A Hundred and Nine

Cotton candy aftermaths.

Slippery notes of 10.

The prickle of stranger on a bus.

Inevitability between man and woman.

Static of silk and belly.

The vase that got away.

Etchings of brassiere straps.

Calluses for absent play.

11AM sun of winter mornings.

Bites of new E-string.

The lure of knife’s edge.

Wetness inside a ring.

Found an interesting theme on this blog that compiles 55-word stories, called “Touch”. This is what came of it.

A Hundred and Eight

In the season of presidential nominations,
I’m running for a few designations –

Writer. Poet. Photographer.
Professional describer of feelings.
High-intensity leer-evaporator.
Smasher of nonsense ceilings.

DF Wallace Quote Generator.
Multiple bell-jar defeatist.
The Antoinette of Drama Queenery.
The Nilgiri winds of eye-mist.

The atlas of all the right spots.
Perpetual leaver of aunties aghast.
Shaadi.com’s SEO Nightmare.
Wit like the Virar Fast.

Lethal sashayer of saree pleats.
Visual crime police.
Khadi-wearing activist
Of “thank you, hello, please?”

Part-time mood re-decorator.
Marmalade evangelist.
Slice of chilled watermelon.
Male-throat dehydrist.

Sr. Executive Puppy-face.
Tantric caller of cat.
Compliment-netting fisher-woman.
Serial thwarter of fat.

Zero-contact gut-puncher.
Saviour at the ninth-stitch.
Hidden memories detonator.
High priestess of bitch.

A Hundred and Seven

The urchin flashed his 5, and called, Pani Puri!

The hawker eyed him stand with the women who self-consciously popped whole puris in.

Five down. They wiped their mouths. Pink hankies. Filthy sleeve.

Five Rupees.

The urchin hovered.

The hawker looked, tsked, and threw the coin back at him.

Who has use for two tails?

A Hundred and Six

Why don’t you leave it with me? He offered.

Big eyes darting, she gave it to him, and clambered into the giant wheel.

The wheel swung and plunged. Nauseated, he looked away.

He ringed nothing at the ring-anything stall.

Eating her cotton candy, he asked, Did you like it?

No. My heart wasn’t in it.