Strange Messenger

The shore seemed to go on for miles. Forming an incomprehensible arc racing past possible vision and depth. The seagulls banked into it flying out of sight leaving a vague sense of infinite horizons in their wake.

The short trimmed mangroves of the coast a pleasant contrast for the eye as the brown, blue, green and gray melded into one, the mosaic in the evening light readying itself for the coming night. Suddenly something was heard rattling against the rocks sonorous in its cries for attention, it’s sound intrusive in the calm atmosphere, demanding attention.

A seagull flew low over the rocks attempting a closer look and set down over near the THING, something the likes of which he’d never seen, it tapered at one end, bloated at the other and lest his eyes deceive him…it was completely transparent. With a crooked head he tried to recognize this stranger, which he firmly believed to be the first soldier of an alien encroachment on his home.

“Is it a being or a thing?” he thought, “a being”, he decided. It seemed trapped and hurt. Scars searing down its side through a patch of its skin that was different from the rest, colorful, course and detailed, ”it’s a female of some alien species”, thought the seagull.

He tried communicating with her in the most basic of shrieks but failed. Dubbing the CREATURE injured he tried to assist it onto the sand but while approaching closer he saw something inside the CREATURE. It seemed frail and tender. Like a rolled up leaf, it was snugly fit into the female; brown, crisp and untouched by the water.

“So she’s pregnant!”, thought the seagull and apologetically backed off, flying away to fetch his female and to spread this message of joy.

A Message

Something creaked. She hoped it was the door, her bones knew better. The wind rushed in as she squinted at her unexpected visitor.

“Mrs. Ghosh?” the silhouette said unintelligibly with a blood red “paan” filled mouth.

Receiving a gentle nod of affirmation the ‘postman’ thrust a letter in her hand, jabbing her with a pen to sign for it.

No hello. No goodbye. No acknowledgement.

The door closed without a creak, making her cringe at the realization. The letter felt stiff, worn and battered after its journey, something the old woman couldn’t allow herself to relate with. She flipped it over, bringing it closer to her face, reading the post-mark – “KOLKATA”.

Expectation and hope kicked in – ‘bloody mutinous allies’, she thought. She placed the letter on the table and eased into her chair, momentarily feeling relaxed before being drawn into hope again. She cursed herself and her instinct to nurse such ideas of optimism.

“Hope once released is an impossible force to ensnare,’ she promulgated to no-one, ‘like youth’, she added ‘only far more deceptive’.

She wanted tea.
She needed tea.
It would help her think.

Bobbing the tea bag in the hot water she looked at the letter from across the hall, imagining the usual transcribed invectives in brightly colored flattery that were awaiting her.

Greed. Loss. Contempt.

She didn’t need that.
She didn’t need them.

She sipped her tea and walked determinately to the table and tore the letter in four, feeling a slight sting, pausing, thinking of guilt and finally dropping the pieces in the trash.

As she smugly stirred her tea, a drop of color fell from her fingers into her light brown serenity. She suddenly stumbled to pick up the pieces, putting together her only photograph of her first great grand daughter.

Ancient Iteration 4

For B.J.



just down the street

cross the bend

where the oval breaks

and broken men sit

where the aromas of morning

seep into the day,

across its coco-nutty shade

down deeper and deeper still

and thru the Eros' atrium

lies a crossing green and blue

and further still

down that very path

a french bistro

not so, but some still may think

a ripple runs thru

of barbed wire and congealed blood

chained linked

an abandonment of human soul

they direct others, not me

and through the labyrinth

of deceptive order

of books,

and wine,

and blood,

the tears of the intellect

asunder on the beach

washed in waves of apathy

arise! arise!

rage! rage!

see it swept in the tide

yes! this is the place

hope comes to die.

On Best Friends...

People walk around today calling everyone their best friend. The term doesn't have any real meaning anymore. Mere acquaintances are lavished with hugs and kisses upon a second or at most third meeting. Birthday cards get passed around offices so everybody can scribble a snippet of sentimentality for a colleague they've barely met. And everyone just loves everyone. As a result, when you tell somebody you love them today, it isn't much heard. I love you. You are my best friend.

I can't imagine going through life without you as my best friend.

- Alan Shore to Denny Crane, On Best Friends
Season 3 Episode 9, 26-27:20 (minutes)

Find someone. Say it.

Two Words...

An Excercise in Brevity -

Darker echoes,
Satiated sounds.

Barring freedom,
All abound.

No exchanging,
Intangible cost.

Giving hope,
Forever lost.

Free association,
Novel trend.

Empty conscious,
Only friend.

Asking questions,
Willingly deaf.

Answers cruel,
Belief cleft.

Lacking conclusion,
Losing faith.

Asking forgiveness,
Pity, grace.

Passing time,
Forget dismay.

Just words,
Two today.

Ancient Iteration 3

For A.A.


And you will scream,
Wailing in the dark nights.
With an eccentric vigour.

You will scream,
For the justice you knew,
Lies dead and decayed.
Time will bear witness,
Blind and ignorant,
Turned by whims,
Of wealth and deceit.

And you will scream,
To the endless nights,
Of sheer agony and pain.
In the knowledge,
That you know nothing.

And you will scream,
For colours to evade you.
The blood and filth,
Will permeate your existence,
Your pallor will speak,
Of your faces reflection.

And you will scream,
For nothing worth speaking,
Was ever gently said,
And nothing worth saying,
Was quietly heard.

And you will scream,
For the deaf ears of children,
Can yet still be broken in,
And the eye of the blind,
Be unveiled from their fear.

And you will scream,
For change is not coming,
And apathy is inscribed,
In every path of life.
Every player is a cheat,
And every cheat a player.
The teacher ignorant,
To their students passion dead.

And you will scream,
For you know all this,
And yet you will scream,
And do nothing.