Year.N

(i) This is an experiment, somewhat like Odd Even.ts.
(ii) There are 12 parts, each part consisting of as many words as the number of days in the mentioned month. Like JAN.gle - 31 words. APR.on - 30 words.
(iii) There are 3 sets - the parts with 31 words each| the part with 29 words| the parts with 30 words each
(iv) The parts or the sets are not necessarily in the correct order of occurrence.
(v) On an unrelated topic - My Blog turned a year old at 8:09 pm(IST) on the 27th of April, 2011.

 Year 2008.

“And as we wind on down the road 

Our shadows taller than our souls.”

JAN.gle

The metal bar slid over the strings of the lap steel guitar. The screech hit his eardrums – coerced his impotent hands to cease the rendering of mellifluous music turned noxious noise.

**FEB.rile

The smack and the coke in the same syringe.  He was speedballing. He was shivering with fever. Was he insane? She saw him and knew she had her story.

MAR.ijuana

The beige cloth draped around the cherubic chillum had turned feuillemorte. Inhale! His sore throat bled. The diffused smoke ushered the diabolical entities to their alveoli seats. His hands shook compulsively.

“In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, 

And the voices of those who stand looking.”

*APR.on

She loved the acetic acid stains on her apron, the vinegar odour, the light through the red filter, the negatives and the photographs. She knew she was ‘developing’ a story.

MAY.hem

The crowd was going insane. They should have been oscillating in unified trance then, with the reverberating rendition of liberating verses and psychedelic music. An hour gone. The stage was empty.

*JUN.cture

She stood still, stupefied. He excavated her words from the locked chest kept safe in a dungeon, and sung them. She knew, she should’ve captured. But she didn’t miss anything.

“And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune 

Then the piper will lead us to reason.”

JUL.iet

He changed the tuning from standard to open E, for the song “Juliet”.  His voice echoed – faded to the sounds of saxophone, piano and drums. He waited for his guitar solo.

AUG.ment

The crescendo lingered. Lights changed colours like the chameleon – their long tongues ensnared him. The succeeding diminuendo got lost in his handcuffed silence. He recovered, improvised; then ended the song abruptly.

*SEP.ia

She wanted the photographs to live longer. She wanted them to speak the language he speaks. She wanted the story to be warm and brown. It had to be sepia.

“In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings, 

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.”

OCT.opus

As his opus terminated, the tentacles of an octopus like creature swung before him. From the heavens descended 'Cthulhu'. He clung to one of the tentacles and wished to escape doom.

*NOV.ice

It was probably her last chance to click the conclusion of her story, given his wretched appalling condition. She didn’t have a pass. She was a photographer, but a novice.

DEC.adence

As he lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling fan, he wondered about Juliet and “Juliet”. The crescendo and diminuendo were dead. All that was left – the sound of shutter.

“Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run 

There's still time to change the road you're on.”

Do we learn?

Do we earn?

Do we Year.N?

Y/N?

 ---------------x----------------

“And if you listen very hard 

The tune will come to you at last. 

When all are one and one is all 

To be a rock and not to roll.”

The quotes are from the song - Stairway to heaven by Led Zeppelin.

P.S. - Lethargy and the El Clasico forced me not to proofread the post. I apologise for the brazen and imbecilic mistakes.

Odd Even.ts

(i)   This is an experiment.

(ii)  The irregular chronological order is intentional.

(iii) There are 6+1 parts, each comprising 55 words.(so have I counted)

Beg.inning

6^th September, 2010. Night.

Norah clenched her teeth.  She gasped.  She embraced the silence that followed. No mirth, no melancholy and no miff; she was a stone. Sound of scissors. Severed umbilical cord. Time progressed. No relevant sound. The unwanted yet unavoidable, obligatory slap. Cries of the baby filled the room. Norah’s brain throbbed like her heart, with agony.

Cow.ardice

1^st January, 2010. Afternoon.

John was a powerful man.  Aal kept silent like a dead piece of log. Aal preferred to live like a castrated ox rather than fight with vigour like a bull and ultimately, probably die with his testicles getting crushed. Aal succumbed to the opprobrious clout. Norah’s body was profaned, mutilated; and now, her soul, amputated.

New.s

31^st December, 2009. Late evening.

‘You look terrific, Norah.’ Aal took Norah in his arms. The red dress she donned, embraced her immaculate lissome body, envying anyone, everyone else who could, who would lay a hand or even a sight on her.  She dispersed seeds of pulchritude that could absorb any man’s wavelength of restraint. ‘I am pregnant’, she whispered.

Part.y

1^st January, 2010. Around midnight.

Aal exceeded his limit of sane alcohol consumption and slayed his consciousness, probably unconsciously. John offered to help Norah get Aal home. She agreed, albeit reluctantly. John’s hormones flickered. He pounced on Norah. Norah let out muffled shrieks, tried to fight back, but in vain. John increased then ceased his pubic movements with diabolical satiation.

Mo.u.rning

1^st January, 2010. Morning.

Aal’s head was still heavy with the previous night’s alcohol. Norah handed a cup of coffee to him, her hands shaking incoherently. Norah choked on the lump in her throat, gulped it, and then let it all go. The fact that John raped his wife seeped in, as the hot coffee slipped down Aal’s throat.

End.urance

1^st January, 2011. Noon.

A little more, Norah thought. Endurance, that’s banal, mundane and superfluous. She can stay unscathed, unstirred, even if hot lava is poured on her coarse skin which used to be gentle sometime, long ago.  A little more she thought. The stifled muted shrieks of the child drowned in the cotton pillow, his legs stopped moving.

--x--

Epitaph

31^st December, 2011. Morning.

The kid placed the white rose on Aal Carter’s grave. His parents, Norah and John stood behind him. Aal was a promising writer, but he was addicted to drugs, which subsequently led to his death, after gifting him coma for a year. “Can people think while they are in coma? Maybe, Aal had a story.”