Jul 30, 2008

Sunday Snipers

The enemy snipers were a fucking rowdy bunch. 

They shot at us even on Sunday.
I was drinking my fourth cup of coffee when a bullet smashed the mug and I was left with a handle in my hand and a mug full of scalding coffee on my newspaper.

The cartoon page was ruined, and so was my half solved Su-Do-Ku.  

That blew my lid off.


I put down my pen and picked up my cellphone. I pressed "1" on speed dial and called up an air strike on the enemy bunkers.

For the next one minute, the sweet "thuff- thuff" of carpet bombs filled the silence of the desert as they dropped on the heads of the enemy. 

Eat this you fucking naughty snipers.

Then I ordered a fresh newspaper and more coffee. 

There are some routines one should not change on a Sunday, just like coffee, Su-Do-Ku and newspaper cartoons.


No paragraphs, just sentences. Why is this in middle of the week, you ask, well, what better time to wish for Sunday :) Just 3 more days!

Jul 25, 2008

highway 666

[This is turning out to be a fun week :)]

------------Here we go!----------

I was somewhere on Highway 666 when the fabric of reality broke apart. Where once a road was stretched out, washed bright with the headlights of my bike, now a barren jungle floor shone with morning dew. 

I killed the engine and got off from the bike. This was utterly weird. I was surrounded by dense foliage and I could see small insects, unlike any I had seen, buzz in and out of the leaves. 

I felt stares on the back of my neck and I turned around to find a group of tribal men staring at me. They all held crudely made weapons of stone, wood and roped improvised into various knots. They all stood there with their mouths open, a mixture of fear, awe and respect sloshing in their eyes. I realized they were not looking at me, but my bike which stood behind me. The bike's engine made a 'tik-tik' sound as it cooled. I put a hand in my pocket and thumbed the auto-starter button the bike's key ring. The bike roared to life and the foremost of the tribals shat himself. 

The next moment, every one of them was flat on the ground speaking incoherently in their native tongue. I got on the bike, kicked it in gear and sped off from the forsaken jungle. 

I drove till I reached the speed of sixty six and then I was back on the road, highway 666 to be exact.


Jul 24, 2008

The second intended story for CON

[This was the second intended story for CON. The real problem was getting the jeans off while riding the bike, then a friend showed me a "stunt video" where this was done. Some bikes do have good balance. Enjoy!]


It was a beautiful night. Dark clouds painted the sky and the moon hid behind them like a coy lover. A bike roared through the night with a girl clad in black gunning the machine for all its worth. The bike's engine vibrated between her legs as the machine ate the road and threw up chunks of darkness behind her. It was just her, the bike and the road. She didn't care where she was coming from or where she was going, there was just the drive.

And so, she drove.

At 60 km/hr she took off her helmet and tossed it into the darkness. Her hair trailed behind her like wild lightening. She shifted the next gear, left the handlebars and with a deft move took off her black leather jacket. The wind took the jacket and for a second it looked like a giant bat following her, and then it was gone. Her black Metallica t-shirt was next to go, and as the wind caressed her naked body the chill in the air made her flesh awash with goose bumps. She lay back on the bike, lifted her legs over the handlebars and in a swift moment her jeans were in her hands. 

Then the rain started to fall, large hailstones fell like rocks on her. Skin bruised and then bled where the hailstones hit her.

"Oh fuck." she thought as the bike skidded and the road opened its arms to meet her.


Jul 23, 2008

Bitch Fuck

* Clarity Of Night contest is over, please head over the blog and say congrats to the winners. Yours truly managed to lose once again, but as the writing of the story "The Name Of Hope" went, I felt there wasn't much fubar element in it. Not my type and not my style and well, no one died in it, there were no swear words and no nothing. But that is gone now, like the past 5 CON contests I took part in (Nice, that abbreviates as CON...hummm)

Anyroad. Before my mind rambles on and on to weird places, while writing a story for CON contest, I actually wrote six, but rejected each one of those for one or the other reason. This means there is a lot of "text" that remains to be published and what the readers of CON escaped, the readers of this blog will not be so lucky to escape. So, I give you the first story, It's called "Bitch Fuck". It's a love story, of course a fubar love story. No one actually dies here, but let's just suppose the main character drives into a truck load of iron rods. Here we go!


"Go faster little fuck." The bike said.

Sweat poured down my forehead into my eyes and I blinked it away. I was already doing 60 km/hr and she was still telling me to go faster. 

The bike covered the road like a demon chugging down darkness as it rides out of hell. 

"I'm fast enough for tonight." I told the bike.


"Please do not call me that."


"You can be a total bitch sometimes you know."

"But I'm your bitch. No?"

"How fast did you say you wanted to go?"


There, wasn't too bad was it? No? Ok, 5 more to go :)

Jul 21, 2008

The Last Grin

A black motorbike slowly weaved its way through the cars that were stuck in the traffic for the past one and half hours.

Somewhere ahead a truck had turned turtle and all the traffic was being diverted through other roads. The black biker wore the archetypal biker gear, dressed in black from head to toe, all leather and all style.

