The Old Book
in the end of the shelf was an old book
covered all over by a thin layer of dust
the smell of leather cover had seeped in
anyone one who opened it would instantly be drawn in
funny as it was the tittle page was torn
author and name both lost in the pages as unknown
but a page or two had names of readers
jotted they had down their thoughts and feelings
appreciated and enjoyed it sure was
somewhere still it was definitely lost
each one had definitely read between the lines
perceived as they wanted those unwritten lines
if book was a person each would have met
contradiction would be the prominent trait
transparent as it was still it had so many secrets
reading it fully was everyone's cup of tea
understanding it completely was not possible at all
--
Lakshmi
The Visitor
The small television set crackled and spit as the storm shook the frail wooden mountaintop cottage. Its owner sat huddled in a blanket on the simple wooden floor, gazing distantly at the screen, as it burst in and out of static. The little man shivered in the cold as he watched the screen twist the images into weird shapes of static. The moth eaten blanket shrouded him from to toe and covering him almost completely, except for the mournful eyes that peered out through a gap in the folds.
The T.V reception settled for a little while, as the storm seemed to pass through a more peaceful state. On it, a bald man with an angry expression was shouting something.
“... and extremely dangerous! This vicious criminal has murdered over thirty people in cold blood. Look at his twisted face, and remember it well!”, he thundered, as a grainy black and white image filled the entire screen.
It depicted a gaunt face with beady little black eyes, that peered out furiously from under thick bushy eyebrows. The thin face was topped by a mop of scraggy black hair. The face would have seemed funny, almost clownish, if it weren't for the moustache: the gigantic, black, hairy beast that crawled out from beneath the thin bony nose, and curved upwards into an ominous spiral, covering the rest of the bony face. It did something terrible to the rest of the face. Its volume seemed to make the already thin features look positively skeletal. But its worst crime was the way it brought out the true anger and hate hidden in the murderer's beady eyes. They bore straight into you from behind the great hairy barrier, drilling so deep, one felt, so as to touch one's very soul.
The spectator in the cottage winced and drew up his blanket closer. He was a mild man. This sort of think jarred his sensitive nerves. He was too cold to get up and switch of the set, so he simply closed his eyes, and started drifting into gentle sleep... or tried to. For the storm found new vigour, and a monstrous crash of thunder shook every item in the house, including its occupant.
He squealed, fell over and frantically clawed at the floor getting up but a second loud crash made him lose his balance again. He sat on the floor, the blanket now completely smothering him, panting. The crash sounded again, twice in quick succession. It was not the thunder, he realised, someone was pounding at the door!
He scrabbled to his feet, pulling his tatters around his head again, and waddled to the door. As he hesitated, three more resounding crashes shook the frail cottage. He yelped and pulled at the handle. In a flash of lightning he saw a tall thin man glaring down at him. Without waiting for an invitation the visitor strode in.
“What took you so long? I was getting drenched to bone out there!” he boomed.
“S-sorry, good sir, I-I was-”
“Asleep? Half dead is more like it! Haven't you a candle in this dump?!”
The little owner's eyes looked fearfully around the dinghy room. The man realised he was in complete darkness, for the thunder must had blown out the lights. Smoke was rising from the T.V set. He shuffled to a drawer in a corner, and lit a candle. In the yellow light, he looked upon his guest. The tall man's head brushed the ceiling of the wooden hut. His long black hair lay damp and wet on his head, dripping streams of water on to the floor. His sunken cheeks were clean shaven, but as the dim candle light fell on them, it showed a number of bruises and scratches on his cheeks and upper lip.
“Good sir, y-your face..”
The visitor uttered a curse. “I shaved badly today morning. Is this the time for such questions, peasant?” he growled.. He was not shouting any more, but even the natural tone of his voice bore the calibre of a small cannon.
“I see you have little enough to share with me little man. Come, you will share my meal.” he ordered.
He drew a small paper parcel out of his pockets and unwrapped it to reveal two loaves of white bread.
“Bring a knife to cut these with if you have one.”
The unwilling host mumbled an affirmative. He went to the little drawer in the corner, and drew out his knife. But in his haste to please his guest, he turned too quickly, and his blanket caught the edge of the stool. The sudden jerk threw the blanket off his head, making him yelp.
The visitor looked up.
