Category: Guest Authors

Norval Joe – Pick Two

“Come in,” Halberk Crottage called from behind his government surplus desk. Local Super Hero Liaison was by necessity a low profile job.
A man stepped in. Bright red lipstick matched his flowing red hair. He wore a black satin jacket over a silver French cut leotard, and black fishnet stockings.
“Let me guess. You’re Drag Queen Man,” Halberk said.
“I prefer, just Drag Queen.”
“Okay. What’s your super power?”
“Among other things, I can talk with my mouth closed,” a voice said from behind.
“Why not?” Crottage said. “What brings you in?”
A tear form in Drag’s eye, “Timmy’s Dead.”

Who Do You Miss – Singh

29.12

Yogi was glad for a side-way door to leave.

The satsang circuit had become a weight.

Forced to wear his heart on a holy sleeve

he had to role-play as every person’s soul mate.

Barhai had said. “Ah, Utterakhand! We’ll wait.

You go and see the Himalayan snow.
Amrik will bring you back by the due date.

It will be a rare experience. Go, just go.”

Margot’s signal! Was she trying to break through?

Oneiric words were pushing his heart rate.

To hear so clear a message was deja-vu;

so he’d slept little when Amrik came at eight.

29.13

They took a bus to Meerut to catch a train

and walked the streets of musical instruments —

a local industry of drums and horns

for Indian brass bands. Amrik stepped into

a roll-a-door store and flicked a latch.

The harmonium gasped and coughed to find its voice.

Amrik’s hand ran up and down the keys,

then song took flight with intricate raga rills,

elaborating flightpaths for a line of birds.

Yogi was shocked, hearing such classical heights

of an Indian voice in love with syllables.

Who’d have thought this merchant talked to mountains?

Yogi’s kirtan? A Simple Simon version.

29.14

Time to rush on for the Chandigarh train

second-class sit-up, six hours to Punjab.

Amrik yanked Yogi up and through the door

as the long snake slithered away from Meerut.

They wedged into sweaty vinyl seats,

four moustaches leering back opposite

at the foreigner in his crisp white chola.

Amrik Singh, the short and stocky Sikh

in dark blue turban, business suit and tie

squeezed their bags onto the luggage rack.

Some psycho-bluff was needed to gain a hold

in this give-no-dog-an-inch demesne on wheels.

Yogi clamped his guitar between his knees.

29.15

Above and opposite two young newly-weds,

off now, to visit relatives in some

village perhaps, or honeymoon in Himachal,

had managed to sit up happily jammed together

on the luggage rack – now a romantic nook,

an invisible zone of public privacy

away from myopic eyes of home in-laws

ready to walk in on, and ogle a pretty bride

with hennaed hands, jangling wedding bangles

that she must wear for months to say ‘hands off’

to any male. It was a luxurious bed

for a giggly couple, while those below ignored them.

Yogi half-peeped and thought of Margaret.

29.15

The train moved on. Ragpicker boys boarded

between stations brooming the floor for tips.

Some got a kick and a curse. Snack-wallahs packed

salty treats in newspaper cones for zilch.

One of the four moustaches bought some grams

offering Yogi. He crunched a roasted chick pea

nodding his thanks.

A gift demands a gift.

Amrik dug out a tin-foil wrap of paronthas

with dollop of pickle oily at the core,

offering around. One of the four tactfully

took just one, sharing the Sardar’s wife-packed

travelling luncheon. Ghee-spread rotis oiled

the wheels of the railway journey, clacketing north.

29.16

The compartment soon became a gaming parlour,

the clip-on wall tray attracted playing cards

with popping eyes and gesticulating hands.

“Are you feeling comfortable?” Amrik asked.

They’d only traded glances since leaving Meerut.

“I’m fine thanks. How long will it take to reach?”

Yogi had not inquired about the journey.

“We stop in Chandigarh. I have seva there.

Tomorrow we will join the Hemkund yatra.

My friends are waiting.”

Yogi knew that ‘seva’

meant ‘selfless service’. Enigma still held its cards.

Impoliteness might have pushed, calling his hand,

but he knew he had to play a game of patience.

29.17

In the next compartment a group of schoolgirls

started to sing and clap. “What’s that Amrik?

Is it a party?”

“No, Sant ji — Antakshri

a parlour game. He listened, then translated:

Baithe, baithe, kya karein? Karna hai kuch kaam,
Sitting, sitting what to do? Pass the time with a game?
Shuru karo antakshri, leke prabhu ka naam!

So let’s play Antakshri, invoking first God’s Name.

Amrik said : The letter ‘m’ starts off the next round:”

Mehfil Yeh Humari Hain
Toh Bol Do Yeh Saare Zamane Se
Men Not Allowed, Men Not Allowed!

A typical Hindi-English Bollywood mix.

The last line rang out like a strident challenge

and the four moustaches shouted their own version:

Women Not Allowed, Women Not Allowed!

29.18.

The station coming up was Saharanpur.

The newly-weds were getting down. He jumped

to the carriage floor, grabbing their bag.

It was her turn. She dangled hennaed feet,

ankleted, over the edge. Her nose-ring jiggled,

while necklace and gold earrings made her more

resplendent in blood-red salvaar kamiz,

her vermillion sindoor parting married hair.

All eyes turned up. It was too far. The train

was stopping fast, so she took a leap of faith

into husband’s hands about her petite waist.

The warm crushing together of shy bodies

made all sigh at the starting heat of love.

29.19

After Saharanpur they measured time

by flashing stops: Pilkhani, Sarswara,

the ochre earth, the thorny kikar trees,

green fields of paddy and wading buffaloes,

next Kalanaur then onto Yamunangar.

