Monday, August 8, 2011

A Case For Suicide

Posted by A Great Liar

“It’s nothing but a tale of the living and the dead, and the ones in between.” I watched the main street from the window of the apartment, thinking out aloud. “It’s funny that each man now walking across this street, is merely following the long lost trails of his ancestors who must have walked the same line, trudged on the same cobblestones and occasionally admired a fleeting beauty passing by, some whistling and rest in awe.”

Ammo replied. “Have you never no hope, Lev? You know you ought to say something nice tonight, it’s your birthday, for creeper’s sake”. A half burned cigarette dangling from her left hand, a thinly clad wrist with white hairless skin and bones strikingly jutting out. The many misnomers of drug abuse blended with hours spent in artistic torture.

I continued on, for a moment mindless of her incitements of hope. “And the ones before them, and before that, and so on. Hence the ironic cycle of life, and God’s great cast of actors and actress upon this planet.”

Ammo replied. “Don’t you think that it’s a blessing that most of them, including you hopefully, will live to see another year.”

“Yes, though I hardly consider it a cause of celebration.” I replied. “Living is but one of the strangest acts of suicide, Ammo.” My voice low enough to qualify as a whisper. “It’s an acknowledged descent into the abyss, self willed, but done with hope, with flair, and in high spirits. An act of self annihilation done in extremely good taste.”

She said. “Perhaps you need to live a little more, Lev. And need to see beyond the veil of your opinions.” Paused. “Perhaps you also need to take into account the very possibility that you and your cockamamie opinions about life and the rest of the haberdashers surrounding it could be wrong.”

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Sunday, July 10, 2011

A Thousand Pig Heads On Sticks

Posted by A Great Liar

It’s a day to be quiet; spent in anger and disguise. Because it’s a kind of day that scares you, scares you deep, and scares you good, real good I mean. When you are afraid of nothing more around you, but only yourself.

Afraid of what you have become, if only for a day.

And so you take a day off, a day off from yourself. The trick is to just take a back seat and watch the world go, like a small tin can rolling down the slanted street.

And if you would watch it for too long, you would realize that it’s never rolling in, nor rolling out. Because it never grows too near nor too far, it just rolls.

So what do you do?

You just light the bloody cigarette and take a walk down that street. You simply roll with the can, and never take your eyes off it. You watched it dance, and follow suit. Watch it pull every god damn trick from the bag that is there to be had, and you watch. And ask no questions.

No questions ever. Because there are no answers to be had.

And once you have walked far enough, long enough, you realize you are not alone. No way near! There are people, and always more people. It’s a form of rejoice, a bloody festival out there. Like an ugly welcome, watching them grinning, or somber to the core.    

Walking down the street, filled with walking sticks, moral harelips and hunchbacks, people all around, it was like watching a thousand pig heads sticking out of thousand human torsos, made me feel like a captive walking down an Indian gauntlet, walking down to the scaffold. 

And continued on. Walkin’, and humming, trying not to finish my cigarette in a hurry. Trying to make every moment count. Knowing this is as close to fun as I am capable of being.

And then, from the corner from my eyes, I see a beggar approaching. A beggar with a shine. A physical matchstick of a man with perhaps only enough blood pumped each day to keep the chest heaving.

As the beggar neared, smiling, I spotted a set of healthy white teeth unveiled as his lips widened.

What a smile? I wondered. Now realizing where all the blood in his veins was spent. Like every fiber of his body and soul, the heart, the bones and the blood, committed for one jingle of glory; to keep the teeth shining.

And I moved on. Ignoring him as soon as I first noticed him.

Straight down my eye line, a mother is comforting a little punk ass of her son, a fat round spoiled brat who had just found out that the world isn’t something to be taken granted for. While mother cuddles him, telling him things that like most parents do, things that little punk ass kid like this one has no use for, nor the care.

I watch the kid sobbing, making economical use of his limited set of tears. Spending each with prolonged intermissions, while filling the gap with noise that, with their varying ebb and flow, perhaps represented more grief than there was a genuine case for.

And the woman with expensive embroidery around her hanging cowish motherly skin, the kind of skin that has given birth to hordes of such brats, one too many perhaps, and dark eye shades, kept telling him to trust her, and to have faith in God, though which of those statements she actually meant to be true, it was hard to guess.

Apparently the little kid has taken a fall, face first, into the hard concrete ground, chasing a wild puppy in the street, apparently meaning more harm than love to that innocent creature of God.

And his nose bled, and the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and each drop only brought him closer to death, closer to the unknown, or so the fat kid in big shorts thought. Knowing that he only meant harm to an innocent soul, to a puppy that was now nowhere to be seen, and there would be hell to pay if he dies now, without repentance.

And deservingly so. I mused and moved on. All men should burn for what they do. 5 years old or 85, what’s the difference?

