Tag Archives: fiction

The Gypsy In The Sewer


Cub

Metal bars stuck around the hollow of his stomach since the day he was born – it never went away.
The nomad was abandoned, his mother was the drain. Everybody knew the stranger from the underground.
The gypsy roamed the international sewers trading a part of him with the merchants from the surface.

If you were to be one of them, you would definitely ask, “Where is his gut?”
And there would be none.

Let your name be Alice.

A louse crawled in his flowing, gray hair and Alice ignored it, pretending to be disgusted by the sewage instead. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending after all. Alice was genuine.

A leash held him in. The jail was made up of metal pipes filled with the black bile from the surface which their citizens couldn’t stand. It was made to prevent the traders from stealing the nomad.
The Gypsy from the sewer smiled from the enclosure.
He could stand us. He could stand anything.

The people liked him because he was the only one to ask, and they wanted to tell.
His eyes would gleam with the sheen of dreams, as if his tear ducts collected your stories.

He remembered each one of them.
He remembered the time when the two towers fell as the bird went blind in the middle of the city.
He remembered the boy who left tears on his shoulders when he told him about his brother who left.
When that girl gave him daisies, he asked her how she found them and he still remembers the garden in her backyard where she played with pythons.
He hasn’t forgotten the wall which fell when the cold years went away.

When he slept it all came back.
He walked through the garden, breathing the dust from the towers, looking for the brother who was lost past the broken boundary wall.

In his sleep he lived on the surface, amidst the part of the lives the people left behind.
He worked the hardest in his dreams. Breaking and mending the weak, creaking parts – making a whole which functioned.
He found the answers to the questions they didn’t even know they will ask.

When he awoke, the answer was found in the cage of his stomach.
Each time it was different.
Once, it was the bonsai tree with thin, paper leaves.
The merchants took it up to the surface and planted it in their cities. The plant grew into a metropolis.
Then he made a red star and it made the wall which crumbled.

A tiger cub sat curious in his stomach when Alice told the nomad about her cycle which broke. The cub’s piercing eyes searched her face, maybe looking for the tooth which went missing when she fell, or imagining the white fluid dripping down her lips and eyes. Her stomach was yet not fat.

His pupils dilated, its throat vibrated – its purrs called to you, Alice.

When she finished telling her tales, the other merchants handed him the money.
The cub was squeezed out of the cage.
It trembled with hesitance. Its tiny claws dug into the metal of the pipes.

Alice picked it up; the tiger’s licks left wet, red trails on her neck.

The merchant group walked away – ready to fuel their machine of civilization with dreams that they would distort and promises they couldn’t keep.
This one would be good for a decade.
After which the merchants will return to buy a part of the nomad again.
It’s best for business.

Alice glanced back towards the gypsy again. His cage lay hollow, his eyes caved-in.
He will never see his cub alive again.
The surface which thrives on his organ implants bars him from living his own dreams.
Or does it?

Alice strutted away.
A leash has its way.
A louse still hangs on his silvery strands which may never shine with Sun rays.

The light awaits the nomad.

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The Forest


It has been here forever.

 

A narrow strip of trees, caged by two walls on the either side – the remnants of the forest which gave way to the city.

 

It stands stubborn, arrogant and indestructible.

 

The bulldozers never touched it.
The axes were all impotent.

 

In its bosom it holds a parallel civilization.

 

From the windows of the high-rises all around, one can see the birds – its airforce – keeping a vigil.

 

Often peacocks come out of hiding, weary of the incessant love-making.

Often they will fly towards the city, peering through the windows at sexual violence and erectile dysfunction.

Their call rings like laughter.

 

They can see through the hollowness of your eyes.
The systematic draining of your soul has made you incomplete.

What happens when you realize that with all that money you can only buy Lamborghinis and 12 Storey Palaces – but these are far from enough.

 

You sleep with a hundred people, but the sex is dead.

 

You peer into the eyes of your lover and your lover needs another cigarette to stand you.

What happens when you waste your life to get to the top and realize that you’re already dead.

 

What happens when even your death is just another event, even for you?

You blame the concrete and the machine.
But it’s you who is broken.

 

The forest knows.

And that is why it refuses to abandon you.

 

The walls on the either sides have gaping holes with open arms.

 

Take all your drugs and alcohol and cigarettes there.

The forest will let you intoxicate yourself.

It will let you vomit and spasm and even let you die of an overdose.

 

It will let you mourn, for you should mourn your death.

Its mosquitoes will suck away all your blood.

Let them.

 

If you die she shall bury you in herself.

 

But if you survive, find a lover.

 

Make love in the forest.

 

Feel the skin instead of the designer clothes.

 

Kiss with love and not with technique.

 

Taste and not just lick.

 

Do it with love and passion and not for duration or achievement.

 

You will know pleasure and not just a fake orgasm.

 

Do not sleep in the forest.

Stay awake and watch the trees.

 

They will shower their dew on you.

 

Look at the stars peeking from behind the canopy.

 

Let the dogs sniff at you when they come.

 

Know that you exist and you are not your name, or your position, or your popularity or your money.

 

You are worth the labour of the Universe even without those things.

 

Go home.

 

Take a bath.

 

But don’t forget the forest.

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The Cult Of Metamorphose — Hanel Alchemist (Snippet)


The Cult of Metamorphose was established when a man had decided that he wanted his left hand to be replaced by an octopus limb.

But when some new members got bored with being just a fashion fad, they had invented a philosophy in order to be taken a bit more seriously.

“Freedom With Mutilation,” their tagline now said.

They aimed, according to their new manifesto, to be anything they wanted to be.

They proclaimed to be the first ones to prison-break from their human cage, and thrive to spread the tale.

The number of body parts one would cut-off was equally proportionate to the level of freedom they ascended to.

Their big moment of shock was when they discovered that their philosophy actually worked.

Mutilation not only granted them freedom from the human body, but also from the human world.

Members highest in the hierarchy could now transcend to other worlds, often to find some cheap substitute for alcohol (with no hangovers), but also because of spiritual enlightenment.

Soon, people flooded this new cult, and they had enough members to organize parades.

People would fix tentacles to their residual limbs, wear hooves instead of human feet, replace their noses with beaks and dance to Electronic Dance Music.

It was largely ignored by the conventional press, because the cult forcibly mutilated any reporters.

And hence, their fame was based on word-of-mouth marketing.

It was the first time that the cult had come to the neighborhood of Hanel Alchemist.

The venue of the parade was decided by rolling dice and often, they would randomly stumble upon people who needed their help.

So you can be sure that the parade was there for Hanel Alchemist. Although none of them knew it then.

— X —

A snippet from my in-progress Bizzaro novel, Hanel Alchemist, where the protagonist mines toes, stumbles upon a woman with seven breasts and deals with daddy issues in order to look for his twin who died in the womb.

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