Soul Stripping on the Net

  You could hear the dry biscuits being chomped by weary old teeth. Without uttering a word, the chomping teeth tried to form a smile. One hand held onto the hard, artificially sweetened, dry, gnawed biscuit. Crumbs breaking off to the asynchronous rattling of the bus window.   The biscuit stole all the moisture form the tongue, throat, lips. It seemed that the entire wrinkled visage had shrinked in that moment, no tear flowed. Eyes, invisible through first the thick foggy glasses, and then the unclean double window stared, still trying to smile.   An empty hand, propped by pinocchio joints rose up, fingers outstretched, rocking like a grandfather clock. As the bus lurched forward, the biscuit fell. The teeth stopped.   He would savour the last taste of Home as he left for the old-age house.

  There are several story ideas that seem good, fresh, and at times even revolutionary when one is in the throes of a good glass of brandy. Yet, sobered up, or even after a different drink, that idea seems a distant blob of emotion to tap into. Or simply put, that mood though easy to create in theory, in practice seems difficult to pull off: cause one shouldn’t mix drinks.                What one is left with then is a faint echo of an idea that bores into the skull like an earworm, insistent upon being explored. A transient odour of the thought that muddles the brain, trying its best to flash the correct neurons, for smells are the most powerful memory-joggers. But that idea had its trusses constructed on an overflow of feelings. Which was it? The emptiness in my heart? The anger in every sinew and fibre? The unbound love for my friends? If only there was an easy Ctrl+C-Ctrl+V for this.    ...

  It was a boring night, full of light, just like any other before and many more to come. The bland, stark, moodless white light from the tube and the power-saving CFL both bathed the room from two different angles.   The windows still showed a black vision outside. The whiskey still made its pit-stop in the glass before reaching my stomach. The music also remained the same, on loop. It was the same track that smothered the room every night, in perfect harmony with the lonely vibe emitted by the four other empty rooms, themselves black, acting as an extension of the night outside, clawing its way inside. A random mosquito did buzz in some corner. But insects are poor company, and especially bad at conversation. Add to that fact that there are times in the day when waiting for replies seems tedious. People tend to not reply at ‘odd’ times in the middle of the night.   The mind is a strange and terrible mass at such times. Malleable enough to convince itself the o...