Expressions

There had appeared an object high up in the sky, dashing straight towards the cosmos, apparently escaping earth and its dwellers. It was the early hours of a spring day, but the sun was up at the horizon. The air was still cold and fresh. A man, all alone by himself, was sauntering amid a vast field of lush greens that swayed in the morning breeze. He must have noticed that something was odd with the sky that day. He would have confirmed this conjecture had he looked above right then, for the flying object overhead had now grown double its size, accelerating away from its surroundings. That morning, when it dawned, was inarguably the freshest of the season. The man dressed in his local attire continued walking listlessly amid the fields of green stalks. Any living being might have sensed the mysterious entity right above had there been one other than that lone man, for he did not deign to glance skyward; he had his gaze entirely fixed down at his feet, unperturbed, unstirred. Walking s...

The sun was searing through every fabric of seclusion, the radiating heat had blurred the visions. Somebody threw himself in front of the approaching train. Everyone heard the grumbling of the rails, the deafening, alarming horn of the train. Everyone saw its bolting speed; everyone saw it moving. Only some noticed that the scene was not devoid of a mishap. Someone noticed an apparition of a man materialized out of the thin air for a fleeting instant and vaporized just as quickly before the collision. Someone noticed a white cloak fluttering, floating in the scorching wind and watched as it enveloped the front of the train on the impact. Someone saw an old, emaciated weakling of a man; a bent spine throwing himself against the wrought iron front of the train and being shredded into bits instantaneously; his boiling blood evaporating just as it made contact with the blazing world outside; finally freed from the narrow sheaths of the veins. Right then, someone felt something wrong had oc...

The street was a long, interminable stretch of agony, lit sporadically. At one place, an old tungsten bulb lit the gravel pavement, hanging outside an equally old house. A few paces ahead hung an ancient lantern, flickering and dying in its yellow radiance, outside an equally dilapidated shack. Adjacent to it stood a magnificent bungalow that glowed in brilliance under dozens of its lustrous white lights. Nothing of its emanating glow made it to the portion of the street where it stood strong and proud. Somewhere ahead, a shuttered down, closed house had a white bulb lighting its threshold, contributing its part of illuminating the street. It was an unusual street. There were no other smaller streets extending from its main course. It was narrow and claustrophobic. It had no beginning, no end. The buildings that lined its boundaries were all connected with no interspaces. The ending wall of one house marked the beginning of the other. At some places, magnanimous, extravagant structures...

There was complete silence. Only broken intermittently by the casual, soothing strokes of a pen against a paper. Every swooping, cursive movement, unique in the sound it produced. The source of that disturbance being a lone man in a corner. The room was entirely wooden, its floor laden with planks and its roof adorned in rustic woods. The wooden walls spoke of ages. An old cottage of refuge. A lone shack of solace. The room was small in dimensions but possessed a window, through which golden rays of the midday’s sun slanted across the floor, lighting the indoors. The man was busy scribbling on a parchment, which had a yellow hue of its own. He sat on a small wooden chair, so obsolete that it appeared it only had a few more years before it would refuse to endure any more burden, and would crumble to its death not being able to shoulder its own weight. The table upon which the writing was in progress suffered the same fate. There was no other furniture in the vicinity. Nevertheless, the ...