Leaving them to their perils behind, I reached for the cell from my pocket, wishing to make a connection. Recalling an earlier conversation I had, or the lack of it for that matter. Because a phone call spent in silent misunderstanding is not conversation.

Make a connection. But with what? I fumbled in my thoughts. It’s hard to understand the man who woke up in my bed today, it’s hard to look him in the mirror and reach out.

I slipped the cell back in my pocket, wishing nothing no more. Afraid of the disappointment that might await me on the other end of the frequency. Because a hope of being loved, and of being understood, of expectations, bring along with them a hordes of fear and apprehensions.

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Wednesday, June 29, 2011

A Little Scared Boy (An Excerpt)

Posted by A Great Liar


(The following is an excerpt from the currently undergoing novel, The Liar's Lobe)

At first, it seemed the descent would never end as a little scared boy trailed down the wooden stairs. Then his stumbling blind feet hit the surface and the boy took a sigh of relief.

The earth beneath his feet felt hard and cold as he took first couple of steps. Feeling his way in, swallowed by the blind eater that masqueraded as dead darkness all around him.

Have mercy! Something in him screamed. Part of him that was wallowing in hopelessness since the day Grandpa has passed away.

Watching someone die like the way Grandpa did was like catching someone with his pants down. Stripped of all human dignity, and Danny didn’t think you are ever forgiven for that little sneak peak into reality.

He recalled the time when he saw the thing from the Grandpa's room for the first time, a night after Grandpa's died, a thing that walked and even made itself sound like Grandpa used to, approaching his room in the middle of the night, his back against me, and it starting to turn around.

And it was just as well that Danny got scared and ran back before he could face him. Deep within he knew he could never face Grandpa again, not even when it wasnt quite Grandpa that he had to face, but something else, something that only walked and talked like his Grandpa used to. 

From above he heard Jimmy calling out for him. He sounded worried. But Danny chose to stay and begged for darkness to feed him. He had come too far and there was no turning back.

His patience paid off as it seemed that the darkness finally listened to him. He began to see. The cellar was a small round sphere surrounded by layers of thickly infested dust and cobwebs. Against the wall on his left he saw shelves with portholes carved in them.

Most of them seemed empty, except couple of them as Danny poked around in the dim light.  

A square looking black object seemed to peek through the shelf’s opening.

Danny thought the little thing smiled at him.

He didn’t think when Lewis Carroll dreamed of rabbit holes of his own, he ever believed it could prove to be a doorway to things so demonic and destructive. He had thought rabbit holes to be fantastical apertures to other worlds, where life is full of color and magic. Warped in a strange but nice form of reality that make our most outrageously enlightening dreams seem like a discourse into dullness.

When Danny first laid eyes on the book, he forgot to breath. The blood underneath the skin slowly flushed out of his face, his eyes unable to focus on the black leatherbound book he found from the secret cellar in our backyard, stranded in the cobwebs and layers of dust.

Because for one brief moment, what Danny saw wasn’t some old book from the Grandpa’s past, but a thing born of darkness, of Danny’s worst nightmares and most secret dreads. A dark and slimy thing crouched in one of the portholes lined up against the wall of the cellar.

Who are you? Danny choked as the words he began to speak only succeeded to echo deep inside of him.

I am you. The dark-thing said and gave him a winning smile. Danny believed the things had eyes watching him. Weighing him down with a lots of love, the kind that gives you goosebumps and makes your blood run cold. 

I am you. The dark-thing repeated.   


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Wednesday, June 22, 2011

A World Without Air

Posted by A Great Liar

The world of dreams is a silent facade, a showy misrepresentation intended to conceal something unpleasant, something that we have all heard of, and strive for, and none achieve. If time is the big bad ball of ice rolling down the giant snow peak in clockwise motion, then the hope for happiness is the antithesis of it, an anti-clockwise act of desperation, of human struggle against the pitiless Void of creation that some call Nature, and others God.

The point is the absolute pointlessness of the whole thing. The point is not the snowball falling down the mountain, the point is why it is there in the first place.

And the point is, if there is a mysterious Machinist responsible for all the existence in the earth and beyond, a Machinist hidden to the common eye behind the veil of infinity, call it Nature or God, would it suffice as good enough explanation, a justification of sorts that everything that is there, or isnt there for that matter, is but a willfull act of Divine Providence, as it were.

But irrespective of all that, of whether we need, or could, justify anything that there is to be justified or not, the fact remains that we all live in a world without, rather than in a world within. We humans are mere entities of self denial, in a way that we forever refuse to acknowledge or be at peace with what we are, instead are in constant striving for what we arent, or dont have.

Every man or woman, no matter how mundane a soul he or she is, or how insufficient in imagination or ambition, seeks to do an act or follows a trail of otherworldiness, of that most beautiful of all that is unreal and fantastic, better known as the pursuit of happiness.
  
