Pricks
“You don’t care, you don’t care!”
she shouts into his ears.
Pain is a drug that unites them.
Right now, they’re too broke for anything else.
It pricks. They do.
“You don’t care, you don’t care!”
she shouts into his ears.
Pain is a drug that unites them.
Right now, they’re too broke for anything else.
It pricks. They do.
I wrote a tiny tale about an interview. Of a sort.
Based on a writing prompt by Manisha Lakhe at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival.
Today is World Diabetes Day. It isn’t an occasion to wish anyone. It isn’t a day to start movements. All it seems to be is to think of some people.
I’m enjoying the company of books & plants. For the first time these don’t feel like escape from the loneliness between men. It makes my past feel like vertigo.
I’m drowning in a sea of words, she saysYou don’t want to be rescued, he observesSo she asks if they can write a story together.
A candid account of feeling violated in public spaces by a look, challenging societal norms, and the struggle for solidarity.
I cheated, slightly. This isn’t a brand new story but one I wrote some time ago and had reviewed by a small group. I improved it since their feedback. It’s about friendship.