Feb 27, 2008

The Long And Short Of It

If winning isn't important, why do they keep the score?

Heylo there dear readers!

I have been doing something dangerous for the past few days. And, what better place to confess my sins than the open and unbiased platform of this blog. This 'thing' is more dangerous than drugs, or unsafe sex, or love, or a meteor falling on your head from the depths [heights?] of outer space.

I have done it and I have done it for quite some days now and that 'thing' is...thinking.

I have thought and I have thought a lot. I suggest for the health of your brain cells and your soul's sanctity, don't think. It is bad. It is dangerous and once you start doing it there is no stopping it, or yourself from doing it. So, I say here on record that I'm completely and vehemently against thinking. Right, that was the short of it [keep an eye on this space, because the thinking is bound to have side effects.]

Now, for the long of it.

The long being that, Clarity Of Night, is a cool blog by writer and photographer, Mr. Jason Evans [who looks too much like Sting, but that's just what I think].

So, as anyone who has been reading a blog or twenty would know that Jason holds a contest for short stories writers every few months. The amount of thought and expertise of many of those people makes me want to run to Tibet and become a monk. But still, it's just great reading all the stories and getting to know so many great writers out there.

The latest contest that Jason has held is called 'Whispers' and the rules are the same as earlier. One picture, 250 words and one week's deadline. Oh, and cash prizes for winners.[ Ok! now you have started paying attention!] .

Yours truly has taken part in the last four Clarity Of Night contest and has very proudly not won any prizes in them,[so far!] and now my entry for the fifth contest is also up. So, I suggest you go to Jason's blog, have a look at the stories, read mine, and leave me some love[read comments;)].

Oh, and in case you can whip up something before the deadline, which is now less than 24 hours,[yes, you can do it, I did it once too], you will make me very very proud :).

And here are the links to my previous gold nuggets for the contest. Every story weirder than the one before it, cuz, well, so is life, each day is weirder than the one that went by. For your reading pleasure, [hey come on, each one is less than 250 words], so go read!

January 2007, Silent Grey Contest-Entry#11--The Shaman's Call
[One year back, damn!]

April 2007, Endless Hour Contest- Entry#43-- The Dirty Rose
[When some things were drawing to an end in life, and other things beginning]

July 31, Halo Short Story Contest- Entry#49-- The Most Curious Night In The Jungle
[Did I write this a work? can't remember!]

November 2007, Restless Dawn Contest- Entry#1-- Dragonfly's Breakfast
[Early bird on this one, got the worm, no prize :P]

And The Latest!
February 2008, Whispers Contest, Entry #53-- Her Arms Reach For The Sky
[Wrote this one sober and in a weird mood]

Thats about it from my side, congrats for reading this far! :D most people gave up on the short of it. Looking at these five stories, and how they are in company of some very cool short stories on the net, even though I never won anything for any of these stories, I still feel a certain sense of pride.

That alone makes me say with confidence, that keeping scores doesn't matter, but playing the game does.

Cheers and Keep Rockin!


Feb 26, 2008

Smells Like War

The sound of war rings like an old song in my ears. The kinds that mother used to sing.

It's an old comforting feeling. The screams of the dying and the sound of steel on steel, steel in flesh and blood flowing like a flood on the ground. And, the wind, the lovely wind carries the scent of blood, warm and rich, oh how I love it. Smells like war.

I wouldn't be anywhere else if you paid me to.

As I stand there watching it all, its all just too much to take in. I mean, how do you control mad bloodlust taking its course like a snake through your soul, ready to unleash its venom on anyone or anything that stand in your way? You don't. You just let it run amok, like I wanted to do.

Oh, but what would you know! You aren't of warrior blood from where I see. As for me, I was born in a war, and this is where I'm sure I'd die, wouldn't want it to be anywhere else as I said.

So I get into the fray, kill a few hundred, mow down whatever comes in my way, rip the spine of enemy commander and hoist his skull on the tip of my sword. My clothes are all wet with blood, of my enemies, just the way I like it.

It's a lovely feeling at war, nothing beats it. Absolutely Killer, if you don't mind the pun. But then again a man has a home to return to, a witch of a wife and hell hounds for children and the same crummy life till the next war comes.

I've never written a monologue piece. Not a bad job I think, try equating this in terms of modern life, make quite a lot of sense, if you read between the lines.

And as always, changes are coming. Damn, I say that all the time.

