ShotGlass Storiez

Spotify Playlist

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sat, 19 Jun 2021 05:14:00 +0000

With accustomed nonchalance,

she reaches out

for those distinct pieces of metal

that fit into her inner ear

like airpods,

like airpods that

transport her to another world

where the background dissolves

into predictable thumps

at regular intervals.

She picks them up again

as she visits the man

in the next ward

wondering what rhythmic beats

her spotify playlist will doctor

this time

She stands there reading

his chart

when her trained ears

find an occasional

murmur

an arrhythmia

that actually makes

her clutch on to

the rest of her stethoscope

and unhook the earpieces

as she clasps

his terrified hands

into hers

to assure him

that the music in his life

will play on

Word prompt: Doctor

Why we March!

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 16 Apr 2018 03:35:00 +0000

Triggered by greed

of power,

of money,

we’ve allowed ourselves

to believe

that we stand here

with no responsibility

for humanity’s

collective future.

As long as we

get our point across

it doesn’t matter

even if it costs

another person’s child.

To drive home a point

we keep trying to

hit the nail on the head

but how many

people need to take a hit?

How many more heads

need to roll

for our laws to change

for guns to

outrage and be

outlawed,

but not

outnumber

our children

our future.

Like ashes

in our mouth

we talk about

freedom of speech

and honor of the

first amendment.

But what about those

who had to

bite down

on their screams?

Whose opinions

were buried

before they

even had a chance

to discover

themselves,

gone too early

they say,

just because we

didn’t have

the courage

to stand up

for our future.

We propagate

the American Dream

but it’s time

to wake up

and rise up

above personal gain

because we

need to answer

each of our

great grandchildren

feeling proud

that we left behind

a better world

than the one,

we found.

Untainted Stains

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Thu, 04 Jan 2018 06:51:00 +0000

Photo Credit: 'Wrench' by Heather Evans Smith

She made seams on their sides, little fingers pulling apart the fingers that fused on the top.
With severed unity, they split in halves, bidding their goodbyes,
as they spilled all over a ceramic plate.
Cracking the shell, she tore through the thin white inner membranes.
Membranes designed like flattened out bubble wrap.
Bubble wrap that had already been squished out of their powers to protect.
Precious red gems popped open, in a haphazard disarray.
Each containing the promise of the entire fruit.
Filled with the liquid of life, bearing within the seed of joy.
She clasped one between her index and thumb,
pressing it's walls to test for ripeness.
They gave in. Ink stains leaving their mark.
Juices trailing on fingers, palms, and plate alike.
Collecting them loosely she filled an entire bowl,
and crunched spoonfuls of seven seeds with each bite,
whirling them on her tongue as she memorized her homework.
Plate clean and no smudges in sight, she got up to clear the table,
wondering how some seeds had left their mark on her chair cushion,
while she was still sitting on it.

*For 3WW

Holiday Games

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sun, 18 Dec 2016 22:55:00 +0000

The winds came home, from all the 8 directions, reuniting with their brothers for the holidays. In pomp and merriment, they whistled together creating a gale of dangerously low wind chills across the grid city.

Then one of them suggested they pitch their favorite white tent in their backyard. So they blew fiercely over the strongest trees, to find potential stakes that could withstand their gusto and enthusiasm.

And then went looking for that great grand cover. It had been carefully stowed away, that thick white blanket of pristine clean pillowy-ness.

They picked it up from the corners to unfurl it gently, and sprawled in different directions to spread it out evenly across the floor.

A million feathery-white flakes fell rapidly from the skies, enveloping all of New York in a warm embrace.

And yet no one realized that in the midst of the cold, nature was trying so hard to be inclusive.

Mending Projections

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 15:02:00 +0000

With careful deliberation,

she wiped off the decaying patches

of a forgotten green poster,

erased those smudges of tainted grime

that collect between the cracks,

and blurred its character into the foreground

filing away at all the rough edges.

A grainy dissolution of time corroded on a wall

met the glossy acid of turpentine.

She threw blobs of bright brick-red paint,

denying the wall any memories from the past.

And brought it home.

For display.

Because even though she wanted to highlight

an 'exposed brick' wall inside,

she wouldn't dare exhibit those patches of shame.

Yellow Umbrella

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 14:57:00 +0000

They sit there
rustling with poise,
moving gracefully at the flick of an autumn wind's whim.

