The T.Nagar Hacksaw Massacre by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
The T.Nagar Hacksaw Massacre
Mangamma sat sipping her tea. The 10am rain pattered on to the edges of her sari. Usman Road was unusually quiet; an eerie sort of silence. She saw a spot of red on the other side of the Duraisamy subway, where vehicles still ran. She remembered telling her grandson that it would be rainy day in May before these streets would be deserted. The hot season; the kathiri veyil, was supposed to have started yesterday. And yet, there she was, saree damp in the rain, sitting where no one else had before – on the footsteps of Pothy’s Textiles on a Saturday morning. She took another noiseless slurp from her tea and began to descend the wet
Lamps and orange light. Two people engage with each other through a game of chess. An almost identical game they played. Rook for rook; knight for knight. Till he tips the balance by killing her pawn and denying her a chance to reciprocate. She watches her solitary pawn watch her game; pick up a pen and write.
--
He walked down a road; a flaneur-esque stroll. Heat, no humidity. Trees, no shade. Bicycles, two-wheelers and him. A still and stagnant afternoon; his movement barely disturbing the air. He looked to his left and saw a road lead into a street of families. A ball lay there, no sign of recent movement betrayed in its curves. The once
He kept looking up from his book at her. She sat on the other side of the hall, in the leather arm chair, the teal one. She’d come in about half an hour ago, wearing a flowery top, the kind without sleeves and straps, and washed up denim shorts. The top was light and flimsy, and had a different colour for her breasts than for everything else. Unlike most others, he was hoping it wouldn’t fall off. He found it more erotic that it stayed there.
In her hand, she seemed to hold an old book, seemed like leather-bound. She seemed irritated about something, her nose was all crinkled. He figured it must be her hair; it kept falling onto
Too often plagued by the same vocabulary; a redundant, littered narrative. How many more times can I write of the same things? How much more can I talk of myself? So, I’ve begun to look at you; write you instead of me. And why not, you seem more worthy of being written
about.
That’s why I started thinking about you. Who you were and why I’ve always looked for you. I figured that if I understood why I want you so, I’d begin to understand who you are. Are you just a collective of ideas that I wanted you to be, written into poetry by my whimsical mind? That’s what I had once thought. But if I’ve written you
A Letter to the Lover that Never Would Have Been by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
A Letter to the Lover that Never Would Have Been
Dear ...,
I’ve written in earlier pages that some of the most powerful emotions are found in cherished moments of intimacy. I’ve come to think now that I might have been wrong; that maybe, the desperate longing for intimacy is as powerful an emotion. Because of you, I find myself struggling with my loneliness. Yes, I blame you. I blame you for turning my solitude into loneliness. I blame you for pushing me into this state of chaos; which I’d learnt to love, because it let me be around you.
I’ll be honest. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t like that your gaze makes my knees
Awkward, crazy and fumbling; three words to describe most of her. Her hair; her demeanour; social life; ties with family; relationships in general; sex; the way she carried herself, sober or drunk; her writing; her tastes in music; her days; her conscience...awkward, crazy, fumbling. She vaguely remembered a time when she could fit things into boxes and they would stay that way; friends, boyfriends; parents, kids; bitch, angel; right, wrong; work, fun; unnecessary drama, necessary interaction. Somehow they had all dissolved, these boxes. She was trying to figure things out, trying to remember the last time she knew who she was.
They say you
I stand; I stare; I look at Chaos in the face (it chose to have one at that moment) – the swirling (and shaking and hopping and linear) mass of nothingness and infinity. I stare with an unsettling calmness; blank face and palpitating eyes. I stare not in anxiety or terror (or maybe in both), but with patience; waiting. Waiting for it to be. For Chaos never comes or goes; it is or is not. If Chaos could creep in and slither out, it would not be Chaos. Chaos is or Chaos is not. It exists or it doesn’t. So I wait for it to be, afraid to blink lest I miss it.
There was a hop, skip and a tug of my hair and in that shriek of pain, Chao
Ten in the night. Her table.
