Trapped

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Jarring Orange

Amidst shrieks and wailings, Raghav opened his eyes to look up at weird plasticky tentacles.

He could not understand what it was because he was all of 4 months old again. This intervention was supposedly a device by his worried mother to pacify him.

It was a dingy room with orange walls which peeled at multiple places. Accentuated by the bleak bulb, was the orange jarred young Anita’s head.

Odds and ends lined open shelves engraved in the walls like morse code. “Why doesn’t he stop crying!” she spat.

It really was a mistake.

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Melancholic Blue

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door.

A dull yet sturdy thud had interrupted the early morning musings. There was no answer. The blue walls of the swanky drawing room somewhat resonated with his mood.

It had been a while since his son had spoken to him in more than two syllables. While he had given up on any reprieve, he knew he was failing in his responsibilities as a father. He knew nothing about his 25 year old son’s friends, work or habits. When had they steered so apart? The mad rush to earn money had managed to do what he had feared all along.

Raghav hadn’t yet opened the door.untitled-1


Shades of Grey

Anny held Raghav tightly while their bodies throbbed in embrace. She hadn’t been touched so, ever in her life before. The pain was blinding but blissful — the euphoria only punctuated by the greyness of the ceiling she saw above her. They trailed to the edge of climax; almost animalistic in the throes of passion. “We should have used protection,” said she panting between heavy breaths. Raghav wasn’t worried. She was not his first in this bed.

He detested condoms.

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Shroud

Loud music filled the boneyard. Dirt on the floor reverberated in rhythm. Tiny


specks of cocaine, as
white as the walls around, slid from a packet on to the table.

It had been a few years since his last time during college. According to his friend, this lot was the most face numbing, he had ever tried.

Raghav was eager and jittery more from the lack of layers in the cold room, than apprehensions. He made 4 lines with a practiced hand and cleaned off every last grain on the glass top.

It hit his head like electricity. It felt different. Numbness overpowered him and he fell to his death unceremoniously.

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door…

By  Ankit Kumar

 


 

 

jazzy-curves
Jazzy Curves by Nidzoni