Hope all is well our side, in case stories are not your cup of tea you can find my poetry here and my views, opinions and rants here.



Feb 17, 2008

The Molotov Monk

The peaceful protest slowly spiraled into an out of control, small scale riot.

The people pushed against the police barriers like an army with a suicide wish. A water canon roared from the top of the riot control vehicle and the force of water slammed into the rioting crowd, sending people breaking off like feathers in a gale. Chaos and anarchy ran amok as everyone tried to run out of the way of the water canons. Then, the police brought in brute force. The armed and padded soldiers of justice piled upon the protesters with their iron batons, beating and crushing all resistance out of them. Blood mixed with the water and the cries of the wounded were mercilessly silenced by the might of the powers that be.

The Molotov Monk watched the whole scene unfold in front of his eyes like the pages of some freak porno magazine. The ruthlessness and the brutality of the whole fiasco were not missed on him. He put his right hand in his robe and brought out a silver flask, flicking open the cap with one thumb he drank the mixture of herbs and 90 proof Vodka. The liquid burned down his throat like frozen fire and settled somewhere underneath his stomach. He shook his head to clear the visions and started to walk, straight into the heart of the dying riot.

The policemen watched the robed figure walk on the bloody road. Their batons stopped in mid swing as they digested the scene of one figure walking calmly into the riot zone where people still lay broken, bleeding and dying. The water canon moved to target the monk; the policeman hefted their batons for another easy hit and the injured just stared. The policemen followed the monk and converged on him like vultures on a dead animal.

At a safe distance from the wounded people, the monk stopped. The policemen grew tense for a second and then the monk cleared his throat, his voice heavy with the burden of alcohol, and he spoke, "You are all fucked." As the words left his mouth he exploded with the heat and the power of a mini nuclear blast. The group surrounding the monk evaporated in confusion of physics, chemistry and death.

From the burning wreckage of the riot trucks and the dead policeman, the figure of monk slowly rose and lifted a silver flask to his lips.

They didn't call him Molotov Monk for nothing.


For those not in the know a Molotov is a homemade explosive, basically, a glass bottle, petrol and a burning rag stuffed in the mouth of the bottle makes it a Molotov Cocktail. The riots in Cambodia last year had a lot of Monks facing the ire of the police, makes me wish the Molotov Monk was real. The news are here and here.

P.S- A new beast has risen on the horizons of blogsphere, The Fucked Up is a blog which yours truly and Impressionist from Immortal Echoes are collaborating on. Have a look, slightly Not Safe For Work and very very fucked up.You have been warned. :)

Feb 15, 2008


The big tower chimed twelve times. A wolf howled in the mountains on cue and the moon stumbled through the streets of cloud fogged night.

The little girl Shrina looked at Urf with her sad eyes full of questions.

"Urf, what are we going to do now?"

Urf slipped another bullet in his sawn off shotgun, and said, "Honey, we are going to kick some ass."

The man called Urf shoved the shotgun in a leather holster hanging on his back and checked his Magnum .38, clicking off the safety and walked into the damned circle.

Cold hate and boiling anger collect in a small vial which is the heart if the creature which lay in the darkness watching the man and the girl walk into the circle. The stench of life made the creature gag, its guts rushed for an exit from its mouth but then the creature slammed its face into the snow crusted ground. Bone broke, blood spluttered out and the snow took a shade of dirty crimson.

Urf tensed at the sound and swung out his shotgun from its leather holster, his heart thudded in his chest like a sledgehammer on overdrive, the little girl stuck to him like his mutated Siamese twin. He saw something move to the edge of his vision, something big, ugly and coming at him. Fast.

Three things happened then.

Urf screamed. Shrina screamed and the night was filled with chaos as Urf pumped bullet after bullet into the creature's scaly hide, its face a mangled mess of blood, tissue and broken bones. Breathing hard and panic riding high on his back, Urf took his .38 and emptied the entire clip into the creature's gaping hole of a head.

Shrina cried and cried as the saw the horror unfold in front of her. "Urf, please find my mother and lets leave this ghastly place."

The creature hiding in the darkness slowly picked itself from the snow and watched the stranger fill one of its kind with bullets. Its eyes focused on the little girl with the man holding the gun.

The matchstick of an emotion long lost struck the sandpaper of its soul and creature surprised itself with the one word, "Daughter."