“Ah so finally you pick up the courage to show me your face!” His mocking laughter bounced of the thin wooden walls. “Little though you have peasant, you have maintained a fine moustache!”
The little host chuckled through the huge black moustache that curled around his face, thrown into dark contrast by the light of the candle he held.
Chuckling timidly at the joke, he drew closer to his guest. The dim candle light threw a strange glint into his beady eyes. It even made the knife he held look larger, much larger, than it must have been. Blade in hand, he inched closer to the Visitor.
The T.V reception settled for a little while, as the storm seemed to pass through a more peaceful state. On it, a bald man with an angry expression was shouting something.
“... and extremely dangerous! This vicious criminal has murdered over thirty people in cold blood. Look at his twisted face, and remember it well!”, he thundered, as a grainy black and white image filled the entire screen.
It depicted a gaunt face with beady little black eyes, that peered out furiously from under thick bushy eyebrows. The thin face was topped by a mop of scraggy black hair. The face would have seemed funny, almost clownish, if it weren't for the moustache: the gigantic, black, hairy beast that crawled out from beneath the thin bony nose, and curved upwards into an ominous spiral, covering the rest of the bony face. It did something terrible to the rest of the face. Its volume seemed to make the already thin features look positively skeletal. But its worst crime was the way it brought out the true anger and hate hidden in the murderer's beady eyes. They bore straight into you from behind the great hairy barrier, drilling so deep, one felt, so as to touch one's very soul.
The spectator in the cottage winced and drew up his blanket closer. He was a mild man. This sort of think jarred his sensitive nerves. He was too cold to get up and switch of the set, so he simply closed his eyes, and started drifting into gentle sleep... or tried to. For the storm found new vigour, and a monstrous crash of thunder shook every item in the house, including its occupant.
He squealed, fell over and frantically clawed at the floor getting up but a second loud crash made him lose his balance again. He sat on the floor, the blanket now completely smothering him, panting. The crash sounded again, twice in quick succession. It was not the thunder, he realised, someone was pounding at the door!
He scrabbled to his feet, pulling his tatters around his head again, and waddled to the door. As he hesitated, three more resounding crashes shook the frail cottage. He yelped and pulled at the handle. In a flash of lightning he saw a tall thin man glaring down at him. Without waiting for an invitation the visitor strode in.
“What took you so long? I was getting drenched to bone out there!” he boomed.
“S-sorry, good sir, I-I was-”
“Asleep? Half dead is more like it! Haven't you a candle in this dump?!”
The little owner's eyes looked fearfully around the dinghy room. The man realised he was in complete darkness, for the thunder must had blown out the lights. Smoke was rising from the T.V set. He shuffled to a drawer in a corner, and lit a candle. In the yellow light, he looked upon his guest. The tall man's head brushed the ceiling of the wooden hut. His long black hair lay damp and wet on his head, dripping streams of water on to the floor. His sunken cheeks were clean shaven, but as the dim candle light fell on them, it showed a number of bruises and scratches on his cheeks and upper lip.
“Good sir, y-your face..”
The visitor uttered a curse. “I shaved badly today morning. Is this the time for such questions, peasant?” he growled.. He was not shouting any more, but even the natural tone of his voice bore the calibre of a small cannon.
“I see you have little enough to share with me little man. Come, you will share my meal.” he ordered.
He drew a small paper parcel out of his pockets and unwrapped it to reveal two loaves of white bread.
“Bring a knife to cut these with if you have one.”
The unwilling host mumbled an affirmative. He went to the little drawer in the corner, and drew out his knife. But in his haste to please his guest, he turned too quickly, and his blanket caught the edge of the stool. The sudden jerk threw the blanket off his head, making him yelp.
The visitor looked up.
“Ah so finally you pick up the courage to show me your face!” His mocking laughter bounced of the thin wooden walls. “Little though you have peasant, you have maintained a fine moustache!”
The little host chuckled through the huge black moustache that curled around his face, thrown into dark contrast by the light of the candle he held.
Chuckling timidly at the joke, he drew closer to his guest. The dim candle light threw a strange glint into his beady eyes. It even made the knife he held look larger, much larger, than it must have been. Blade in hand, he inched closer to the Visitor.
Outside the cottage, thunder rolled around the hill as the storm slowly grew in the darkness.
Creepsy like Poe. :O
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