Thursday, 28 November 2013

The House Of Knives

A tiled pattern covering the floor of the house. White papers resting on it forming a rectangle. A queue of knives from very small to very big lay in formation on the papers with a spear blade lying beside them. The shine of the spear blade was more than the shine from all the the other knives' blades combined and, therefore, their leader was chosen.

The smallest knife lying on one corner felt like reaching its brother, the biggest knife, at the other corner. It was a long journey to be taken by going past many other relatives. The first of the relatives was a slimmer knife than itself but with its weight transformed as its length to make it slightly taller. The second was properly shaped at the handle with a belly like the smallest in weight but it had a straighter blade contrasting well, in colour, with its handle. This one was equal in height to the first one.

The third one was a bit shorter than the previous two but it had its dominance by the unusual colour and felt similar to itself at the blade. The fourth had a large handle with a slanted rhythmic and encircling design on it. Its slant at the place of joint of the blade and the handle was like some over-protected body covering part of its own face. This one handled things roughly with its double height to the smallest.

The fifth was a maverick with a unique shape which attracted people. Its blade and handle were both of equal ratio and its height equal to the previous blade. The next one was scared of the seventh as it feared that it would try to use eighth to destroy nine. It was like a miniaturized sword and was so thin by the blade and handle that both were difficult to differentiate. This too was of same height as its previous two.

The seventh, which had a rivalry with eighth and ninth, was like a rifle with a metallic covering and a thin straight blade. Its length a bit larger than the previous three. The eighth one had a comfortable handle similar to a sword and its shiny blade said it all. It was of the same height as the fourth, fifth, and sixth. The brother of eight had a large gun-like handle which seemed to have lost its trigger. The blade was also of a different kind which looked like a pile-driver. It was elder to its brother in height and its shine had worn out of age.

The tenth came three to four times bigger than the knife journeying. It was a combination of the second and fourth at its handle. The next in formation was the second most elder in the line having pointed ends at both its blade tip and handle tip. Its handle felt like a tail as if it could be used to scurry past many objects quickly. It was long in length. The second last had a shiny handle with a rectangular blade having no pointy tip as the rest of the lot. This was smaller than the previous one.

The last of the set was its brother. The eldest of the lot and the most lethal in the family. It was the king of knives. The dark handle with a glittering shine and a long large blade curved like a scimitar sword's blade. It could slice through many things. It was a falchion blade. The joy when it saw its younger brother, after a long time, was immeasurable. The small knife had journeyed a long journey and gained experience about its relatives in height and weight and got to know about the age-old story of why six was scared of seven. Although seven had not yet destroyed nine.

This was the house of knives and it was guarded well by them. Their unique family always amazed the onlookers.

© Aditya Subramanian, 2015

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

The Randomly Rhythmic

A room with no lights in that region became visible due to a nearby light from another region. A house where the night had crept in for the people. This one light centered at no center for all the people of the house. The unlit room had a bed which was given away due to it's shadow.

On the bed lay a man with his back to his ceiling. A pillow on which his head was supposed to rest had instead a notebook used for random rough work. The dim centered light guiding the unsteady hands of the writer. The randomness was magnificent when gaining knowledge that... he could not even observe what he wrote except for his way of writing or scribbling.

It could be called whatever the person writing or reading felt like. Be it from untidy to super clean, it was all relative. The buzzing of quite a few randomly unknown things intrigued him.

The randomness grew when it was understood that it were the last pages of the book but still the seek of randomness showed that the notebook was not even half full. The writer scribbled his way through lines of a page but then looking at it all relatively felt random. Even the word random appeared at random.

The words still were rhythmic in that they formed sentences to give new meanings. This new rhythm of writing felt different for the reader in that writer and still it was random which made the words abrupt or long.

The pages filled up but the notebook still had lots before it could come to a close. While the light formed the shadows, the aesthetic of writing randomly felt brilliant. Coming to a close the pen hesitated because of the arms which held it.

The writer's useless eyes making incomplete words which trailed with pauses. The ink still left, the writer slept only to wake up to his rhythm of randomness.

The light shone brighter as the other light of this room lit up. It was morning in the night.

© Aditya Subramanian, 2015