Don’t talk to Bob

“Like, who talks to Bob anyway?” Bob said as he traced out the words written on the walls of a solitary confinement cell in the abandoned, maximum-security, prison that they were scouting for their latest horror movie shoot.

The rules traced out on every single available space in the wall were.

How to survive solitary confinement?

Stay calm

Eat your meals

Keep a track of time

And don’t talk to Bob

Bob of course was offended that a prisoner who died by execution, some twenty odd years ago did not want to talk to him.

“I mean, I totally get it. Like why would anyone want to talk to Bob? Bob is not even a name; it is a fucking sound. Like huh or hmmm or zzzzz.” Ben spoke as they relentlessly kept shooting pictures of the wall.

Rachel laughed, that deep throaty laugh of hers which had been sending slivers of pleasure down my spine since I first saw her.

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“Well, don’t you wonder who is this Bob is? The Bob; that the prisoner did not want anyone talking to?” Rachel asked. “I mean, like is it a figment of a prisoner’s imagination. But if that is the case why does the writing on the walls differ so much?”

“Yeah, Rachel is right. Look at this.” Bob said. “Throughout the cell the handwriting style has changed a lot. Some sentences are even written in Spanish and French. Wow, I can safely say that more than thirty prisoners who have lived in solitary confinement here did not want to talk to Bob anymore. This place is doing wonders for my self esteem.”

I sighed. This Bob was such a cry-baby.

“Bob you are such cry baby.” Rachel said. “Not everything is about you, you know. This is another Bob they are talking about.” I smiled as Rachel read my thoughts, literally.

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The Painter

You are assaulted by the acrid smell of piss, puke and the stench of waste. Not the best way to wake up from deep slumber, you think. You wake up on hard ground, with your legs entangled in those of a complete stranger. Not even of the opposite gender.

Kalansh piece for the painter

(Artist: Kalansh Gala)

You curse and you spit at the man, secretly thankful that he is still passed out. You look around, only to find yourself surrounded by a melee of entangled bodies interwoven to blur any lines of gender, age and color. The darkness surrounding you is partially because your eyes are yet to focus and because you are in a giant dome that barely lets in any light through the massive stained glass windows near the ceiling. Continue reading

The Room

 

We sit huddled in three corners of the room. Our bodies emaciated, our skin withered, our bones jutting from odd angles, after days of starvation. Our eyes skitter from one to another in rapid succession. We do not trust each other; we are terrified of the ground that supports our gaunt bodies, the ceiling that shelters our fading existence and the walls that hold up our wilted selves.

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We have given up any thoughts of leaving the room, moons ago, or is it eons? We don’t know, how long have we waned away in this room.

I look at her, sitting across me, holding a rotting child in her arms. Her eyes bulge, what was once smooth, silky skin, now corrodes in flakes and falls all around her cadaverous form. I try hard to recall her name, but all I can remember is the word “Babe”. I used to call her Babe. I think she Continue reading

You

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You, yes you. Sitting there opposite your laptop. Yes, yes I’m talking to you. There you go looking around.

Are you surprised the window blew open?

Did the sudden sound startle you?

Did you wonder who or what opened that window?

Oh, don’t look so scared now. I know your heart is beating faster than horse hoofs. There, there slowly reach out to the bottle of water and take a sip to calm your racing heart. Feels better, doesn’t it? Continue reading

The Bangalore Butt Stabber

markiplier__the_story_of_a_butt_stabber_by_desmond_some-d7dca3y“The Bangalore butt stabber is back” the special news report proclaimed. Anita stopped folding the laundry and stared at the tv screen. She gave an involuntary chuckle at the ‘special’ news report. News today was special the same way kids used to be called special in the 80s she thought. Every idiot with some cash lying around seemed to be starting a 24/7 news channel. Anita figured she should advise her wealthy good-for-nothing cousin to start one too.

“There have been seven different cases of butt stabbings in Bangalore last month itself. Five of the seven victims are women. The only thing common to all the victims is that their behinds could be described as bootilicious.” Seriously? thought Anita, while she suppressed another chuckle. “We have renowned psychologist Mr. Hatele here with us to help us understand the psychology of this serial stabber” the news anchor said in all seriousness. Continue reading

One night stand

“Another whiskey sour, please.” She taps the glass, which is almost empty and winks playfully at the young bartender. He grins and blushes as he walks away and her eyes follow his swaying tight posterior.

She sighs. She is on a rehab, de-addiction, and convalescence, what ever you want to call it. And it does not help to be in this bustling bar, bustling with youth, energy, drugs, alcohol and the smell of sex wafting off every bead of sweat that falls to the floor. Her ears twitch at the sound of that minute splash and disintegration of bodily fluid as it collides with the smooth floor. Her tongue slowly rotates the inside of her mouth, wishing, hoping that she could taste the sweat that smelled so much of sex. Continue reading

Old man Pinto’s cottage

‘I bet you can’t climb this tree and jump from the highest branch!’ said the new boy. I sat there lightly caressing Candy’s back, and smiled when she purred in approval.

Tom, stared at the new boy with suspicion and anger. No one, and I cannot insist this enough, no one spoke to Tom in that tone.

“Of course, I can.” Claimed Tom. Although I had never in the twelve years of knowing Tom, watched him climb the peeple tree and jump from its highest branch. But then again, what the heck, who was I to contradict Tom, our leader? Continue reading