She was Out of this World

They could be impregnated to bear children, but no one to seed them.
That is what the biggest dilemma that the beings of 'Sirius A' faced.

They had been observing the Earth for centuries, from each of their moons, in an attempt to perfect the mould that would encase the breeder of human perfection. They needed to emulate her in time, to salvage their asexual species from dwindling very quickly.

Then one of them had a Eureka moment when it said, "Morose Men of Earth!" and everyone clapped with their eyes.

The journey from 'Sirius A' to the Earth was no impulsive decision. It would taken them a good 8.6 light years one way. But by the time they'd reach home, get started on their new mould and embark on another Earth bound journey, the Earthling notions of beauty would change. From plump ample bodied fuller women, we had suddenly developed an admiration for reed-like girls. When they made huge structural changes to this new proto-type, we had evolved to being lured by the hour-glass body type.

However, this time they got it right.

She was an embodiment of perfection. Flawless porcelain skin that wrapped tautly around her tight muscles. Fuller breasts, a thin waist, and a perfect apple bum, she moved with the swagger of a mermaid who had just found new legs. The only think lacking was the soulfulness in those eyes. How would they replicate a soul when they had none? So they launched her on this mission with a pair of sunglasses, and programmed her to entice a nice sparsely-haired man for his seed.

She waited with baited breath as she spotted our shiny bald beau, and lured him with a pout he would never forget. She led him to a motel room, and sat against the window. Then unwound her borrowed hair and let out a sigh. Cause for a moment, behind that doily curtain, she unveiled a pair of squiggly alien eyes.


*For 3WW
** For Magpie Tales

Everything she feels is Red

Dabbing a dash
on that canvas.
She ends up dousing
the entire surface
with Red.
Red. Red. Red.
She chants.
Pomegranate wine.
Beetle juice.
Murdered bloodstains.
Menstruation.
Signs of lost virginity.
Seepage from a warm lamb
waiting to be marinated.
A kaleidoscope of varied emotions
Which we still define
With a single
Red.

Like when she sat there on those redbrick steps.
Her rougened cheeks pinched with excitement
as they learnt to conceal a blush.
That vermilion of requited love in marriage
had found its way by parting her forehead.
She squatted with the poise of a newly wed,
with the ends of her maroon ghunghat 
tucked perfectly between the gaps of her teeth.
With bright gums, she smiled innocently,
masking her brazenness under the veil.
Of scarlet passions, her docility
concealed the potentials of seduction
that he would experience
behind closed redwood doors.

But the red she felt when kissed,
Tasted unlike the red of swallowed guilt.
A lump of swollen red stuck in the throat
tainted with hues of possessive rage.
Burning embers of furious red,
emblazoned her eyes
as her husband turned rose-pink
at the mention of his auburn-headed mistress.

Turmoil, anguish and angry red,
twisted within her innards.
Poaching ulcers in her mouth
she chewed on dark betel leaves,
to build up a storm.
Splash.
She spewed the contents
from her coral tongue
on to a canvas.
Yet the new formed creation
was celebrated as
your everyday
Red.



*For Photo Credit

The Voiceover

From washing gravity-challenged curls in cold water and stepping out in the blazing sun, to applying curds on the scalp and sitting under the air conditioner. From eating unbranded hand packed sickeningly sweet fluorescent candy, to gorging on 4 germ laden ice shaved golas on Juhu beach. I'd done it all!

This wasn't an I-will-test-my-immunity (or stupidity??) contest that I was trying to win, or a suicide diet to look pretty at death. Nor was I getting paid to conduct research on popular ways of contracting pneumonia.

In my defense this was, in all earnestness, an attempt to retain a 'husky' voice.

As retarded as it sounds, do you have any idea what it means to get complimented on a borrowed voice tone? Especially when 'normal' means that the inherited vocal chords vibrate only within the soprano range, and being 'excited' means emitting ultrasonic sounds that can only be appreciated by cats, dogs, and screeching bats?!

Thanks to common cold, phlegm, and the entire army of waterworks, there was hope. Let alone the fact that I now looked like Rudolf on Prozac, carried three packs of Kleenex in my bag, and couldn’t tell the difference between nutri-wheat-crackers and cardboard - I sounded perfect!

The cell-phone was ringing. The hottie-with-the-long-sideburns had his name flashing across the touchscreen. Dashing for another Kleenex I went through a quick round of the sniff-snort-cough-cough routine. Stomach tucked in, chest pushed out, I looked like someone in dire need of the Heimlich maneuver.
But the hottie couldn't see all of that now, could he?

The phone was answered in under five seconds.

'Huh lo-oh...' I teased. The femme fatale had just walked into the voice box.

I breathed out a wry smile, and continued to look like death. But it didn't matter.

Cause Jessica Rabbit had finally agreed to do a little dubbing for Ms. Swan.

Second Chances

It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.

Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.

The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.

He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.

She was prettier than he could remember.

He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.

"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.

They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.

Little Dents of Venus

Two well chiseled dimples were etched and engraved right above those cushioned mounds of fullness. 

I wonder what it was that made her back laugh so much, so often.