The car glides on the smooth mountain road,
making the turn barely in time
to watch a herd of deer
run through the grassy meadow
that rises up on the far side.
The air is filled with the sweet fragrance
of fresh grass and pine.
I’ve been here too many times
on this mountain road
to watch this herd of deer
and smell the air
that fills me of longing for more.
Yet I don’t know where…
I’ve never been here…
Not even today…
Photo by Murat Gün on Unsplash
You stand with your family
looking at me with eyes full of hate–
angry at god-knows-what
since god-knows-when–
glaring at the lawyer, the clerk, the judge,
your mortal enemies without a grudge.
You shift the glare
to burn a hole through my heart.
Startled, I glance back without anger,
only deep loss at the part
where the last thing we ever share
is the papers you hand over
to set us both apart.
Humans don’t tread quietly–at least those who aren’t hunting make enough sound to raise a hibernating bear…
The other day, I saw someone run through the woods and decided to inquire if a good meal was in order. Alas, she was too thin. There was no meat to be had, only skin on bones. Not sure why humans do it to animals. Starving themselves is okay, I guess, but what’s the point of entering my territory if I couldn’t enjoy it too? I would call it downright mean!
I would have sampled a bit of her anyway but she was too scared, and all that adrenalin kills the taste. So, I waited until she settled but she was too excited! These tourists…they enter forests on a dare and, then, they jump at every sound, as if we were going to eat them…well, I do, but that’s beside the point. She was jumpy all evening and all night. Honestly, I do prefer a quiet meal so I waited. She shrieked at every dangling limb of tree and every pair of eyes. For instance, I always found rabbits rather harmless but who knew she could make a maneater out of them…
I had a hard time sleeping with all that shrieking and was a little late when I woke up. I decided to have a snack before I go gargle, but she was gone already. Damn those little people for building their stupid cottage in the forest. I can’t get within 250-meter radius of the place. You see, once, I wanted to experiment whether a hint of mushrooms affects the taste. So I tried to sample the Dopey one but one of the other six brought an axe and I had to make a hasty exit. Ever since, they put enchantments around that place so if I try to get close to the place, the axe finds me and chases me out of the perimeter.
Everybody else is welcome, it seems. I never saw that girl run out with the axe behind her. I waited outside for what felt like an eternity. (Well, did you ever try waiting for food delivery at breakfast?) When I lost all patience for the panicky, skinny piece of meat, I left to get breakfast.
When I returned for her, I was afraid they’ll eat her before I do but they had kept her as a pet or something. (These dwarfs have a weird taste, I tell you!) So, now I pace outside the enchanted periphery waiting for her to step out while she sings to birds and rabbits as they finish her chores. How unfair!
Being the Queen’s favourite has its perks and the food at my home is an ode to the fact that I owe her everything I have. For years, I have hunted animals and humans alike.
This child has seen only seven seasons, that too while living in rags and mopping the castle floor. She is a princess who has been lower than a servant. Today, when I brought her to the forest, she was overjoyed. She’s singing to the birds as she plucks wildflowers for a garland. My daughter does the same.
Today, she says, is the best day of her life. I know better. Not sure what wrong she has done and why the queen is against her. But I am just a soldier, a tool to kill all those who displease the crown. The queen desires the little girl dead and her wish is my command. Yet, my hand shakes today as I clutch the hilt of my sword.
No way can I kill her but I cannot take her back and risk the queen’s wrath.
I pull out my sword with shaking hands and call her to look at me. She looks at me with scared doe-eyes and pleading silently. My sword lowers on its own, as if I’ve lost all my strength.
I yell, “Your mother wants you dead. Run away before I kill you!”
In my heart, I plead, “Run away before I give up and return you to the castle, to the step-mother who’d kill you anyway. Run away before I stop being a monster and become a traitor to the crown.”
I watch as she runs deep in the forest; glad I didn’t have to kill her; afraid she’d die alone. I hunt a boar and take his heart to the monster in the castle as a proof of Snowdrop’s death, hoping she won’t find out the truth before I move my family to another town.
I wonder why I ever thought she is beautiful.
