Life as it ain't

"I'm not really from outer space. I'm just mentally divergent."

Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

Why post-modernists have better sex (and other such post-post-modernist felonies)

Posted by Ronak M Soni on July 1, 2010

[Health Warning] I won’t say why it’s here though, just so that curiosity can kill you, CAT!

“Mwuha hahaha,” he’d said, as if all his actions had been just “evil,” not really evil.

Here we had a young man — a boy even — who wished to be taken seriously. What do you suggest we do with him? Hah, yes, a good suggestion, sir, and very good you whispered it to me! And what do you, sir, suggest? Yes, you, you brainless victim of modernity who purports to be a reader!

Mwuha hahaha. Mwuha HAHAHA! “Mwuha hahaha” was the scourge of the earth, “mwuha hahaha” was why post-modernists had better sex…

“You are a post-modernist, fuck-ass,” said he, coming in.

Me? No I’m a post-post-modernist!

At this point, I suggest we zoom out of the (deliberately engrossing) dialogue and have a look at our movement-ridden [prot]agonist. Well, here he is, a smile across his face, his arms spread and his eyes closed, what with the fright that would show otherwise.

“Reverse reverse psychology is still a type of reverse psychology.”

Post- is not a negatory suffix, you … YOU!

“Yea, you guys deserve to be called non-nodernists anyway.”

Seriously, you need to right now stop fucking around with ‘n’s and ‘m’s.

“What? Dostoevsky did it!”

No, he nicknamed …

“I can hear your thoughts, you lifeless turd.”

Only when I articulate them.

Right? Right?

He smiled, “.”

But how is it possible to hear what is not in words?

Again, let us zoom out, and look at the face of a man contemplating the idea of perfect communication… while I go out for a coffee.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Prose | Tagged: , | 4 Comments »

The King of the Log

Posted by Ronak M Soni on November 3, 2009

Sorry that this is under poetry, but I like to think of this as a prose poem.

Yet again, all constructive criticism/clicking on thumbs will be appreciated.

I stopped. It had been a long run. Now came the hard part. I had woken up at five in the morning and gone for a ten kilometer run. Now, my eyelids drooped, the film of adhesive between my eyelids getting to work.
I heard the wet sand crunching under my shoes, the calls of early morning birds. The wind blowing my hair into my face, I stumbled over a root: my lids had drooped to below my irises.
The lovely, cool wind slipped under my t-shirt and raised every little hair, leaving with the sweat that stuck it to my body. I pulled my eyes open against the dark, magnetic pull.
The sleepy feel of debris under my eyes – that patched inoffensive film of it that called for sleep – weighed my head down, bent my back, buckled my knees, pushed me all the way down.
I got up, sweaty as well as dirty. Jolted awake, the tears came to my eyes, dissolving up the adhesive, the debris, blotting my sight. I rapidly blinked to clear my eyes. And smiled: we primates tend to rule.
For, in front of me, on a log, sat a monkey, his right knee next to his face, his forearm hanging off it, and his other hand feeding himself; for, in front of me, on a log, sat its king.

I stopped. It had been a long run. Now came the hard part. I had woken up at five in the morning and gone for a ten kilometer run. Now, my eyelids drooped, the film of adhesive between my eyelids getting to work.
I heard the wet sand crunching under my shoes, the calls of early morning birds. The wind blowing my hair into my face, I stumbledover a root: my lids had drooped to below my ires.
The lovely, cool wind slipped under my t-shirt and raised every little hair, leaving with the sweat that stuck each one to my body. I pulled my eyes open against the dark, magnetic pull.
The sleepy feel of debris under my eyes – that patched inoffensive film of it that called for sleep – weighed my head down, bent my back, buckled my knees, pushed me all the way down.
I got up, sweaty as well as dirty. Jolted awake, the tears came to my eyes, dissolving up the adhesive, the debris, blotting my sight. I rapidly blinked to clear my eyes. And smiled: us primates tend to rule.
For, in front of me, on a log, sat a monkey, his right knee next to his face, his forearm hanging off it, and his other hand feeding himself; for, in front of me, on his kingdom, sat the king of the log.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Prose | Tagged: , , | 5 Comments »