Calm.

In the wee hours that night

The air was pregnant

With suspense and dread

Come sunrise and

You would find the morning sky

Pierced with bullet holes

But for now

All those souls lived a death

In the eerie calm.


Writing prompt:

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

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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/

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/

Mounds of Dirt 

They lay there forgotten. The world passed by, unaware of their presence. Barely visible now. The grass had grown tall now. The vegetation didn’t seem to notice there was anything or anyone here. To the grass they were just heaps of dirt. Organic matter.

A boy walked past, whistling. Two other boys rushed past him cycling. Chasing a dog. An old woman carrying a heavy bundle of something on her bent back walked past too. A man with a saw overtook the woman with an impatient expression on his face.

The car tried its best to get through this busy market place as fast as possible. So many cities left. So many kilometres left before it would reach it’s destination. No time to waste here. But a horse suddenly pulled free from its owner and, in a desperate attempt to flee, ran onto the road. The car, however, missed it by a few centimetres. In confusion, it turned sharply to the left and stopped. People gathered around to control the rogue horse. The argument that ensued between the driver and the owner of the horse was not really understood by anyone. The city dwellers in the car could not understand the local Punjabi dialect. And the locals were confused by this city language.

They, however, heard everything. And understood it. They lay there, aware of their fellow beings wasting away in petty matters, matters that did not matter at all. Matters that would soon be forgotten. Like themselves.

In mounds of dirt.

Frustration

If only I could be

Isolated, left alone, uncared for,

By all and no hypocrites

Should befall my path of misery

Then I should let the cry

Escape these lips with freedom

The cry of hurt and pain and grief

The tears should I then allow to drop

I would be at last at liberty

I wouldn’t strive for friendship

Nor would I be grieved at the loss of it

This air I could at last exhale

The eyes would be allowed to see

The body would move at liberty

The hands allowed to feel.

I would not be used

No hypocrisy should affect me

No feeling could control me

No person could arrest me

In something too powerful

The magic once charming would loose its charm

And I would be at last free!

 

If only I could be…

(Something I wrote when I was thirteen)

Pain

Lose yourself and all your emotions in the curves of this soft white pillow. Look at the whiteness of it… so innocent of any other colour!

Pain is only felt… stop feeling and just follow the folds to where ever they take you.

These luxurious folds in its cover… not enough to encompass your body but surely able to enfold your imagination?

The softness, the whiteness, surely there is something at its core? Delve into its depths and discover- discover all that no one has seen before.

What, you think the whiteness is innocent? So you do not know that in fact it is white only because it has absorbed all other colours?

Concentrate hard on this and this alone. Pain is a fragment of your imagination. Drive out the pain with the force of the whiteness. No, you must try hard. HARDER. This tear you can feel, if it falls, remember that the pain has won. You cannot let that happen.

What? Why has your vision become so cloudy and blurred all of a sudden?

Has it? Has it truly fallen?

(Something i thought of when i was sick in bed a while ago but am writing now)