She stared at the blank page in front of her. She knew what she had to do. It was simple.
At least, that’s what others had told her.
“Ha!” She thought to herself. “‘Easier said than done’ to them all! What do they know anyway? They’ve never had to think. Gah!Yes,yes, much easier said."
She sat there, looking around her room for ideas; for inspiration. She gazed at the picture frames on her table – heart shaped ones, self decorated ones, ones with her; with her parents; with her friends; and her favourite- the one with Ronald McDonald. That one was taken when she w
He opened the door, keeping one eye on her. Her hand was slipping through his pants already. Fuck. She loved tempting him. Why not? She was bloody good at it. He opened the door and quickly pulled her in, lest the moment escape. Pushing her against the door, he moved his body into hers. Still wanting to tease, she hid her kisses behind her grins and giggles. He pursued earnestly. She rewarded him. A quick flick of her tongue to the corner of his lips. And then she watched him for a second, with intense eyes, while he decided whether that was pleasure or pain. She knew that would do the trick.
He put his arms around her, lifted her and threw
Of the black-headed visitor by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
Of the black-headed visitor
He came to me, with his wiry moustache
Coming closer, inevitable was the clash
Gullible fellow, he was my second of the day
Closer, when he was at the end of his way
"ZZZZTTT", score for the Pest-o-Flash.
The T.Nagar Hacksaw Massacre by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
The T.Nagar Hacksaw Massacre
Mangamma sat sipping her tea. The 10am rain pattered on to the edges of her sari. Usman Road was unusually quiet; an eerie sort of silence. She saw a spot of red on the other side of the Duraisamy subway, where vehicles still ran. She remembered telling her grandson that it would be rainy day in May before these streets would be deserted. The hot season; the kathiri veyil, was supposed to have started yesterday. And yet, there she was, saree damp in the rain, sitting where no one else had before – on the footsteps of Pothy’s Textiles on a Saturday morning. She took another noiseless slurp from her tea and began to descend the wet
Lamps and orange light. Two people engage with each other through a game of chess. An almost identical game they played. Rook for rook; knight for knight. Till he tips the balance by killing her pawn and denying her a chance to reciprocate. She watches her solitary pawn watch her game; pick up a pen and write.
--
He walked down a road; a flaneur-esque stroll. Heat, no humidity. Trees, no shade. Bicycles, two-wheelers and him. A still and stagnant afternoon; his movement barely disturbing the air. He looked to his left and saw a road lead into a street of families. A ball lay there, no sign of recent movement betrayed in its curves. The once
He kept looking up from his book at her. She sat on the other side of the hall, in the leather arm chair, the teal one. She’d come in about half an hour ago, wearing a flowery top, the kind without sleeves and straps, and washed up denim shorts. The top was light and flimsy, and had a different colour for her breasts than for everything else. Unlike most others, he was hoping it wouldn’t fall off. He found it more erotic that it stayed there.
In her hand, she seemed to hold an old book, seemed like leather-bound. She seemed irritated about something, her nose was all crinkled. He figured it must be her hair; it kept falling onto
Too often plagued by the same vocabulary; a redundant, littered narrative. How many more times can I write of the same things? How much more can I talk of myself? So, I’ve begun to look at you; write you instead of me. And why not, you seem more worthy of being written
about.
That’s why I started thinking about you. Who you were and why I’ve always looked for you. I figured that if I understood why I want you so, I’d begin to understand who you are. Are you just a collective of ideas that I wanted you to be, written into poetry by my whimsical mind? That’s what I had once thought. But if I’ve written you
A Letter to the Lover that Never Would Have Been by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
A Letter to the Lover that Never Would Have Been
Dear ...,
I’ve written in earlier pages that some of the most powerful emotions are found in cherished moments of intimacy. I’ve come to think now that I might have been wrong; that maybe, the desperate longing for intimacy is as powerful an emotion. Because of you, I find myself struggling with my loneliness. Yes, I blame you. I blame you for turning my solitude into loneliness. I blame you for pushing me into this state of chaos; which I’d learnt to love, because it let me be around you.