Ehm, we are just letting out steam here, so bear with us. Do not try to understand the above story, cuz, well frankly, it doesn't make any sense. Does it?

Feb 12, 2008


The scream crashed into the silent shores of the night like a tidal wave.  As abruptly as it had begun it dissolved into a mad giggle of two voices coming closer and closer to each other.

The two girls moved through the cover of people in the party like sharks swimming through innocent surfers. Their designer bags dangling on slender manicured fingers, and the martini glasses precariously balanced in the other they dissolved in the shadow of an embrace, air kissing each other cheeks.

"Oh my gwaaad, LOOK at you." Said one, capitalizing the one word in her speech.

"Me?" said the other "Look at you." She threw in her italics hoping the other would notice.

Night moved on, glancing over meaningless conversations, and empty bottle of alcohol, some of it in the humans, most of it out. She saw a woman pin a man against the back of a door as she kissed him feverishly, her husband waiting outside in the parking lot.

She saw the sweeper clean up the detritus of reputations, all broken and splintered by the weapons of conversations. Night released the fragrance of jasmine flowers in the cool winter air and sat back at her helm watching the humans, live, love, die and pass through her once more.

The sun started to rise but Night didn't pay any attention. Morning coughed lightly, "May I?" She asked.

Night smiled and got up from the easy chair to turn on the coffee machine.


If someone is confused enough because they can not see the point of the above words, well, relax and enjoy the images, there is no point.

On another note, these are weird times for me, as a writer, as a blogger, as a human being. A questioning phase of life and I don't want to see the answers. But, whatever life might throw on me, it can not stop a story whose time has come.

HA! Fuck you life!

Feb 7, 2008



Tell me a more fucked up story than that!


Feb 4, 2008


It was a calm peaceful day in Happiness.

A hummingbird buzzed near the sugar water pot and dipped its beak in the sweet nectar. A mother waved her little daughter goodbye as the girl climbed in a big yellow school bus. Two dogs in the street fought each other with little interest for a piece of bread. People in cars drove to their work places, old men and women sat quietly in the bright sunlight.

The city of Happiness slowly awoke to its last day in history.

The Mayor of Happiness, a fat balding man called Protsini walked into the local radio station. This was going to be the last broadcast on this frequency and well, he had always wanted his own show on radio. He patted his jacket pocket which had the script he wrote the night before. It was oddly comforting for Prostini to know that even if he fucked up at this, he won't be mocked or talked about in town ever again. He smiled a glum smile and walked to the recording studio. The word LIVE written in a white box was glowing red but Prostini pushed in anyway, he was the Mayor after all, even if it was the last day of Happiness.

The RJ scowled when he saw Prostini walk in with an uncharacteristic swagger in his step. He nodded at the chair next to him and then handed the mayor a pair of headphones.

Thus, began the last show on the radios of Happiness.

The mayor talked to his people, those who had chosen to stay, and he told them of his days as a frivolous student at the Happiness High and he played songs that he had grown up listening to. He talked about the girls that he had chased as a young scholar at the university away from the city, and he confessed that there were no girls anywhere like the girls in Happiness, he dedicated song to the girls of Happiness. Sometime in the afternoon the people started to call in and Prostini talked to them all.

He told them that the decision not to abandon town, even if it was the target of a nuclear strike, was taken by the entire town's people and he was but a simple servant to them. He told them how the upper echelons of government had forgotten this small town and well, now they were about to be erased completely from the face of the planet. He told them how it would all be hushed up and termed as just another accident in the papers of their glorious country. He told them that it was all for the oil which could not be mined without displacing the whole city.

As the sun went down and darkness crept like a wraith on an already doomed city the sirens were sounded. The sound roared through the empty streets. The children were all already put to sleep, so were all the animals. The small town pub was full and everything was on the house. Somewhere in a dark alley a couple was fucking for the first and the last time in their lives.

The big bomb carrier rode the airwaves with the gentleness of an eagle, in its unseen belly it held the egg of destruction. The pilot received a 'go' from his chief and he pressed the red button in the cockpit.

The city below was washed out in a cloud of white blinding light. The pilot flew the big bird away as a giant mushroom cloud rose above the city like an ashen flower rising from a grave. The pilot switched opened his communication channel and spoke to the chief, "Captain, Happiness is a warm gun."


