is still clear in my mind like it was yesterday but it was not yesterday, it was sometime in February of this year. As on any weekday I left for my office on my motorcycle (bike as I like to call it, not a cycle, but one with a motor, and it's heavy, and it's called a Pulsar). So, as I drove on with my attention on the road and my left foot on the gears and the right on the brakes, I drove over a puppy.
It simply walked under the front wheel of my bike, and it felt like I had driven over a small bump in the road. I immediately slammed on the brake and stopped the bike. As I rested the bike on the side stand and got off to inspect the puppy I saw, to my horror, that the puppy's head was squashed parallel to the road like a cheese pizza under the rear wheel of my bike.
It was sad but I took comfort in the fact that the puppy didn't suffer much.
This post is dedicated to The Parallel Puppy.
Jun 13, 2008
i hate the rain is when i have to drive in the rain.
So, right now as i type this, my jeans is wet,my shirt is wet and
there is water in places that i'd rather not mention here. All because
of the idiots who drive fast through water on the roads even though
they are in cars. Times like these make me wish for a bike with a
machine gun on it so that i can blast any car that splashes water on
me when i'm driving.
A flamethrower add-on for the bike would be nice too.
"Whatever it is, I'm against it"
The problem is that once you have completely and finally and for the fuck of it
all, fucked and obilterated your enemy, what is there left to do?
Not much to be true. You have a few beers, eat something, take a bath (if there is
no avoiding it[The stench can be a dead give away to the enemies]), sleep a little,
for fuck's sake and then what?
Look for another war to fight.
Plain and simple as daylight on my face and dog shit under my shoes. Got to keep on
fighting, day after day after day. That's life, until death happens.
I see them flying in my mind...I'll kick them in the behind,
Jun 4, 2008
attracted to the neon blue flouresence only to be ZAPPED into smoke
and a SNAP!! sound.
And I wonder, what is it that we are all getting attracted to? The big blue...
"Whatever it is, I'm against it"
of shitiness but I think i'm being confused as someone who actually
gives a fuck.
I wrote something in morning about sleep, mailed it but it never
reached the blog, i wonder why.
So, i have been philosophising but there is better wisdom found inside
a can of beer than slamming head into the walls. The stories are
brewing in my head again. Won't be long before it all erupts like a
bloody orgasm or something. THAT is what storytelling should be like.
A perpetual fucking of thoughts, from one to many. An orgy of words, a
gangbang of ideas, a bukkake of madness in your fuckin face.
I think i've finally lost it. Lost my sanity. This is un-familiar
country, this weird feeling of stillness, coursing through me, i like
it, but then why am i feeling bored?
peace cuz of bigger guns.
"Whatever it is, I'm against it"
Jun 3, 2008
work. The only satisfied human being is a dead human being. I'm pissed
off cuz i have no reason to be pissed off but i will soon find some
reason to get all worked up about and i'll be normal again. I like to
ramble, just to let off steam. Not good for days like this when its so
hot. It's 8.45 AM, what the fuck am i doing in office, i'm sleepy and
the benefit of t9 dictionary is that i can type with my eyes closed.
"Whatever it is, I'm against it"