Photo by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash
All day, I wait for the night to return
When her long fingers caress me
And light the very fabric of my being.
Her silhouette in the dark room’s door
is the fire to my core.
I watch her every move
as she lies down next to me
with a sigh,
Her dreamy eyes closed to the world,
she smiles.
I sigh too, knowing too well,
My heart would never get over her,
No matter how many years go by.
Of course, she doesn’t understand
how I feel because, for her,
I’m just a night stand.
It has been too long–a life of waiting and moving without my own wish. It is always the guys without the white cap who decide the destination. It is always some boring parking lot with too many black and grey cars like me.
No pink eye candy, no sexy red…
I like my guy better. He is the one with the cap, who cleans and feeds me. Mostly, he just holds the doors and turns the steering wheel according to what the no cap guys decide. But on Sundays, he takes me to those wonderful lots bustling with cars–blue, green, yellow, pink…ahhh! heaven! He ensures I sit next to a nice car, pats me and leaves me to play for hours as he goes to shop with his family. It almost makes up for my entirely boring existence.
Almost.
It is Wednesday and I am almost dying of boredom. Sunday seems so far…
Free image by Aaron Huber on Unsplash
The rocking movement of the boat is making me sick. It’s stuffy with the thirty of us inside the small cabin on the warm day. Our hands are tied to stop us from escaping, as if we could attempt anything like that after going without food for three days. I am not sure why this is happening.
Everything was so normal three days back. I was watching my father chopping wood outside our teepee when my mother had called me in for some chores. Suddenly, the whole place rang with booming sounds. We got down on our knees, terrified. An eerie silence ensued, soon followed by horror-filled wails and sound of urgent footsteps and struggle.
Worried for my father, I ran outside, in spite of my mother’s frantic calls. My father was lying on the earth. It was difficult to recognise him with a gaping hole on his cheek. Grandfather had a wound on his chest the oozed blood. I tried to staunch the blood flow, but his eyes rolled. Of course, I didn’t cry–true warriors don’t cry…may be a little, but father had once said that, since I was six, I was allowed.
People in foreign dress were holding weapons, asking women and children to line-up. I thought they were going to kill us too. But they tied our hands together behind us and made us march for two days. Elusa, my best friend, couldn’t walk as fast as they wanted because her one leg wasn’t quite right. They shot her in the head. Of course, I didn’t cry–true warriors don’t cry. But I was six…
On the second night, they brought us to this dark room that smelled of urine. We weren’t allowed to make a sound. Anybody who spoke was whipped until they bled. It was hot with around a hundred of us in there. I wanted to ask for food, or at least water, but mother shushed me. She said it will bring whiplashes. My feet were full of blisters. My sandals had broken on the way and I dare not ask for another pair.
Now thirty of us are cramped inside this boat…I am thirsty, hungry, tired and a little sick. Worse still, I understand nothing of what ‘they’ say, except that it isn’t anything good. They haven’t told us where they are taking us…or may be they have, we just can’t understand them.
I whisper, “Mother, I’m going to be sick. Should I ask them if they can let me out, so I can throw up?”
“Honey! I don’t think they’d care if you throw up on yourself. We are just chattel for them.”
Scared, I blurt out, “Will they kill us too?”
But Mother is thoughtful, “I don’t think so. They could have killed us at the village, if they wanted. May be, they will sell us…”
“So, where are they taking us?”
“Not sure, but feels like it is terribly far away.”
I finally ask the question that has been killing me for all these days, “If they sell us, will I still be allowed live with you, Mother?”
Her lips tremble but she’s silent, looking at me with eyes full of pain. Of course, I don’t cry–true warriors never cry. But, then, I’m just six…
Author’s note: Before slavery was abolished in the USA, native Americans who were prisoners of war were sold as slaves. Once slavery was abolished in USA, these prisoners were shipped to Mexico, where slavery was still legal, in stuffy, small boats. Children as young as six years and women were sold as chattel to whoever made the highest bid. They, then, lived and died on the whim of their owners, without any rights and treatment fit for animals.
Disclaimer: This story has reference to graphic violence. Reader’s discretion is required.
All that I can say about the place is that it is neat. No dust, no wares.
