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Study life, study literature. Eat food. Lots of it.
Also, I use a lot of adjectives- working on that, so bear with me.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

Shaking A Few Words Out of a Toybox


I don't know about writer's block, but frozen fingers, hovering just above a keyboard are very real. It has been a long while since I wrote. At this point, I've lost count of the number of unfinished blog-posts I have, and the number of incomplete breaths in my phone notes. I have always taken a lot of pride in my words, and so to find them lost at shore like this shakes me more than most things can. One of my earliest posts on this blog was some of my poetry.
I don't like it when my hands are so clean and ink-free, so for the last few days, I decided to force myself to write every day. Such an alien feeling, that I wrote in a format that I hadn't particularly dabbled with much; micro-fiction. Without any more preamble, I'd like to share the tiniest pieces of fiction I've ever written.  They're mostly unconnected, things that I've seen or felt and regurgitated on paper over the last few days. (Yes, I am worried that trying to fix my stalled writing by writing things that end faster than a tweet does can be counter-productive, but I'm playing this on the fly. Hoping that small stories will break open the bigger sentences too. Yes, some of them are cheesier than I anticipated, some scary, but extremes work when normalcy deserts you).

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She found the number written on a tissue paper.
A broken voice picked up the call.
That night, two fortunes were reversed, all thanks to someone who didn't follow the 'Do Not Litter' sign.

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Two single tickets for one horror film.
Shaking hands found each other across the seat-handle.
The story on the screen wasn't the only one in the auditorium that night.

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When he broke my bangles, it was abuse.

When the elder women broke my bangles, 

It was widowhood. 

No one knew it was murder.

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Every single mirror in the house was broken.
The supermodel met herself that night.

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They passed the book between themselves at the library, smirking as their eyes met over scribbled words.
What grew in the margins could not be tamed by the dog-ears.

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"I need a size M, this is size L, dude", he said.
"Sometimes, that's even better", he replied.
The Men's fitting room holds more joy than the Closet store ever will.

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Each touch of his ignited fire in her. 


The acid was quite potent. 

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He can't father a child. He fathers thoughts instead.

She is a mother. To his words.
They conceive everyday.

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Suffer

Two languages, one word.
In 1947, it meant the same.

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She smiled every time she came to the girls' hostel. Love is a rainbow flag on her door.

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Power windows, rough hands.
Expensive sunglasses, ambitious eyes.

Both the car and the beggar had a long way to go.

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Each bindi stuck on the mirror.
One dot. One thousand memories.
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She wailed as amma's hands picked out the lice in her hair.
Today as she cleans amma's hair one last time, she wails again.

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Time waited for tide that evening.
Idioms were a common enemy.

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His eyes were glued to the meter of the auto. As each glowing red digit moved to the next, his hand ghosted over his pocket. Phantoms pains were applicable to wallets too.

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