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Sunday, July 31, 2016

Short Story : Claustrophobia



The evening descended like a sudden splash of ink on a poem's page or like the shadow of an eagle's wings on a sullen,perplexed forest.Ada could feel something descending towards her,something like a cloud,something that drilled through her ribcage,something that riddled her perceptions and appearance both at once,like a stapler pin that pierced through both the page and the ink.
She draped herself in her bathrobe and set out,from liquidity to something that appeared too solid to be stepped in - the tiled floor looked back at her,reminded her of a greyhound's frown and the death of a seagull.
The evening descended on oceans that had been paralised,her ground - eroded ; her life - sucked out.Outside,the crusade ran through life,tore her body into pieces and screamed in sarcastic pleasure.

The war was all along the circumference of the satellite and inside the orbitals of the cell.The TV groaned - stuck in between circumstance and conscious,unsure about what was to be done when continuums are hidden from space and the dilapidated time that hit hard against its own body to convince itself that it wasn't dying.



Painting - 'The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali


Up,up,up above,a cosmic particle collided against the other,a black hole was born.Down on earth,right beside,legless children screamed in dismay,lost in joy to hold on to the missiles that had had their soul amputated. 



Ada admired her kohl wet eyes and motioned against the movements of the wall.The neglected TV unmindfully surfed through the reaches of itself in the mirror and Purge and Beirut and the 8th of April.On the 2126th day of seize,a three year old was shot to death,the vagina of a 7 year old reduced to rotten odours and muscles.In some other world inside the world,the body of the bitch now rested,wrapped in a gun carriage,wrapped in silence,wrapped in agitated existence of non-existence.Above the carriage,a white flower - without the necessity of it,wilted to survival.

Ada unwrapped her robe,slipped into her laungerie and called him up.Half awaken and half close to death,footsteps ran up the stairs.She dimmed the lights,the last of the returning bird called.The shelling tuned,but didn't sound mellowed to the ears.The smoke settled down in the champagne.The footsteps walked closer.The water dripped down the shower.A shadow liquified inside her,a demon arose in and around.The frothy notes ran down a violin,the splinters now talked of peace in verse.

The dilapidated time,like a shackled,tattered cottage,talked of nudity and absence.Silence mutilated their existence,deep beneath and thus high above,wings were shredded to the call.The call now slept in between survival and sane,unheard - unclaimed.



Disclaimer : Song is 'Is There Anybody Out There?' by Pink Floyd from their album,'The Wall'.
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4 comments:

  1. That's a very dark and grim perspective, and I am absolutely blown away by the your imagery... how easily you portrayed this world. Stunning!!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank You so much! This is an experiment as well as a part of reality. Experiences are insightful themselves,anyway. :)

      Delete
  2. You write well. Infact I find a kafkaesque element in your writings. Have to follow you more

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank You! I love Kafka's works,he definitely is an inspiration!!

      Delete

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