Dusk

By- Padmini Baruah.

“The pinpoints may have begun lighting the inky twilight sky; I have no way of finding out. Only days are my escape. Sunlight – pure, unadulterated; sometimes streaked with orange, sometimes covered with dirty gray blotches of cloud.  – is what I am free to perceive. You who look at me with disdain, perhaps at yourself with contempt: try not to whisper false nothings about the moon and the stars into my ears. Such words mean nothing to me. Dusk can only mean to me but one idea, one concept, one facet of life.” Continue reading

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Howling At the Moon: Chapter 2.

Shashank Reddy

Footsteps echo off the walls, a rhythm slowly beating life back into a long dead place. Dust, unsettled, woken from a long slumber, curious about its disturber, moving in circles around her, exploring the whiteness of her shirt, the crevices of her shoes, the inside of her nose. Touching, feeling, shadowing. Dust, always the leader of such denizens of forgotten places as cobwebs and peeling wall paint, instills a certain amount of courage into its followers. Cobwebs stroke her hair, the ceiling paint flirts with the whiteness of her shirt. She, used to such unwanted attention, brushes them aside and chooses to notice instead a fading poster depicting a man and a woman walking. Continue reading

Howling At the Moon: Chapter 1

By-Shashank Reddy.

The night. Black. Dead. Two people in a room. Awkwardness giving in to passion. Tongues exploring each other slowly, then surely. Two explorers caught in an alternate world of smoke, darkened rooms and unimagined heat, seeking unknown pain and gentle pleasures, tasting salt and manna dancing in the inner recesses of their mouths. Oblivious of the night, and of each other, they dance the dance with the opposite body.

The morning. Nothing remains of the night before. The blackness is gone and death, for the moment, seems to have vanished. In place of two people, one person remains. The woman, standing by the window, gazes at the brown sea, the dirty little boats and the piles of fish waiting to be sold, and sees nothing. It has become a habit now. Last night was but one night among many. The same story with one constant protagonist, her and an ever changing credits list at the other end. Continue reading