Ginger drafts...

Britain launched an atheist bus campaign recently, inter city buses would carry the message "There is probably no god, now stop worrying and enjoy your life". Donations were sought and the organizers were strangulated to the core with the unprecedented outpour of jubilation, money came pouring in, and the deluge leapt up the giant serpentine neck, opened its fangs of virgin evocation with venom of rationale dripping profusely from the loose corners. It doesn't take much for a 10 yr old to figure out the absurdity in “branding” him, namely religious branding. For centuries, Religious parents presumptuously branded their offspring with their religion, and now “oh! The times are changing”, this generation is already marching into the vastness of “rational thinking”. My first instinct was- well, to transpire political ends into reality, organizers have consciously condescended the morale of atheists, because the message if anything should read “there is almost certainly no go

How benign and how to never inquire, Cecilia prodded herself into the tread, uninterested albeit, but balanced almost uninvited, strength registered, stream relapsed, she reposed, drooped, stooped, at once into the river, trance like into the stream, with the stream and she became at that moment an object of thought, just for that moment, she existed, and then it was gone, just as the light from a lighthouse would illumine one for a moment, just for a moment, and then it is gone. The wave of thought ceased to explore her, swished past her, smoothly jerked the rough edges, crept inside, caressed, undulating, mockingly, defying indulgence as she watched aghast. Cecilia amid the glory of the riveting morning fog, pushed forth the tread with dreadfulness aghast, something was amiss, she stooped low, curled her lips tight together, smoothened her pulsating intakes of ghastly chilled air, it stirred her senses momentarily, she felt weak and feeble, the hollowness of what she missed put her a

Opal tinted roofs sloped earthwards as sun beat on them ferociously, workers in pale brown clothes started to gather under the glistening roof, a dog munching delightfully ran up to an old man, prancing wildly, he squatted before him, mouth leant skywards, driveling profusely, frothing nervously, he checked himself, leant back his head, gulped down the leftovers of his munched food earlier, caught the thick and long bone instantaneously as the old man parted with it. The old man parted with that bone only after he sucked in the succulent juices inside it, a woman carrying her baby on her hips, tucked the baby closer, and pulled it deeper into the grove over her hip bone, as she bent her body above the hips to accommodate the infant. The woman served the hungry old man with more meat, he noisily devoured on the spicy dish, as the woman readied herself to serve another helping, and the dog readied himself for another hollow bone, and the baby readied himself to be pulled closer as it sen

James shook the double rimmed spectacles, gazed through the upper hemisphere, sternly, without a hint of doubt, started, stared, gaped, he could not believe it, removed his spectacles, shaded his eyes with the back of his hands, shoulders hunched, his loosened hands dropped spectacles on to the dark starchy rug on the ground, his attention slacked, senses drooped, his rustic and withered harmonious body twitched, trembled, for a brief pulsating moment, he memorized in his dying memories that he, James was dying, the moment has now come, the moment of elation. Conscience withdrawn, light turned off, end of a life as I knew it, for what is conscience but a blot of ink on the large canvas of death. A blot attracts a bee that sits on it momentarily, offers in return, a precocious and naive imaginative abilities, and that are we, and we are that, that momentary objects of precarious and inevitable abysmal choices. then the bee leaves, discarded, the blots are now left, less of emotive gradi

Vanessa ran up to the field with all her might and strength, heaving, coughing, pounding the muddy terrain with her thick black sandals, spreading a fog of mud and splinters of wood behind her, with the frock held up above, head leant forwards, she creased the tranquil fields with her passion of exotic grandeur. She reached the plateau above, paused for a while, stooping with her back bent to the ground, she panted, sweated, wetted her dress, she awaited the smite of exquisite beauty before her. Then, she stood upright, gaped at the lush green vegetation before her, spread her arms wide open, inhaled heavily, and kissed the air, air that flew over the gentle and sharp thorn-tipped wheat plants, air that smelled of the wet mud, which bosomed the greenery above. Sun settled himself in the field, he followed Vanessa as she moved sideways, she was playing against an irresistible urge and she relented, it was no use fighting her urges, she stepped into the field, mud drooped smoothly over h

Vanessa slumbered with the burden of unfed hope, the painful absence of lasting excitement that would shatter her senses, throw her asunder, whip her languor, maim her fettered passion, release the bonds of despair, lower the blinds of isolation, and push her into the green fields of activity. But, nothing ever happened, it angered her, depravity deepened with every moment passed in contemplation, isolation feathered harmoniously, she deplored her lack of resistance, solicited pain to assuage her suffering, she covered her bruises impatiently, for she did not care, it was of no use. Deep contemplations brutally left her detached; she mourned for her bereaved body with dead personality and impeached her very own purpose of living. A definite answer would do, but any answer once found was open for subjective accommodations that degraded its vitality, its propensity, and it was no more definitive than the color of the sea that changes appreciably with every passing second. Vanessa sat her