SP

Ever since Ber and Dor were born, they had been pretty much inseparable, much like their families, which lived next door to each other. Their two houses were merely fifty feet apart, separated by twenty feet of garden on each side, and a ten-foot pathway, which was where Ber and Dor had played for as long as they could remember. The pathway was dotted on each side with flowers, which the gentlemen of the family tended to every once in a few days. The ladies looked after the garden once a week, usually on Sundays. They made it a family affair too, and would do so together, swapping stories of the week, and drinking home-made lemonade. Ber and Dor were cousins; their mothers were sisters. But you wouldn’t know if you looked at them. They looked different from each other, apart from their habit of cocking their heads to the side when they thought their name was being called. Each had an exquisite collection of toys; their parents spared them no expense, as they were each the lo...

They lived in a two-room flat with peeling walls, where it rained inside all day. It rained in the other room, thankfully, so they could sleep in a drier place. The roof leaked so much they referred to that room as the rainforest. The two couldn’t be more different from each other if they tried. They stuck together because they couldn’t afford the rent alone, and no one else wanted them. They had to stick together. But they were very different: the second was rather short, with almost elfish, pointed ears, a smile that bordered on a smirk, twinkling eyes, deep brown eyes, and hair that were cut the right length. He was what one would call a charmer. He could talk the shoes off of a horse. The first, however, was much quieter. He moved slower, and blinked his eyes a lot. He had trouble sleeping too, for his mind was always thinking, though he barely ever spoke. He had always been told by everyone except his mother that he had rather large ears, but his mother had told him to igno...

SEPTEMBER, 2016: It wasn’t a particularly nauseating day, in the typical sense, and yet, when Chamuk woke up in the morning, he felt the uncontrollable urge to commit suicide. It wasn’t a peculiarly nonsensical day, in the traditional style, and yet, when Chasut woke up in the morning, he felt the untameable urge to commit suicide. Thus, both our protagonists got out of bed, with almost a flourish, a smile playing about in their eyes, not a trace of it on their lips. They sat overly long with their first cup of coffee, and yet, downed their second in one testy gulp. With a spring in their step, they left their respective houses, and, as fate would have it, ended up waiting at the same bus stop. In fact, my dear readers, if you’ll allow another little coincidence, they ended up sitting right next to each other while waiting. So, the two little bundles of joy, enthusiastically conjuring up ways to end their respective lives, did not pay much attention to each other, nor even...

The soft pitter-patter of water on a mossy roof. Red staircase. Solar panels where the sun never shines. A rope. Two thin ropes dividing life and a four-storey quick vertical run down. Would need to. Would need two. Heh. Two times four equals eight. Eight stories enough. Eight stories is life. Life is made of eight stories. A boat off of the side of the walls, crawling down. Waterfall. Water. Fall. Fall. Berlin wall. Red staircase. The brick fell from the skies. Dark sarcasm: it is a sponge. A sponge of murk. Mirth. Murk. A murky sponge. Red. Stair. Case. Nutcase. A sponge. Clean your face, he said, and gave me a red sponge. Red tears. Tear down the staircase. It can be used to escape the wall. Red wall. Dead wall. Waterfall. Snap back to reality. The water breaks. The roof falls. Green everywhere. And now orange. And now red. Fire! Fire! Fuel! Fire! Stone. Sink. Like a dog. Stink… If you stare long enough, the world turns into an acid trip ...

Dance on a corpse Weight on your chest You are the best You are the best Tendrils of memories Under the ground Lost what you found Lost what you found Fancy drums made Of human skin Sonorous skin. Sonorous skin. Beat it so hard Turns black and blue They have no clue They have no clue Hide your dark blood Under your skin Sonorous skin Thick leather skin Over your eyes There’s a blindfold You’re getting old You’re getting old Sonorous skin About to break For its own sake For its own sake Are you the best? Are you the clue? Imposter test Imposter test Put back the shards With sticky glue Always on guard Always on guard Under the weight Upon your chest You are the best You are the best

Today, I will die. I know it. Not by gunfire, or drowning, or starvation, or any of the unnatural ways of death. No. Today, I shall die of old age. I know it. How do I know it? I shall tell you. I shall tell you all, although I doubt you shall be around long enough to hear the end of it. The warning signs were always there: I was, of course, too busy to notice in my youth, and now am too frail to heed them. The signs of fatigue, of exhaustion, a certain constant trembling of my right hand. There was, of course, the inevitable sleeping in trains, and the waking up just a little too late. The final sign was today. My small cottage has started feeling larger and larger the emptier it gets. At first, I had a wife and three children. I had my eyes back then. Soon my wife died, and I started wearing spectacles. Then, one of my children went away to college, and I needed bifocals. Soon, all my children were gone: settled in life. And I, with old age and slow decay, became...

All of life is climbing stairs: climbing, climbing, climbing. Stairs only go up. Not down. Never down. They do not go sideways. They do not vary in length. They are not the kind of stairs that go spiral, so you can easily look down at how far you’ve climbed, because if you did, you’d start to feel tired and angry at not having arrived. Of course, you know somewhere inside you cannot arrive. Ever. Further, you don’t want to arrive. Not even at all. But what if there’s no arrival? This thought will only hit you if you stop trying to arrive, and start thinking about the stairs itself. But as long as there’s one stair ahead of the other, you are hardwired to keep putting one foot over the other one, and keep going. Yesterday, I met a man on a flight of stairs I have long since passed. He was sitting on a chair smoking his pipe. I asked him if he didn’t want to climb the stairs. Was he taking a break? I’ve reached the top, he said. Clearly, you’ve not, I said, look here, th...