IN movies and other happy crappy places these things do not happen, in my head they do. Many details sacrificed for the sake of length. Oh and there are nuclear bombs which can kill humans without destroying infrastructure. Next story, something up close and violent.

Feb 3, 2008

Another Personal Post--Conversations

[[Warning: A post written by a sober blogger in the moments of deep contemplation while listening to Mozart and Bach. The text below contains supreme examples of razor sharp editing and all the information that your parents and the government always hid from you. Read at your own risk, YOU have been WARNED--N]]

Ladies and fucking gentlemen!  This is the post where we take back the blog from life's cruel and unforgiving jaws. The more observant of you must have noticed the basic stripping down of all the clutter in the sidebar [in case Your links has been taken down, drop me a word and i'll link ya back]. I took down some widgets and some pics and shit on the good advice of big man Jevvy from Center Of Eternity. So what is the future plan for this blog now that i have a job and not as much free time as i used to have with my earlier job. well yes, you got it right, i'm shutting shop and shipping out. Gonna delete this blog and say fuck off to blogspehere. i mean what the fuck are we all accomplishing here? No-fuckin-thing. haha.

But however strong the temptation might be to burn it all u and dance around the flames, something always pulls me back to the blogs, that thing is YOU! Allow me to elaborate, there are many things in life which have to be done without any rhyme reason or any kind of support or plan b to fall back on, you gotta jump off bridges and pray that you will grow wings and learn flying on the way down. Writing the stories here has been something akin to bungee jumping without the rope, always been too fubar to be anything else. Ah well,  I'm exaggerating, this is just another blog, and I am not letting you people off any soon without subjecting you all to worst kind of fucked up literature ever imagined by a human mind.

When I started this blog one reason was that i was a pissed off lil kid working on an internship in a newspaper, they gave us net access and i decided to thoroughly abuse it and misuse it, but instead of downloading porn like i should have, i made this blog, first as a personal and then one day i wrote something stupid here, followed it up the other day, Zedekiah was the first commenter I think, and she goes to blame for starting it all off. this was in the summer of 2006. June to be precise to some degree.

Things have changed since then because this is what things do, they change, like people and places and times and what not, everything changes, and this blog changes a lot, at least we change the header a lot, i mean i know many people right now are going WTF with the butterflies but hey thats the true spirit of FUBAR!

So, the changes will continue and the plan is to write at least two stories every week now, more if time and office fatigue permit. It can be very easy for me to come back from office eat my dinner, fire up the net and watch some porn or check my mail, chat with few people and then go to sleep, sounds easy but who the fuck wants to do easy things?

The problem here is not that there are no ideas for writing stories, but the problem is countering laziness....we all have that, some more than others, so many dead blogs can not be wrong. Yeah, there are other reasons for dead blogs I know, many in fact, but laziness does come in the top three for sure. Many times people just run out of things to say.

Where as I still have a lot to say and a lot of stories to tell, even though i doubt that many of you are reading up to this point, its 4.18 AM and i'm a bit bit high on the sleep thingie, the ramble bamble kinda state when you are nearing sleep. I promised myself that when i get a laptop i'll write a lot of stories, i have been lazy, i'm pulling up the socks, getting them fingers warmed up and prepared to write. Many stories are untold, many worlds unvisited, many souls unclaimed, and body count still too low for the start of the year. gosh.

i'm rambling, fuck it. i want to ramble tonight [? today] one major change that i'm making in this blog is that this is not going to show up on google search anymore, i have my vile motives for this, one of them being that prospective employers many time do a "search" of the employee names, and i don't want my stellar stories to be showing up with search of my name, and getting not hired/fired or something in return. Another reason is that this blog just doesn't offer what searchers are looking for, i don't need five second visitors for this blog who are looking for ways to commit painless suicide [this one gets the max hits till now, title of the post i did some time back],i'd much rather have someone with a blog subscribing to the rss feed and reading and commenting here.

Also, in the coming few weeks, i'd probably start writing with my real name, many of you know it, many of you don't. I like Nothingman [one of the best songs by Pearl Jam] but i think having a real name up front helps communicate better and we are all here for communicating if we strip internet down to the basic fundas.

So, these things decided>> More crazy stories, google off from the blog and real name.

Right, any other suggestions are always welcome, if you are shy and don't want to comment, you can always mail me at frozenblood1 at yahoo.com

everything settled? Yup, pretty much. let's take storytelling back from life!

ciao and goodnight:)