I stand below it, under a star-less sky.

Yet when I look up, it starts to feel warm again.

Landing in the Sahara

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sun, 28 Sep 2014 18:37:00 +0000

Tumbling down the rabbit hole
she was prepared
this time.
Waiting to touch
the earth under another sky.
Her sheepskin boots
made a soft landing.
Sand had replaced black mud,
for she wasn't in Wonderland.

She looked out for those
perfect white pair of pointed ears,
hoping to start off on a new adventure.
She dangled a carrot
and called out his name.
But neither did he scamper
towards her, nor did he
send word with the mad hatter.

So she gathered herself,
and observed her surroundings.
Golden particles of dust
gathered around her feet,
as she saw the silhouette
of a lonely camel in the distance.

There were no cakes or potions
labeled 'eat me' or 'drink me'
Nor tiny little doors that could
open up to new gardens.
So without any warning
she whined and wailed.
Crying her eyes out
in the middle of the desert.

She waddled her way through
the wetness, mulch and mud
and continued moving forward
without realizing that
had she turned back even once,
Alice would find
an undiscovered oasis
made by a pool
of her new-formed tears.

*For Magpie Tales

She was Out of this World

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 19 Sep 2014 13:31:00 +0000

They could be impregnated to bear children, but no one to seed them.
That is what the biggest dilemma that the beings of 'Sirius A' faced.

They had been observing the Earth for centuries, from each of their moons, in an attempt to perfect the mould that would encase the breeder of human perfection. They needed to emulate her in time, to salvage their asexual species from dwindling very quickly.

Then one of them had a Eureka moment when it said, "Morose Men of Earth!" and everyone clapped with their eyes.

The journey from 'Sirius A' to the Earth was no impulsive decision. It would taken them a good 8.6 light years one way. But by the time they'd reach home, get started on their new mould and embark on another Earth bound journey, the Earthling notions of beauty would change. From plump ample bodied fuller women, we had suddenly developed an admiration for reed-like girls. When they made huge structural changes to this new proto-type, we had evolved to being lured by the hour-glass body type.

However, this time they got it right.

She was an embodiment of perfection. Flawless porcelain skin that wrapped tautly around her tight muscles. Fuller breasts, a thin waist, and a perfect apple bum, she moved with the swagger of a mermaid who had just found new legs. The only think lacking was the soulfulness in those eyes. How would they replicate a soul when they had none? So they launched her on this mission with a pair of sunglasses, and programmed her to entice a nice sparsely-haired man for his seed.

She waited with baited breath as she spotted our shiny bald beau, and lured him with a pout he would never forget. She led him to a motel room, and sat against the window. Then unwound her borrowed hair and let out a sigh. Cause for a moment, behind that doily curtain, she unveiled a pair of squiggly alien eyes.

*For 3WW
** For Magpie Tales

Moth Love

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 15 Sep 2014 08:21:00 +0000

Girl's Night Out was every Wednesday night. This week, they made reservations for 8 pm at this old bar downtown. It had been long since they had indulged in loud noises and nectarine mead.

She picked her favourite outfit in gossamer, and powdered her arms, blushing as she mulled over what she was going to share with the girls tonight.

The boys she had met were old, dull and asymmetrical. A heartless breed of tricksters who'd initiate entanglement through meaningless flattery. She'd wanted something that was long lasting and beautiful. A relationship that would not end in death, decay or caterpillar children.

They flit around each other sharing stories from the week, when suddenly they noticed her glowing from the inside.

She sniggered and unveiled the bright man she had met. Of how she singed to his touch and burned at the thought of his name. "I made love to a ball of light" she said rubbing her belly.

They were blinded as they witnessed the birth of a new breed of fireflies twinkling around the bar.

* For Magpie Tales

** For 3WW

September's Fern

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sun, 14 Sep 2014 10:32:00 +0000

I was looking for that title
amidst a heap of old books
when suddenly those golden letters
glistened in the dark.
Switching on the light,
I felt the hard bound spine
ripping at the center
opening up to the folds
of an overused page.
Therein lay the frail veined carcass
of this perfect autumnal leaf.
Holding the framework of a fuller past,
it was fragmented with slashes of symmetry
with perforations as frail as
a spider's web.
Outlining the remnants, I drifted
back to the Fall of 2006
when I had moved to the United States
to pursue the passions of a geek.
September unraveled to a newcomer
like a bag of skittles.
With a promise of change,
of happiness, of love.
A motley of rust, yellow,
green, brown and red.
A crispy nip in relationships,
that would make me sing songs
and dance around trees.
I lifted that fossilized leaf
and held it against the sky
to sieve out stars.
Appreciating the current summer
thanks to that year's Fall.