Only an old cash register and a couple of phones sit on the table. Not sure what she uses the cash register for since there is nothing to sell. But I’m sure glad to find her—anything is better than walking in the desert with an open wound that still drips blood after several hours.
I wonder why I had assumed I could find my way through the desert alone without the guide. I shouldn’t have killed him until I reached my new hideout. But he had somehow realised who I was and I acted on instinct, which was to kill—I was already wanted for 17 murders; one more wouldn’t change anything…
Or so I had thought…
I slit his throat with the penknife at the same moment as he stabbed me with a screwdriver in the side. At least, he died quickly. I, on the other hand, have been in agony ever since—as if he is still twisting that damned screwdriver inside even after the hours I have spent blundering around in the desert. I’m sure I had a phone when I started the journey, I can’t find it anymore. It probably slipped out of my pocket when I fell on the way, several times. I can’t think who to call for help and where to call them anyway, for I have no idea where I am now.
The pain is driving me mad and I would welcome death if it would bring relief. But death seems to be avoiding me for some reason, drawing out the torment. My money bag feels like it weighs a ton—I can barely move my feet. I feel like taking it off my back, yet for some reason, I cling to it like a lifeline.
When I finally found this office in the middle of nowhere, I was too relieved to care about the consequences of entering a building. My wound isn’t conspicuous and anyone helping me would certainly enquire. Thankfully, with more than a million dollars tucked in, I had enough hard cash to bribe my way out of any situation. I just hope they aren’t too honest to bribe, or too corrupt to kill me while I sleep.
This office doesn’t bear any sign, nor can I see any stuff to sell. Honestly, I don’t even see the point of having an office in the middle of nowhere anyway; I haven’t seen a single soul on my way in the past five hours. So, who would drive all the way through this hot-as-hell desert to reach this office?
I stand at the door indecisive as the old hag manning the register eyes me with open curiosity. For her sake, I hope she would help me without causing a trouble. “I need a doctor,” I whisper. My mouth feels like a sandpaper and my voice comes out raspy and breathless—I could kill for some water. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
“I’m sorry but we don’t have that facility here.”
Her drawling voice sets my teeth on edge. I don’t have forever. Her eyes have a dreamy look with no care in the world, which is weird. With the blood on my clothes, I had hoped she would be scared. That way, she’d do my bidding. But, you can’t have everything, I guess.
So, I ask again, “I need a doctor. Call one. Tell him I need stitches and antiseptic. I’ll pay double…triple, if needed.” I add urgency to my voice but it is a struggle, considering the crippling pain.
“You are a little too late for that, darling,” she drawls again.
The pain is maddening and I think of pulling out the penknife again, but she is no use to me dead, “Well, that’s for a doctor to decide!”
“Do you know what this office is for?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh! I would, if I were you!” Her voice has a menacing edge now and the crazy glint in her eyes gives me goosebumps, which is stupid. I have murdered 18 people with a flick of my wrist…
Why isn’t she scared of me? Is she with the police? No, she is not here to arrest me. Her eyes are cruel…and calculated…and excited at my pain…Is she one of sadistic serial murderers who kill for just the thrill? Just my luck to come across one at my weakest moment!
Should I try bolting? Just the thought of moving my legs any further has me on my knees as the pain seers through my gut again. Then, I am lying on the floor, writhing in agony. The weight of my money bag is pulling at my shoulders and crushing me underneath…
It feels like it is filled with stones instead of banknotes.
I close my eyes wishing for blissful oblivion but no help there. I hear her voice clearly, “Well, darling, since you walked in from the Exit door rather than the Entry on the far wall,” she waved towards the open door on the opposite wall, “I guess, you don’t know yet…”
I wish for death to relieve me. I would beg this woman to kill me now if she wasn’t leering at me like a trapped rat. She probably likes long, drawn-out deaths like mine. I wonder how many dead bodies she has buried in the desert sand.
