Vacant Stares

The river, it flows

Reflecting images in its course

It gushes forth, every second

A new image

Images never seen by humanity

Images the river hides

Images. The rocks’ secrets.

Of everything that took place

But wasn’t ever seen by eyes

The eyes that

When witnessed miracles

Nature’s greatest

Blinked.

And turned away

Often looked down

At artificial screens

In the presence of Grandeur.

So nature, in revenge,

Feeling insulted

At something the Creator

of the moon created

Being rejected,

Took away their sights

So that they never saw

And all that remained

Were vacant stares


I know I’m not doing these prompts everyday, and BELIEVE ME I had some pretty cool ideas too, but I just didn’t have the time! Also, I love how they make me think! It’s so fun. If you haven’t tried this already, why don’t you check it out here? Also, I’m doing two different prompts at the same time. So you can check out the other one in the previous post.

Check this one out here:

https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2017/10/01/october-writing-prompts/

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The Journey Beyond

There are several underpasses in the Canal Bank Road. I know only nine, and for some unfathomable reason, I seem to have memorised all their names. But that is beside the point.

If you take the bus every morning, and find yourself on that road at half six, you will be forced to observe every little detail every single morning. It doesn’t matter wethar or not you want to, but the fact remains: it is impossible to sleep on that bus, hence you rely on your observations to keep you amused and, well, awake.

However, it is a completely different experience in a car. A smooth ride, noiseless, peaceful, no sudden jolts attempting to disintegrate your vertebrae. You could sleep if you want. When you pass through an underpass, there isn’t much of a spectacle. Just another bend in the road, though downwards.

On a bus, though, it is quite an event. Keep in mind, the windows of the bus are always open, unless there is a particularly difficult passenger who insists to torture all those other people who were not fortunate enough to get a window seat. Along with the not-so fresh air and dirt and toxic fumes that come in, there is, also, a whole lot of NOISE. Not just the traffic outside: motorbikes, tractors, trucks, cars, rickshaws, vans, wagons(yes in the early mornings all these vehicles are allowed too). But also the constant sound of the bus itself, its engine roaring consistently, never letting you forget you are in a bus. However, on the road, these noises are an open environment. Spreading out in all directions. Nothing specified, no collectivity.However, passing through an underpass is a quite different story. The sounds, now confined for a moment of time within the walls, reflect back and provide you with a collective impact. Bouncing back, they combine at the epicentre: that instant in which your bus passes through the centre of the underpass. For a brief second, (that is, if you are awake), you experience a strange sensation. A sensation that I could never truly justify with mere words. A combination of frequencies that were never meant to be combined. And if you overthink it like I do, you shall experience a weird sort of contentment. As if the universe revealed some of its secrets to you.You want to stop right there. Stop time itself to live an eternity in what is a split second. Perhaps because you dread the monotony of “routine”. Perhaps. But you know. You know.That you must venture into the journey beyond.


This would’ve been better suited had the prompt been “overthinking about petty things” rather than The Journey Beyond. But oh well. Heh.

Dandelion Dreams

Her days stretched ahead of her, monotonous, uninteresting, dreary. Her eyes saw the same pictures, her brain comprehended the same words, her tongue rolled the same letters. Her ears detected the same frequencies, her nose picked up the same smells, her fears feared the same fears.

But then there was her mind.

Her mind soared, desperate to not be ordinary, soaring the heights in the sky. Her mind delved deep, deep into the secrets the oceans never revealed, deep into the secrets of life itself. Her mind heard the untold stories of sold fragrances. Her mind felt the softness of flower petals, it rolled in green fields feeling every blade of grass give birth to life anew.

There she was.

Chasing, wanting, desiring, following, caressing.

Little did she know.

She was dreaming dandelion dreams.


*sighs* I know, I know, nothing quite special for today. But hey I still did it so that counts as a plus, eh? And yes, I didn’t do anything yesterday because (a) I couldn’t think of anything and (b) I had no time. And it will probably get even more irregular, folks. Sorry 🙈

Anyways, this amazing prompt was here:

https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2017/10/01/october-writing-prompts/

Candy Wrapper

A ten year old boy holds the hand of a six year old girl. His sister, presumably. He has hazel specks hidden in the brown of his eyes. His hair is dirty from playing in the dirt all day. He wears a light blue shalwar kameez. He is smiling, and although his face is dirty, one sees the innocence in it. Now he gets angry, pulls his little sister towards him with a jerk. She had been trying to break free from her brother’s grip. The boy sees the cars along the road, he cannot let his sister be in any danger. Amma told him to take care of her. The girl protests in a loud voice. She has eyes identical to her brother, her hair equally dirty, her face equally muddy. She wears a traditional colourful shalwar kameez, which has tiny mirrors and stones sown into it. Right now, she is scowling. Trying hard to break free from her brother. Why doesn’t bhai let her go free anyways?! A six year old mind cannot fathom the dangers of a main road. He brother sees he has made her angry. He had been saving it for after dinner, when amma would put them to bed and then leave, but figures now is the time.


A little down the main road, a fancy politician sits in his black prado, amidst security escorts and protocol. He is to make an appearance at the local hospital, which had been sealed for the day. In one hand he holds a cigarette, which gently bobs up and down with the motion of the car on the bumpy road. He has a bored expression on his face, a thick black moustache with his thick eyebrows making him constantly look like he is scowling. His security officer briefs him on what must be said and done in the hospital, which wards he must visit, what expression he must have when the camera’s on him. The sirens of a security jeep continuously sound in the background. Three vans containing media personnel try to overtake the black prado, but fail to do so. Men from the security jeeps yelled at the drivers of the vans, threatening to report them to the Saab.