Inside the helmet the biker head was filled with fear. Pure crazy, batfuck insane fear. It sloshed through his body and his heart thudded in his chest faster than he could drive his bike. All around him death sat every vehicle. In every car he looked, The Reaper was present. He sat hunched in between people or sprawled in the back seat and in one case sitting on the hood of the car, his scythe resting in his lap, its blade sharp as the first shaft of moonlight and hungry for life.
The reaper stroked the shaft like one strokes a terribly good puppy, he looked at the biker and nodded at him, just like every other reaper had done.

The biker drove slowly, not moving his head but using his eyes to look into the cars.

For a second a sound attracted his attention and he looked upwards, as a plane passed overhead, a small shape sat on its wing. The cloaked shape waved at him. He didn't wave back. He brought his bike to the bridge's periphery, a large truck stood there, "Inflammable" written on it in large letters. A hooded shape sat on the passenger's side of the truck.

Up in the sky, the plane banked in a tight circle, lost altitude and headed for the bridge. People ran out of their cars, trying their best to get away from the falling death. The biker took off his helmet, tried to get off from the bike but someone held him down by the shoulders.

He looked back and saw Death's hollow eyes staring back at him. The plane swooped low like an eagle moving in for a kill.

Then, Death grinned.
Now that I have written this, this remind me of the final destination movies.

Jul 15, 2008

Drinkoo's Snack

The demon Azeragoth was having a very bad night. He was behind schedule on the killings, he was feeling strangely happy for some weird reason and his amnesia was not helping him remember why the Big Boss was pissed off with him.
His iPhone buzzed in his black leather jacket pocket and the sudden vibration shocked him for a second. He was taking his time getting used to- stupid but useful at times- human technology. He took out the iPhone and saw a reminder on the screen. He put his only nail less and manicured finger on the screen and opened the reminder window.
He ticked "Tortured the rude victim"
He ticked "Showed her sign of hope and freedom."
He ticked "Tripped her with tail as she tried to run away, tied her back to the pole."
He ticked "Ate chicken and drank beer in front of the thirsty and hungry victim."
He ticked "Tore off her fingernails."
He ticked "Tore off her toenails"
He ticked "Hacked her living body into large chunks."
He paused at the next point.
It read, "Fed Drinkoo."
"Awww shit." Azeragoth swore.
"Drinkooooo" he shouted into the sky, "here girl, come to daddy, snack time!!"
A black shape, larger than a Boeing 707, landed with a thud in front of Azeragoth. The ground shook with Drinkoo's weight, her wings created chopped off the trees on either side of her and her breath made the temperature of the whole valley rise by considerable degrees.
Azeragoth kicked the human head high up in the air and a tongue like an anaconda lapped it up from mid-flight.
"Nice catch baby!" Azeragoth shouted, and tossed another piece of human anatomy in the air

"Here sweets, break a leg!"


Some people just don't learn any other way. 

On a side note, the nice Mr Jason Evans is holding the 9th Clarity of Night Short Story Contest. I am going to send my entry, you can find out more about the contest at www.clarityofnight.blogspot.com. Great place to make new friends and learn about writing stories. Give it a shot :)


Jul 4, 2008

Funny Death

Death can sometimes be a funny little bitch. 

Just like she was funny for Jeister Mok, The Man Who Could Not Die.

Mok did die in the end. No one escapes the sister of Morpheus and the daughter of life. Death gives everyone a chance for a date. Last date, of course. But Mok had avoided his date for the past three hundred seventy six years to be exact. The day he died was his three hundred and seventy seventh birthday.

Death herself came to fetch him. A special man, our Mok. He knew death was coming, and he was waiting for her. 


More ready than he had been for three hundred and seventy six years. 

Mok sat in the balcony of his mansion, overlooking the vast sea and the mountains as a flock of seagulls flew in a perfect V formation into the sunset. The setting sun cast its orange hues all over the water and everything was made from liquid fire that God himself had used to paint the heavenly scene in front of Mok's eyes. 

He picked up the glass of vodka and took another sip that burned down his old, old throat and settled like a mini nuclear explosion in his stomach. His entrails were on fire the second the vodka reached inside him. He squirmed in his chair and slammed the glass back on the big mahogany table. (The table deserves a mention here. It was a massive piece of wood that could house a small family, a kitchen and two bedrooms under it if need be. In short, it was a massive table.)

More vodka miraculously appeared in the glass. Damn, how he loved the self filling glasses. He downed the shot, neat and fiery, inside him. Might as well drink myself silly considering how long life is now- he thought.

And so, he drank. And so, passed the hours. 

The evening turned into the night and soon the clock in the hallway struck 12. As it chimed away to a senseless world that no longer cared about time, a figure appeared in the open door. She wore a black gown darker than the night and her skin glowed a ghostly white. Black colored her lips and nails. She looked fucking ethereal.

Mok saw her and squirmed in his chair, his breath became ragged, he gasped one final time and slammed his hands on the table.

"FuckinHellFuckingSatanFuckinAllAngelsFuck!." He shouted and collapsed on the big table in front of him. Death, a little surprised, walked up to him and said, "I have come, mortal."

"So have I." squeaked Mok as a figure extracted herself from under the table and bolted for the door. Death snorted in disgust, grabbed Mok's head and slammed it in the mahogany table. 

Again and again and again.


If you figured this out, buy yourself a beer for having a twisted mind. If not, don't bother to ask. ;) 

And forgive me if the formatting is fucked up. We are not doing too good on bandwidth here and have to make do with lot of crap floating around on the internet connection.

Next story, soon.