I am the consummate unsuccessful writer — the kind that lurks at the periphery of the established writers’ playground. Remember that kid sitting alone in the park because no one would play with them? The awkward, timid one cut off from the usual boisterous crowd? …
Leila’s marriage was a snail- the grotesque, invasive kind moving along purposeless. Some days, she felt like the slimy mollusk- vapid and languid, bogged down by the pretty shell on her back. The enigmatic shell bound to her inextricably, with a stranglehold on her life. …
Mirror mirror on the wall,
You be me as scarred,
Circles surround my eyes, crow’s feet accent the tips,
Hairy brows, frown lines defile this face,
A crooked nose and chapped lips,
Stubble around the cleft of chin,
Drooping breasts and pudgy hips,
And waist with stretchmarks’ sin. …
In a house without windows,
Just the door unassuming to
Pass by at will, and four walls
Within those perhaps he waits
Restless for tragedy to unfold.
He has a boring day job and
Weekend nights of laundry
For his twin overpants,
Pair of spandex suits obsolete,
And two tattered crimson capes.
No villains left to slay,
He loiters purposeless,
Watching cable news all night,
Slouching on his couch,
Nursing a paunch,
He decays longing
For yesterdays on earth,
Of soaring highs, mayhem
Unleashed and prayers
For a mighty messiah he craves.
As order abounds, he knows not
His place- a relic, a fossil,
A national treasure redundant?
No damsels, blazing effigies
Or crumbling colosseums await.
Turned anachronous,
He retires mortal of equal rank
To all piteous humans around,
For there lies Kryptonite here-
The elusive peace he fought to shield.
© Arati Nair 2021
Imagine a future where the human resource of the present is entirely replaced by robots. Given the meteoric rise of artificial intelligence or AI, it is a foregone conclusion that they will eventually be the dominant labor force. …
I believe the COVID-19 pandemic is here to stay, ever since it’s shown no signs of abatement. My optimistic refrain of “It’ll be over next month” has stopped after weeks of stagnant lockdown at home. …
Her eyes cerulean in a porcelain face, lashes raven wings,
Moist lip, reluctant bud, painted blooming pink,
Limbs crafted hairless, but curly mane curtains nipple
Cherries in the wild, twin fruits amid brunette vines.
I run my hands down her trembling form of mermaid lost ashore,
She’s perfect sans freckled nose…
When the reserve gasoline burns and dregs of Starbucks evaporate,
The carburetor rattles to a halt and gas station buoys on the horizon,
The apocalypse creeps out the TV onto your barren heath,
Without crows or owls or markers of light or dark in a pyrrhic hearth,
Is it time to rest, I…
We are placid, stranger’s pets
Perched atop a swing
In her birdcage,
Your feathers bright she adores,
A peacock, fancy canary,
Or slice of sun she deems. But I spy
A clash of blues, of yellows,
A contrast stark, unseemly paradox
To my plumage red and grey.
We must perform…
The battles you wage with an inward foe,
Tireless at picking scabs,
In your head there’s a madhouse,
An asylum for miscreants rogue,
They say.
Yellowing books all fruitless,
Preachers and their tales tame
Have failed to pull you back
As has the expensive shrink you hired,
They say.
Time…