I’ll be honest. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t like that your gaze makes my knees
Awkward, crazy and fumbling; three words to describe most of her. Her hair; her demeanour; social life; ties with family; relationships in general; sex; the way she carried herself, sober or drunk; her writing; her tastes in music; her days; her conscience...awkward, crazy, fumbling. She vaguely remembered a time when she could fit things into boxes and they would stay that way; friends, boyfriends; parents, kids; bitch, angel; right, wrong; work, fun; unnecessary drama, necessary interaction. Somehow they had all dissolved, these boxes. She was trying to figure things out, trying to remember the last time she knew who she was.
They say you
I stand; I stare; I look at Chaos in the face (it chose to have one at that moment) – the swirling (and shaking and hopping and linear) mass of nothingness and infinity. I stare with an unsettling calmness; blank face and palpitating eyes. I stare not in anxiety or terror (or maybe in both), but with patience; waiting. Waiting for it to be. For Chaos never comes or goes; it is or is not. If Chaos could creep in and slither out, it would not be Chaos. Chaos is or Chaos is not. It exists or it doesn’t. So I wait for it to be, afraid to blink lest I miss it.
There was a hop, skip and a tug of my hair and in that shriek of pain, Chao
Ten in the night. Her table.
She stared at the blank page in front of her. She knew what she had to do. It was simple.
At least, that’s what others had told her.
“Ha!” She thought to herself. “‘Easier said than done’ to them all! What do they know anyway? They’ve never had to think. Gah!Yes,yes, much easier said."
She sat there, looking around her room for ideas; for inspiration. She gazed at the picture frames on her table – heart shaped ones, self decorated ones, ones with her; with her parents; with her friends; and her favourite- the one with Ronald McDonald. That one was taken when she w
He opened the door, keeping one eye on her. Her hand was slipping through his pants already. Fuck. She loved tempting him. Why not? She was bloody good at it. He opened the door and quickly pulled her in, lest the moment escape. Pushing her against the door, he moved his body into hers. Still wanting to tease, she hid her kisses behind her grins and giggles. He pursued earnestly. She rewarded him. A quick flick of her tongue to the corner of his lips. And then she watched him for a second, with intense eyes, while he decided whether that was pleasure or pain. She knew that would do the trick.
He put his arms around her, lifted her and threw
Of the black-headed visitor by Evil-Am, literature
Literature
Of the black-headed visitor
He came to me, with his wiry moustache
Coming closer, inevitable was the clash
Gullible fellow, he was my second of the day
Closer, when he was at the end of his way
"ZZZZTTT", score for the Pest-o-Flash.
Welcome. Amrutha. Call me Am. Only half-crazy. Unfortunately. Prone to mood swings very often. Random. Erratic. Very. Save the world. I love me and hate me. Yes, I'm just like you. O_O
I just felt like writing a long note this morning, that may be read only by chance and by a stranger if at all. And I felt like typing oddly. Not like writing like I usually do. Maybe because typing makes me feel like I'm doing busy work and thus affords me less guilt than writing. Although what I should be doing is reading. I'm simply streaming consciousness here, there is no aim or objective but to type and type nothing in particular, in particular.
WHAT AM I DOING, I often ask myself these days in periods of existential angst, but then again my life isn't so lofty that I would use words like existential angst. More of dramatic exclamation
It's when things happen in life that I can talk to no one about. Quite literally no one. That's when I start thinking over and over again about how if no one knows about things that happen in my life and I always outwardly deny them, then did they ever happen? Are they even happening?
Then I realize that my behaviour to people might change because of those incidents and therefore they must have happened. However, since no one knows of said incidents my behaviour will always be a pretence. If it's always pretence doesn't pretence become real? Or will my knowledge of it being pretence change the deal? But then again how long before I start bel
First entry. Blah. To all. Yes, you too. Don't stare. It's just words.
I write, but I don't write. I be here to comment on stuff. Not very knowledgeable comments, but the comments of any reader count,if ya ask me. Yessir.