The Yamuna was swollen with monsoon

as they crossed the pylon bridge into Haryana,

green miles of farmland and more rail sidings:

Mustafabad, Barara, Tandwal and Kesri

three clackety hours until they reached Ambala.

The blue snake pulled up. There was delay.

The four moustaches left and new ones came.

Chai-wallahs boarded with aluminium urns,

white plastic cups while coolies in red coats

fought over luggage. Yogi and Amrik waited.

29.20

As Yogi and Amrik moved to window seats

a woman was taking a shortcut over tracks

baby on hip, lugging her ragpicker bundle.

She struggled, but none on board could help,

fearing the train would leave. She stepped from rail

to rail over bitumen fill, struggling her bundle

onto platform concrete, then tried to climb, but her

baby slipped from her hip, plummeting headfirst

onto a steel rail. She jumped back screaming,

but the picked-up infant was now a thing of jelly.

It was hopeless to watch as the passenger train inched out

of Ambala Station — lives transformed forever.

29.21

As fire is covered by smoke and a mirror by dust

the obvious cannot be seen.

As an embryo grows through love or a moment of lust

death reneges on the life caught in between.

As Yogi thought of the child with a jelly-dead head

he tried to accept what he saw.

One slip of a hand had lost the gold in the thread

and wrecked a natural law.

What lay uncertain ahead was a curtain of rain,

shrouding the nothing that’s there.

And the capital Chandigarh, also ahead on the plain

might just leave him gasping for air.

Richard – Church

#1 – George’s Story, Part 43: Little old lady

Within minutes of leaving his hideout, George ran into trouble – trouble in the form a of a little old lady, waving a bible at him. This was something he’d simply not planned for.

“Are you saved, sonny?”, she demanded fiercely.

Wishing his face wasn’t smeared in mud, he mumbled: “erm, yes”, hoping she’d go away.

“Then why aren’t you in church today?”

George was lost for words.

“Never mind, son, Rasputin here will take care of you.”

George slowly turned, to find the monstrous man who’d abducted Emily, stood right behind him.

“Time to go to church!”, grinned the brute.

#2 – The Church of the Unified Singularity

Hi, and welcome to my church: it’s a bit different to most churches.

For a start, there’s no all-powerful deity, no scriptures and rituals, creeds and festivals are all frowned upon. My church doesn’t require confession, repentance or regular attendance, there’s no hymn singing or pilgrimages.

You won’t find me on your doorstep with a big smile and colourful pullover, either – because you can’t join my church… it’s exclusive to me, and me alone.

I am – in every sense – the religious body!

Of course, being the church isn’t all fun and games, but the tax concessions are fantastic!

#3 – Focus of the community

They come to our village from all over the world – tourists and sightseers, just to see our church.

We’ve got it all: a crooked steeple, weeping madonna, a crypt of human bones, haunted cemetery and healing well. There’s also a gift shop, selling trinkets and homemade cakes. Once a month, our mad monk makes an appearance, and on special occasions you might catch a glimpse of the hunchbacked bellringer.

Every last bit of it is – of course – completely fake, but nobody seems to mind. As long as the tourists are happy and the money keeps on rolling in, who’s complaining?

Serendipity – Account

The instructions were simple and written clearly, in bold, on the note that I intended to pass to the cashier:

Do not raise the alarm
Remain calm
Completely fill the bag with unmarked notes
Do not move until I have left the building

I read through them again carefully. Clear, concise and unambiguous… but it seemed to me there was something missing.

I frowned and chewed thoughtfully on the end of my pen while I thought it through, and then it came to me, at last – the one vital instruction that I’d completely forgotten to add:

Please close my account.

Norval Joe – 404 Not Found

Long John Silver pushed through the doggie door at the back of the house.
Dirgle, sitting in front of the TV, heard the click of toenails crossing the kitchen before the wiener dog appeared at his knee and dropped his food dish on the floor.
Pouring the last of the bag and barely filling the dog’s bowl, Dirgle hurried off to the grocery store.
As the cashier scanned four large bags of dog food, he slid his card and punched in his PIN. The little window read, ‘Account Not Found’.
Apparently, Wiener Dog Man had pissed off the wrong people.

The Alabaster Room by Spate

She paced at the window. Her reflection, caught in the glass, became part of the January snowstorm that quietly swirled outside, spiraling in a downward waltz of translucent white flake and wind.

She thought: “How out of control and random life has become; a dance with no one leading. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t desire fame or money – just pure art.”

Now she was forced to hide in this monochromatic winter hostel to be not found by the copycat fans or those wishing her dead.

Yes, dead!

Miyuki never foresaw the fury of the Abstract Expressionists.

Blame by Danny

I understand in the wake of the “Citizen’s United” decision by the U.S. Supreme Court that not only has corruption been legalized, but it is almost impossible now to follow the money trail of the entities contributing to campaign finance. Corporate America has become the Wizard of Oz, don’t look behind the curtain, there is nothing to see here. Pretend to hold us accountable if you want, but we will point the fingers of blame, thank-you. After all, you have no idea the billions it costs to run a blame campaign, and we billionaires intend to keep it that way.

Voyage by Justin

Bob however, failed to realize the large array of surveillance cameras on the cruise ship. The thermal cameras have algorithms and sensors that can tell the difference between a falling person, a chair, or an ice sculpture a drunken passenger has tossed overboard. As soon as Barbie tumbled over the railing after his push, her fall was instantly detected by cameras and alarms were sounded. At the same time, the security woman checked the cameras pointed at the deck where Barbie fell, and saw the devilish deed Bob had done. She stored the timestamp and emailed the ships security chief.