“O dekh! Gaddiyan jandi. (Look! The cars are going)” He said excitedly to his sister.

“Kitthe? (Where?)”

“O dekh na! Uthe.( Look! There)”

His hand had reached the bottom of his pocket. Out came the cheapest candy he could find, the two-ruppee-orange-flavoured candy.

“Ae le. Tere wastay. (Take this. It’s for you.)” he said.

Her eyes beamed with joy. She quickly snatched it from his hand.

The cars were coming nearer.

She let go of his hand. She opened the wrapper, and popped it into her mouth. She threw the wrapper in the dirt.

“Wekh ke guddi. (Be careful/look Guddi),” he warned her.

She was skipping now. Skinny six year old legs adorned with a baggy shalwar, skipping along the road.

“Oye Guddi!” He yelled, “Guddi! Gadiyan aandi pai(the cars are coming)”

It was too late.


The body of a young girl, the hysteric sobs of a brother, the nineteen cars speeding away that constituted the protocol and security of the fancy politician, the indifference of the politician and his subordinates, the lack of interest of the security personnel.

The Candy Wrapper that lay in the dirt.


Another writing prompt completed!

Check out the October Writing Prompts here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

Hunger

There was a crack in the rock. Not a very big one, but it was there nonetheless. Ever since the Earth had spurted him out, he had been cracked. At first he had been made fun of, but then severe warnings from the elders had been issued, and then finally he had been cast out of the community. According to the Grey Rules of Stone and Rock of the community, any rock with a crack must be excommunicated. No rock must ever be known to have some sort of dealings with him, or else they, too, would have to face circumstances.

Naturally, our rock was upset. He had been shunned by society over something he had no control over. Something that wasn’t his fault. In him was born a strong hunger to fill himself. To somehow complete what was after all, in nature, already complete. Little did he know.

His hate for the Earth intensified as he realised that it was, infact, the Earth’s fault he had been cracked! The Earth must have preordained it to be so. The Earth was, in fact, his truest enemy, trying it’s best to ruin chances of all survival! In his flustered little mind, this was all he could think. Little did he know.

Having now established an enmity for Earth and soil, to fill himself and relieve himself of hunger, he turned to the waters. Here were the waters: as yet innocent and pure (in the eyes of the rock), this was it. Here was something that would fill his crack, here it was at last! Looking upon its surface, not considering the hundreds of rocks it had devoured before, which lay in its not-so-innocent depths. This, this was not an enemy. This had done nothing to deform him. This was, on the contrary, something that would help rectify his abnormality! In his flustered little mind, this was all he could think. Little did he know.

The water gushed forth and welcomed it. And our rock, our innocent victimised rock, went forth to conquer society. What did he know, he could never have the upper hand there. Nevertheless, he was there and all he wanted was to drink in his victory, and drink he did. But not his victory.

There is a thing about rocks that if they are cracked (and rejected), their own sense of hunger fails them. They have been hungry for so long they no longer know how to not be hungry. That was the case with our rock too: he was hasty, he drank, he drank to satisfy his hunger. Eventually there came a time when he was full, but how would he know?! He was a rock! A cracked rock! He drank, more and more, until the cracks filled, and overfilled, and finally, began to pull the rock apart. He, in his somewhat deluded ecstasy, would still not stop. Amd eventually, it was the end. Our rock was split into a thousand fragments, to be no more, rejected by the same water he thought was his saviour, absorbed into the same Earth he so despised.


Yet another writing prompt heh. This one was because of Accidentally Inked who pushed me to write! Fenks, inky!

This writing prompt can be found here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

What can I do? I see a writing prompt, I get excited. Thank you Zoya for these prompts! Ha here I am nominating myself lol. Never mind, bear with me.

Have a great day! Don’t let the Grey Rules of Stone and Rock get to you. You’re perfectly complete as is.

Said the Caterpillar.

If only they knew how jealous I was. If only they could see me through a time less traveled. I was a mere caterpillar; they magnificent butterflies. Soaring up high, exploring the skies, seeking things unsought. While I, ugly, fat and indecently crawling. Destined to stay rooted with the Earth, degraded to a mere being of disgust. They: flying, flying, merrily, from this flower to that, traversing this air current to there, imbibing sweet nectar, nectar which my preliminary digestive system couldn’t even digest. I was reduced to eat and chew tasteless green leaves, forever chewing, chewing, rolling each piece down. They: metamorphosis complete, creatures of beauty, creatures sought by every soul. I: denied my chance to even wrap my cocoon, and every time I did manage to do so, it was sabotaged. Sometimes, a mere rip, like a mild attack at a self esteem, quick to heal, forever scarred. Other times: the cocoon destroyed completely, like a shattered self of shards of glass, almost never healing, a self that does not believe in itself anymore. It always occurred to me: I call these people my friends, I stood by them in their metamorphosis, and they? Am I to dry out as a caterpillar? Am I not to fulfill my destiny? Or is this my destiny, and I should resign to it? Have I been fated to never reach the epitome of desire, and inner beauty? Would I die as is, and they be the embodiment of every ounce of my desires?


*this piece of writing claims no scientific accuracy.

Image is subject to copyright.