Sunday, 31 March 2013

Overheard Conversations


File:Night.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons
James stepped outside the door to his hostel, and lit up a cigarette—the ones with a special mint bubble at the top of the filter that was activated by pressing down on it until you heard a snap. He breathed in that first awful mouthful of smoke that hits your lungs like a chemical gale; the first mouthful is always awful, but it lines the mouth and throat, preparing it for the chemicals about to enter the body, following by the rush of delicious, pacifying nicotine.

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Qu’est-ce que tu fais là ?


Source: Wikimedia Commons

Qu’est-ce que tu fais là ?

Demanda le monsieur,

Dont le grand nez n’a

Rien à faire avec ce poème.

White


Source: Wikimedia Commons

White. White like you wouldn’t believe; whiter than white, as though I had just stuck my head in a pail of fresh, creamy cow’s milk and opened my eyes. The white shifts and moves listlessly (but how? How can I see the white moving, if I see nothing but white?) as though trying to go somewhere. A burst of colour explodes on my retina for a second, shifting opalescently; looking for all the world like a jellyfish floating in a turbulent sea. Just that quick burst of colour and all is back to white again. I can’t even be sure that I saw colour, because everything is white: even that explosion of colour was, now that I think of it, white. It might be better to describe what I saw as the white shifting and flaring for a second before resettling, like a sudden disturbance on a placid lake surface. I stare at the white all around me; even my body is white and, if I had a mirror, I would not be surprised to see that my eyes are white too. I am as white as the environment; there could be other people in this place (wherever I am) with me. But I cannot see them: they are white, too. I remember that brilliant flare from a moment ago, the white-indigos and white-scarlets and white-jades flickering on my brain long after the light itself has flickered out. The synapses of my brain tingle with pleasure as they remember that brilliant sparkle of white, feeling starved of illuminary stimulation in this blank space. I look around at my surroundings; white, white, white everywhere I look.

The Storm


Source: Wikimedia Commons
Lightning sparkles across the sky, and the  storm gazes  across its destruction with a malevolent glee, surveying the damage that its  armies have  wreaked in its name. Wind howls  across the valley, an army of banshees moving across the fields, shrieking and cackling and causing the grass and trees to buck and toss in terror;  the wind, being an ill-disciplined army of wretched creatures, refuses to show fidelity to any particular compass point, and blows  in multiple directions simultaneously, throwing the environment into chaos. So terrified  are the trees  that  it would have been no great surprise to see them  lift their great roots up from deep within the soil and bolt across the landscape, their roots acting like octopus tentacles to propel them at great speed, spraying earth like ink from their roots to confuse the storm.