She smiles at me like she is doing me a favour and calmly continues. “They probably brought you in via a shortcut and dumped you directly. These kids now-a-days have no patience for formalities,” she shakes her head indulgently. “I have told them so many times, they must follow the procedure. Explain to the people where they are going and what to expect but…”
I want to shout at her to kill me now. I don’t care who “they” are. Nobody brought me here. I am not interested in chit-chat. I just want to die so the pain would stop.
But she continues, still smiling cruelly. “Well, you see, this is the receiving office of Hell. You have already been here for at least several hours, as you will continue till eternity!”
Author’s note: This story has been sitting in my WP account for three years. Since blood and gore isn’t my favourite theme, I couldn’t find a place for it in my book. I opened my drafts yesterday and there it sat at the bottom, looking at me with accusing eyes. So, finally I decided to unleash it on the world! :D
Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash
My area is used to seeing 10-12 birds at any given time except during the intensely hot summer afternoons when these birds are hiding in the cool shade of trees along the roadside. On winter mornings, this number rises to 20s.
Today started as any winter morning. I am on bed-rest because of a back injury and was looking out of the window. Pigeons were enjoying the sun perched on the electric wires on opposite side of the road. There seemed to be a lot more than usual…so many that I had to count them–58! It made me wonder whether a high-tension wire could break down under the weight of 58 full-grown rock pigeons.
And then, all of a sudden around 70 crows flew in from the right side of the sky. There could be more. Since they were coming in large groups and continued circling the sky, it was impossible to count unless I had a very quick brain. But after 14 days of bed-rest due to a minor back injury and 5 fantasy ebooks, my brain is less cognitive and more imaginative. They were cawing at an intensity that made me wonder whether it was a war cry.
Suddenly, the crows started retreating. I turned around and saw a huge number of pigeons flying in from the left side of the city. Suddenly, the pigeons perched on the wire took flight together, swooping in from the left, filling the sky with at least a hundred pigeons and my brain with the scenes from the movie Underworld. I wondered if I was stuck between a war of shape-shifters–the Crow clan and the Pigeon clan.
The remaining 30+ crows were clearly outnumbered by 1:3 ratio. Holding my breath, I waited for the fighting to begin. But the crows descended and perched on trees on the right of my house (which is the tallest tower in the area) looking irritated and guarded. Then, the bulk of pigeons retreated and nearly 50 pigeons stayed to take their rightful places on the electrical wire in front of my house, looking watchful yet at peace, as always.
I was left waiting for the rounds of silver bullets and wondering if they can penetrate the walls of my house…the only thing between the two clans. Only time will tell, because they are still in position, so if I live to post tomorrow morning, you’d know too.
After an agonizing search in my desk drawer that lasted forever (who knew a 15 x 12 inch drawer could hold so many things), I finally found it–my pen!
It looked weird…too plain. Not quite what I remembered. In my memory, it was rather shiny, elegant, all pretty curves and easy on the eye, or at least, a lot better than its current reality. Perhaps, my mind had been polishing its memory like lost love, romanticizing it until I forget the reality.
It seemed, a lot of other facts escaped my memory too. For example, why did I store it with the rest of the crap I own. I agree the drawer is supposed to have working things, but mostly, mine is the museum of fossils–long-dead things that I couldn’t throw away for reasons better left to imagination.
Did it still work?
I held it in my hand gingerly. It felt awkward, like I had lost a limb without knowing that it had gone missing, and now that I’ve found it after an eternity, I don’t know how to reattach it to the rest of me.
I held it between my fingers and moved it around, ill at ease. My fingers didn’t respond happily, the way they should have. After all, it is something they had held for half their life. They ached from the effort of mock-scribbling in the air.
Did it still work? I tried scribbling on my palm. All it did was scratch the sensitive skin.
Was the refill dry? But then another lost fact sprung to my mind–these ballpoint pens were always hopeless on the skin. I looked around for a scrap of paper–a difficult task, considering I hadn’t written in eons. Why would I? In a perfect world, everything I needed to write could be typed on the Notes app of my phone and laptop.
Only, this world wasn’t perfect anymore.
Finally, a piece of paper bag presented itself. I scribbled on the back side and it worked. Great! Now, all that remained was to dig out a notebook to teach my daughter how to write…
Sigh! Home schooling can be pretty exhausting…
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 