*For An Imaginary Garden with Real Toads
** For 3WW
*** Photo Credit

Everything she feels is Red

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 01 Sep 2014 08:47:00 +0000

Dabbing a dash
on that canvas.
She ends up dousing
the entire surface
with Red.
Red. Red. Red.
She chants.
Pomegranate wine.
Beetle juice.
Murdered bloodstains.
Menstruation.
Signs of lost virginity.
Seepage from a warm lamb
waiting to be marinated.
A kaleidoscope of varied emotions
Which we still define
With a single
Red.

Like when she sat there on those redbrick steps.
Her rougened cheeks pinched with excitement
as they learnt to conceal a blush.
That vermilion of requited love in marriage
had found its way by parting her forehead.
She squatted with the poise of a newly wed,
with the ends of her maroon ghunghat
tucked perfectly between the gaps of her teeth.
With bright gums, she smiled innocently,
masking her brazenness under the veil.
Of scarlet passions, her docility
concealed the potentials of seduction
that he would experience
behind closed redwood doors.

But the red she felt when kissed,
Tasted unlike the red of swallowed guilt.
A lump of swollen red stuck in the throat
tainted with hues of possessive rage.
Burning embers of furious red,
emblazoned her eyes
as her husband turned rose-pink
at the mention of his auburn-headed mistress.

Turmoil, anguish and angry red,
twisted within her innards.
Poaching ulcers in her mouth
she chewed on dark betel leaves,
to build up a storm.
Splash.
She spewed the contents
from her coral tongue
on to a canvas.
Yet the new formed creation
was celebrated as
your everyday
Red.

*For Photo Credit

With a little sprinkle of magic on you

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 09:08:00 +0000

Twisting my tongue and raising one brow
I spend hours contemplating about Magic and Hogwarts.
Knowing well that when I secretly say ‘Expelliarmus’
You will be disarmed
And let go of your guard.
Willing to dance like crazy
In the middle of the street.
Like me.

*A word count post for Imaginary garden with real toads

** For Photo Credit

The Chronicles of House Lannister - The Imp, the Cripple and the Mother of Madness

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 06:41:00 +0000

Jamie Lannister's Valyrian steel needed no whetstone. The blade was accustomed to sharpening itself whilst slicing through skin, flesh, tendon and bone in one single stroke. But what good was steel to a man with no sword hand? The man who had sworn to be the King's guard and eradicate every enemy of the throne was now sitting near the stairway, with only five fingers to count.

"I don't have my right hand, but at least I'm not Theon Greyjoy!" he winced, thanking his stars for not having met Ramsey Bolton. He continued drifting into sleep, whispering "Cercei. Cercei," as he imagined the pleasures that he could continue to experience with his left hand.

Tyrion walks in, feeling faint and squeamish as he discovers Joffrey's love for violence against anything that moves. He looks at his amputee brother and squeals "Winter in coming, but that doesn't mean you need to as well!" as he brushes off images of his naked medusa-headed blonde-haired evil sister making love to his brother.

"By the Gods of the 7 Kingdoms, Jamie, you can't possibly tell me you still want her! Incest breeds vermin. With the release of Joffrey from your loins, you very well know that science doesnt need to evolve and prove that you shouldn't engage in coitus with your twin!"

Cercei enters with a scroll, beaming and mocking Tyrion, knowing full well that she was holding King Robert Baratheon's Will between her fingers. She cracks open the wax seal and sits there with raised expectations.

To My Lady,

I, Robert of the House Baratheon, know that you, Cercei Lannister, My Queen, have served me well. The wine on my lips curbs me from running around circles, so I'll be brief.

In your time here at King's Landing, you have tried many things.

Gore. Check.
Sex.Check.
Gore whilst having sex. Check. check.
Sex with me. Check.
Sex with twin brother. Check.
Sex with other Lannisters. Check. Check.
Blond children. Check. Check. Check.
Ordered mercenaries to kill enemies. Check.
King dead. Check.
Ned Stark dead. Check.
Joffrey dead. Check.
Tywin dead. Check.
Valar Morghulis. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Plot twist - You can fuck and kill anyone you want Cercei, but the Emmy still goes to the Imp.

