The End of a Friend

Lines across the face
The stones on the path
They don’t have to be a story
Of a life that doesn’t last
A friend is still a friend
Even if they don’t think of you
As the place to run and hide
When they have nowhere else to go

They walk in with a crown of thorns
Claim the throne and shut the door
They walk right past your fear
And start exploring death some more
A friend is still a friend
Even if they think of death
And you want to claim their life
And bring them back to their gasping breaths

They may drive you mad
With the walking away
They come back to your tears
Like it was any other day
A friend is still a friend
Even if they pick a rotten heart to save
Over your unconditional soul
Even if they walk away
Without a goodbye scroll

A Suitable Girl Part 2: The Digital Paranoia

“Does your Facebook account have things people wouldn’t want to find out?” My father asked the other day. Well, first of all, what is it you think I do that could interest anyone on Facebook. I do not put up pictures of me sunbathing on the beach, frankly, I don’t even remember the last time went to a beach(which is not Juhu beach!) Then he gets all defensive and sweet and goes oh no not you! Maybe someone else did it. And all the Criminal Minds episodes I have been willingly trying to forget come rushing back into my twisted mind! I have a first name so common it gives out 6,490,000 results on Google search, yes I checked, and don’t even get me started on the results of Facebook (It’s probably gonna pop up saying “Are you kidding me?!”). The name is basically a “John” and not a..well “Persius”, not that I am complaining, I’d rather be lost in internet anonymity than be fetched with the first result that comes. But it got me wondering, if we were to judge everyone as per our digital footprint, how much presence is enough? I am present in numerous writing websites (some I don’t even remember the password to!) This was before I found the blogger and decided let people come to me, instead of me reaching out to them. Not the world’s best idea, but frankly those sites are just ways to appease writers with really low self esteem and I, for one, am on my path away from self deprecation. Google has a keyword tool that tells you exactly how much a keyword was searched and from where! It was a dismal story to see that my name was searched a mere 28 times! Counting ex stalkers (every Indian girl has had at least one in her lifetime!), my dad and my own narcissistic self the number would barely reach five. Assuming the stalkers and I searched my name about 5 times and my dad searched it ten times (he is the true meaning of digital paranoia and well, he really loves me!), the number would probably reach an even 28. Considering the question of internet safety was raised due to the lack of matrimonial interests, it would be safe to say, if all it took to impress an Average Joe is a pretty linkedin profile and less than 100 search results on Google, he is pretty much a coward and also a little bit stupid, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a combination of the two.

The Writer: An Afterthought

There was once a little boy, crying in the highlands of a wolf that didn’t exist. He scared his little brother, bullied him to no end, and sometimes secretly hated his mother. The little boy grew big and tall, scaring the town with his stories. His little brother remained small and spent most of his time writing mysteries.
One day he walked through the park, hearing stories of the woods and saw his little brother hiding away in a hood. He followed him in silence and whispered through the moors, promised the little boy he will be scared no more. The little brother heard the strange voice and made his choice and dreamt of the days when he’d finally rejoice. The big brother walked right behind him in silence making up nightmares in his deep dark conscience.
It started with the neighbor’s dog, he whiled away all day long and whined deep into the night like a song. The big brother went and whispered in the little one’s ear about how there will be an accident this year. The dog would die under a car and be dragged along six feet far.
The sixteenth was special, for she had turned him down. Big brother was angry at her sweet sound; he told his little brother what he’d do. The little wrote it all through and through.
When his mother saw the words “set me free”, the evil of it all she could see. He then told his brother the story of how, a single mom will be hanging herself now.
The little brother was sought by the world; he was no longer scared of the written word. A cop came by one day asking questions about his stories; the big brother stood by him and told him how they were just mysteries. Someone out there was reading his rhyme and doing exactly what he wrote at exactly the same time.
They grew up together, the big brother took a wife, but he also now controlled his little brother’s life. The writer thinking it was all his fault, holed himself up into their house’s vault. The last story the big brother told was of a writer, holed up in a white room, jabbing himself with a pen into his death and doom.
The big brother smiled a little at the thought, this time he had done nothing wrong. The writer expecting the story to come true, bowed down by the guilt took his own life through and through.
The rhymes were never easy for the big brother, he never really wrote or read or bothered. A perfect crime he thought, and went on to sound emotionally fraught. “He’s dead, he’s dead.” He yelled in assumed fright. His wife made the call into the night. “He has killed himself, he couldn’t take it anymore. He wrote he was sorry for the lives he took before.”

The Writer: Part 5: Tonight

He wakes from his moment of bliss to see what the pen and paper has conjured up this time. Another Story.


The room was a well lit white. The stack of books in the corner was beginning to gather dust. The tiny window at the top of the room was merely for the tiny ray of sunlight that stole itself into the room. He looked up for a moment; the rain had splattered the dirt from the road on to the window as if the white of room was fighting against the filth outside. The door was ajar, he must have been waiting for someone. Or something. The sounds of the rain got louder, as if daring him to let it enter the room. He looked up and hoped the glass would hold. The books began to shudder, must be the wind, he thought. It was all dark now. The lights had gone out in the white room. He sighed a sigh, this has happened before, he thought. In a dream once. Only this wasn’t a dream. When the lights came on, the room was now red. All his books were alive. His mother’s hanging in the bedroom, and the worst of all, the babysitter, her tortured body walking across the room, they all came back to him. That little friend, he met at the park, that voice, he was back. It had always been him.
He wanted to get out! Out of this horrendous room, he tried to shout but there was no sound. Even the rain had gone quiet now. Could he not hear anymore? He took away his hearing? That’s how he would never get scared? He looked back around the room. All the horrors of the world coming alive, why could he not hear himself screaming? Was he not able to scream at all? The red was overwhelming now. He had to start listening again; if he could just dig a little deeper and remove the thing stuck in his ear. The pen! He would use the pen to remove the block. He felt no pain as he jabbed it in, maybe he took away my pain too, he thought. Or did I do that to myself?
He jabbed it again and tried to scream and still couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe if I open my mouth wider. He held his lower jaw and started pulling away harder and harder. But nothing happened, the patter of the rain was gone, the sound of his screams nonexistent. It was just him and the red room.


The writer reads on with horror as he reads the story, he feels the left of his head go soft and the pen covered with blood.