Artless & Ludibrious

“I’m positive I’m dead.” That was the first thought that popped into Johnathan’s head when he woke to the sound of chirping somewhere in the distance. He found himself on the floor, and pushed himself off of the ground, and sat on what seemed to be damp earth, almost as if it had rained recently. It felt good under his palm. He looked around to find himself on a road, a rural, earthen road. It seemed that there was nothing and no one around for miles. He could only see acres and acres of land, seeming never to end. The last thing Johnathan remembered was the filthy cop bullet striking him straight in the middle of his chest. The heist hadn’t gone as planned and the quick arrival of the police put a swift end to Johnny’s 12 years of crime. He looked at his clothes. They were the only constant in this absurd reality as he still wore his faded blue jeans and his staple black tee-shirt. The ski mask seems to have disappeared though, as had his numerous tattoos. As he looked aro...

The piece just wasn’t working out! Vivek moved his chair back an inch and stretched out his legs under the table. Here, in his one-bedroom apartment in downtown London, the air smelt distinctly of poor bachelor. He moved his hands over the teak wood of the table and wondered what his mother would say if she saw the innumerable coffee rings which had morphed the once pale brown wood to a disheveled mess of stains. This was the result of the many sachets of Bru coffee which he would carry in bulk from his hometown of Pune. “Modern Art”, Vivek called it. A wry smile forced its way into his face. It felt warm. He too was an artist. Well, an author. Not established yet, but he dreamt of brushing shoulders with the “whos-who” of the literary world in the near future. If only he could get this stupid piece out, otherwise he would have to make do with the “who-the-hell-is-who”. He had recently been asked to write a piece for the local newspaper. It was a small gig, but this young wri...

He managed to slip past the few guards posted along the perimeter of the camp. It was past curfew and he knew that if his commanding officer caught scent of his midnight escapades, he would undoubtedly be made an example of, and that was not something to look forward to when one is in the German Blitzkrieg Division. But he needed these walks. They were his one release from the rather grey life of a soldier. Eat, sleep, kill, repeat; and if one managed to get himself killed between these activities, he was free. Death. The only freedom he could now look forward to. It was raining outside, light, refreshing. A few drops made their way along the back of his neck and continued down his spine. He sighed as the cool drops slid over his numerous wounds. Stab-wounds, gunshots, shrapnel. He’d seen his share of action, that was for sure. The rain fell around him, onto a broken Germany. Now, towards the tapering end of the Second World War, Germany had little to be proud of. A few terri...