You therefore inherit 10 Gold Dragon coins, to enable you to enroll in the best acting class at Westeros.

Signed without sarcasm,
Your Dead Husband

*For 3WW

**For Photo Credit

Bandra in my Nose

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Tue, 01 Jul 2014 14:58:00 +0000

This whole land was the sea
And we stood on the shore there every day
Sand sprayed
With grains of salt in our hair
And the scent of fish dragging behind our feet.
Bandra smelt like the residue of the Ocean
Pure and aquamarine. Not like your cheap Cinthol soaps.
Freshness meant plunging into the frothy waves of salinity
Licking the seasoning off our lips.
And then the land was reclaimed.
The sea vomited on us
Repulsed by the fact that we had pushed her back.
So we threw out more shops.
Shops with spices to mask the putrid smells.
Vendors sold fruits to allude sellers to freshness
The musk of incense sellers, attar manufacturers and bakers,
The stench of milk and mawa makers
All found their place on the street
To distract us from the scents of our childhood
But deep in the heart of the bazaar
As I twist and turn through its narrowing roads
I find myself gravitating to the center of the fish market
With dried mackerel, pomfret, shrimp and crab
Oozing odours that dance with my olfactory senses.
I just close my eyes and find myself
Flooded with memories of the forgotten sea.

*Photo Credit: Makrand Karkare
** Musings for The Collage Collective Studio, Bazaar Road, Bandra

Selling Fruits with 2 Master's Degrees

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 30 May 2014 05:39:00 +0000

HE
I have sat here all day.
Stood up sometimes.
Stood up cause
I could sit no more.
I can't stand it.
Stand it I must.
I must
I must
I am Indrapal.

ME
I am Karishma.
I have been sitting patiently
Waiting for the right thing
To come my way
I have many talents
Many qualifications
Degrees
2 Masters degrees.
One in English.
One in Social Psychology.

HE
I understand people's psyche
And have, Madam, mastered two
A double masters from Kanpur
In Sanskrit and Hindi
Try kiya maine
Everything I tried
But no luck
No job
Jo Marat woh karat
I sell fruits
Fruits that appeal to your senses
Mastering languages didn't work
But I still play with the tongue
I still please the tongue
With fruits
Juices that flow
That flow and melt on your tongue
Your tongue
You still have a voice

ME
I have a voice
I have a choice
I understand the mind
I work with lines
Powerful lines
Lines for brands
I sell my lines
To ad agencies
Lines that come from my being
I don't work for people
I freelance
Freelance as a writer
I am my own boss

HE
I am my own boss
I sell fruits on the street
No one to tell me where to go
Or what to do.
But at 50, I have asked my friends
To help me with a job in Canada
If I find one. I'll go
To Canada

ME
Canada is the neighbouring country
Of the United States of America.
That's where I will go
My husband is waiting for me
As I wait for my visa
Waiting to make the most of my time
But right now I will do my best
I am working on a play
Do you watch plays?

HE
I watch life. It goes by in front of me everyday.

ME
Will you come watch mine?

HE
I promise you I will.

*Theatric Piece for The Collage Collective Studio, Bazaar Road, Bandra

A Rorschach Butterfly

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 31 Mar 2014 21:43:00 +0000

Supporting the spine of that threadbare book, he quickly leafed through those worn-out pages. The letters spluttered across the sheet in random bunches, hanging onto the lines like it were a cliffhanger. The typeface cunningly realigned itself and spread out its gossamer sail, to take its new reader through a well traversed route.

The tired characters had said the same lines and repeated their actions across all 1495 pages. They walked across pages and complained about arthritic pain.

“We’ve been overused and forgotten. No one remembers us for our valiance!” Can one always care about the new reader when the repetition feels so degenerate? So the main characters went on strike, probing the weaker ones to take sides. They plunged away from the staple seamed center and chose to float away, drifting apart on pages that chose different directions.

He reached out to the now emaciated book in his hand, and gathered irrelevant parts of the main story. And mused as he gathered the ripped sheets, trying to make sense of the whole from its scattered parts.
He critically analyzed the story-line, finding fault in the one who penned this plot.

Thinking he'd nailed the epiphany of the author, when he hadn’t even left the shore.

* For 3WW** Photo - The Landscape with Butterflies by Salvador Dali

Motions of Emotion

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 19:31:00 +0000

With scabs that covered craters on the surface,
she camouflaged the scars that ran deep.
Her skin prickled into pearly white mountains
as vagrant thoughts left her gravitating towards him.
Drawing attention through tidal waves,
she influenced seventy percent
of what he was made of,
but let go of the imaginary reigns
that controlled him.
He scoffed away, sullen and adamant,
to create a distinct new revolution,
to stand out from the other eight,
to leave a mark in the universe.
So she stood there at a little distance,
trying hard to hold her ground.
and silenced her irrational impulses,
by orbiting around his space.

Because he was her world.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** For 3WW*** Photo courtesy LayoutSparks

Swan Song

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 18:37:00 +0000

Clinging to the contours of her calf muscles,
the fine thread-work of motherly innocence
dipped its silk, and licked the surface
of those still grey waters.

The voices in her head had made their peace,
when the argument met with a quiet scream.
The blood on her hands had curdled
from the blood of her womb.
Squinting to salvage the last tear in her eye,
she ambled stoically to the middle of the lake.
and saw the rejected duckling
murmur softly in the glistening black waters.

The broad-laced wide-eyed bodice
sprawled around and braced her frame.
Pivoting on one foot, she swiveled
to bury the remains of her seed under her sole.
Swirling on ripples of unwashable guilt,
she tried her best to spiral downwards,
and wished to drain away
through that wide gaping manhole.

But the black swan sat there cursed
to a cold world sans imagination,
for never again would she find herself
tumbling down that rabbit hole.

* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: Actor Lisa Dwan in Beside the Sea captured by the lens of Graeme Robertson

New Old Cold!

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 22:22:00 +0000

I stood there
Anaesthetized and
Frozen to the sidewalk,
Engulfed by the echo
Of a whistling windchill
That found my skin
Through layers
And overalls.
Cold and fear
Amalgamated with
Pinched memories
That spiked
Like shards
Of uneven glass
Splintering through
Follicles of gooseflesh.
I pictured his kind face
Like a hologram
That stood out
And blended
Within the crowd.
Prickled skin
Softened to faith,
And sensation
Kicked in
As I held that
Accustomed cup
Of sublime heat.
I quickly learned
To jumpstart
My world
To the present.
To the love that
Brought me back
To a country
Long left behind.
When suddenly
Those relentlessly
Nipping reflections
Of minus degree'd
Hardships
Melted softly,
Like the season's
First snowflake
That assimilated
Into this
Untouched mug
Of caffeinated delight.

* For 3WW

** For Theme Thursday

*** Photo Credit: Design-Dautore

Vapours of Adolescence

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 21:58:00 +0000

They had been assigned to his supervision today. But with an easel, pencils and an open landscape before him, their mother's words seemed like a distant blur.

She picked up the soiled ochre-stained end of his old habit and tried salvaging what was left of those listless smoke rings. Prodding the bolstered side between her lips, she clenched her teeth into that bitter sponge.

And waited.
For his disapproval.

His nubile eighteen-year-old mind looked through her at the hillock beyond.
She inhaled the innards of the tobacco filter and coughed out faint puffs of juvenile rejection.

With a slanting gaze she held on to the cigarette.
His disinterest gave Lolita her muse.

* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: 'Candy Cigarette' by Sally Mann

An Incubation

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 19:33:00 +0000

Loosening her poke bonnet, Kathy sat there in red velvet-laced overalls, observing the chaos outside. No respectable young girl in her right mind should stand witness to an open-aired brawl.

A man of colour was being graced by a volley of stamps, blows and kicks by a riotous mob of angry white men.

“He had the audacity to bring flowers to Jonathan’s daughter!” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner as she looked disdainfully outside the window. She stared towards Kathy and Anne with tears of concerned fury, and gulped her tea with intended impoliteness.

“Put a halt to your thoughts! I will not have any of my girls bring such scandals into our honest home. Do not even think of disgracing your father’s honour, young ladies,” she warned with a scornful index finger in their faces.

Anne excused herself lackadaisically from the breakfast table. Kathy continued eating silently, as the blood rushed to redden her Caucasian cheeks. She cut her omelette with precision, but had suddenly lost her appetite.

James did differ from all the other men in the village. He treated her like a lady and caressed her like she was a queen. His queen. As an artist, his dark inventive hands were accustomed to creating magic on any surface. Sometimes he’d paint her, sometimes for her. Moulding love on a potter’s wheel, his hues brought his muse to life. They would spend hours imagining a future that was freed from the shackles of race; of colour that bound them in separate, unblended water-tight niches of an artist’s abandoned palette.

Floating back from her thoughts she readjusted her bodice and walked towards her room. Tears flowed over her corset as she lifted her dress to touch his inked art on her canvassed skin.

She pulled down the layers on her tea gown, stood up and wiped the traces of heart-ache from her face.

The little black girl inside hadn’t yet found a way to face the world.

'Blessed' by Ray Caesar

* For 3WW
** An attempt at applying a Pre-Victorian style of flair and fluff.

*** Photo Credit: Ray Caesar

Beyond Ferraris

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 07:11:00 +0000

His fast red bullet of fire on four wheels,

Was abandoned in the middle of a highway lane.

Ye canst not ignore heartstrings on pinwheels,

When the epiphany of a beggar hath driven him insane.

The workings of karma befuddled his domain,

So he went to seek answers from an old abbot.

Giving up his fast car, the monk learned to sustain,

By finding nirvana on his newly bought yacht.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Huitain form of poetry, also called The Monk's Stanza

She Waited

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 06:03:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

So she’d wait there after midnight, behind a curtained wall frame
Stealthily whispering whistles to call out my name
Dragging fearful memories with every stride
I’d take refuge in an old cupboard and hide
Peeking through the chink as she came

Her silhouette would burn with a platinum flame
Long soggy hair-strands would veil her shame
Soft sobs broke into screams as she cried
So she’d wait there after midnight.

This was the home she had hoped to claim
One that was etched with her future last name
Black-sooted droplets of tears had dried
She had longed to be an army man’s bride
He’d promised her the stars, but he never came
So she’d wait there after midnight.

* For imaginary garden with real toads
** My attempt at Rondeau Poetry rhyming, dedicated to Friday the Thirteenth

Dream Stealers

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 08:10:00 +0000

Photo by Maria Sardari

Crisp, dry, rumpled autumn foliage served as a buttress to buffer her stance.
She stood there for hours, shuffling feet in rustling sounds.
But there was no way out.

Hours transitioned into weeks.
Weeks into habits.

Tight fishnet ropes of her limited mind left blue bruised criss-cross clots on limp ivory arms.

Thoughts that dressed in soldier clothes came rushing in from eight directions. They barricaded her from all sides and punctured the earth with shining silver switchblades. Standing in unity they threatened to pierce her hopes for change.

She glanced at them with fear-stricken eyes, almost resigning to her destiny.
But her Wheel of Fortune was at arm's reach, waiting for a fleety spin.
Pulling herself up she propped her feet on the ground choosing to fight and conquer self worth. With little strength and a lot of courage she commanded the mind: “Let’s wage war on the soldiers of YouCannot.”

Cannon balls of fire flew with that decision. Fears were bludgeoned. Insecurities were stabbed. Determination and will power gave a tough fight. White flags were raised. The battle was over.

While unravelling the last few strands that bound her wrists, she looked around to confront a hidden enemy if she must.

There was nothing left of the Eight of Swords.

* For 3WW
** For the love of Tarot.
*** Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

Invisible Ideas

noreply@blogger.com (Karishma Shetty) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 02:09:00 +0000

My mind
reads like
the open canvas
of a New
Word Doc.
Barren blankness
spread out thinly.
I rummage through
the recesses
of my brain
and hack hard
at the keyboard
without a flow
of thought.
Stream of
Consciousness
is a dwindling
brook with
spurts of water.
Little winged
black birds
dip into this rivulet
and splash across
the parched screen
with a voracious
appetite for
vocabulary.
Strung by the
invisible chord
of syntax
and the unused
facets of grammar,
they cluster
in seeming
randomness,
forming syllables
in a sharp
unbold typeface.
The birds are
backspaced
while other
clusters are
pasted elsewhere,
flapping wings
to stay together
as a whole.
Forced to migrate
from a different
starting point,
they fly across
with meaning
on their backs.
But where
the heck
is the damn
punchline?

* For imaginary garden with real toads
** An attempt to parody one's own style