We are all fiddlers, freting their way into the unknown future, curious and babbling, lauging and crying, loving and hating, but always seeking to divulge from our own present form and circumstances. Whereas the ones in light seek the dark, and spent their lifetime doing it, like poor old saints trying to become clumsy sinners.

And the ones in the dark forever crave for the light, stumbling to light candles of hope, never realizing that it is not the darkness they fight against, but the very absence of light in their lives.
 
And all the while, the ball keeps rolling down the peak, and hence the pointlessness of it all.

Though we choose not to hear it coming, we choose instead to keep looking for a whiff of fresh air in a world devoid of the very substance that we call air.

We chose to do the impossible against the face of nothingness, because it is only human to do so.

We chose not to await the ball to finishing rolling, but to try and live in this world without air... 


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Monday, May 30, 2011

Spider

Posted by A Great Liar

25 years, a life span most of the mygalomorph spiders are expected to share, years spent in captivity of the predatory inclinations inherent in my kindred; catching the unexpected prey with a silken smile, O the irony of that; I have never been fond of non-predatory feeding, if there is such a term.

With fangs that inject venom to a mere wanderer in my parlor, a Sicilian death kiss most of them find a little too sticky, though they never complain, was a necessary predicament of my livelihood; feeding my little young ones, like a good mother that I am; always making a point of eating the eyes off my prey, for my little ones did not deserve to see the glimpse of darkness in the dead eyes; the accusing look that dwells there forever.

Death was a necessity, I once thought, and was proven wrong in the course of my lifetime; the long tedious hours spent in the hollow shade of wait, watch and wait, soundless and like a shadow that casts no suspicion to the unsuspecting prey; it became a pleasure.

I have stared down many desperate faces, in fear and hopelessly deprived, throbbing and pulsating from the sigh of the silent specter before them, some begging for mercy, others dimly hoping for it, none ever appreciating death; the value they put on their lives ……

‘Is it a bad thing’, one of my young one once asked me, having watched me taking the life out of one of my victims, ‘to make a living of their lives’; ‘No’, I told him with a smile, ‘once they are caught in the silken fate, it is all right to feed off them’; a curious babbling fledgling he was, soon he will learn the underlying principles of death and dying.

Soon I will too learn the fears that enveloped my prey, now having grown in both wisdom and age; a little too much of both is a luxury none can ever afford; waiting … waiting for a silent silken kiss.

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Thursday, May 26, 2011

God's Business

Posted by A Great Liar

Blood came spurring out of the wound as if finally relieved of its tensions, of all that tension of living in a state of war. The little green man fell haplessly on the ground; his blood curdled eyes staring at my lily white face - the last thing that lucky commie bastard would ever get to see in this world.

Down onto my haunches I searched the body and found nothing to my liking. Like most of his kind, he lived in the teepees and humped in the bushes - now just another slit-eyed creep with his throat gashed from my bayonet.

War is murder in wholesale, somebody once said, and I say the hell with him, because we are at war. It’s the natural order of things, and you never ever fuck with nature.

                                                ---------------------------

We move on, like a bunch of best trained sniffers a country at war could ever hope for, slashing and moving our way in, deep within the forest.

Look behind every jumble of bushes and you see a commie either breeding, or smokin' leaves, or doing both. Keep the trigger pressed for long and it doesn’t feel so cold any more. Doing God's good work on this earth makes you feel like one lucky bastard on this cursed land of tropical horrors, where sometimes the rain and mosquitoes seem more evil than the commies.

But we move on anyway, because that is the only way, because we ain't fighting this war to win; we keep on because the job needs to be finished off. We ain't no quitters, no siree, not we; it’s about finishing what you started and moving on to better things in life.

                                                ---------------------------

The cigar stays tucked in my mouth as I walk. ‘Watch out for the commie dirt’, someone shouted. It's the brains splattered on the ground, mixed with a lot of blood and stuff, mostly from the guts; the other green stuff that always shows up every time we fry a commie family of four or more with an M1 semi-automatic carbine.

That’s the one to look out for, its heathen blood and its fucking contagious once you catch it; because then you can’t get it off your skin. And aint that the proof, like someone said, proof that there aint no humans around in this island till we first landed.


Good Lord has shown us signs, the right ones, and only the weak and the faithless will ever turn away from it; and once they do, they are as good as the dead commies, 'coz we need to tell the world that it's God's business we are here to mind.

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Sunday, May 1, 2011

Born Down In the Dead Man’s Town

Posted by A Great Liar

We are all born down to the dead man’s town. Where each of those good old skunks was once a man of worth, till he learned to have an opinion.

Where they all kiss, smile, and die henceforth, some by chance, other by providence.

Where the wise men have a crack at Divinity and the mere average souls strive for immortality within their shaded abodes. Some worship the Seen, some Unseen, and the rest who could do with neither, followed none but their own shadows.

Some had Gods sculptured in the shoddy back lane shops, others strove for them in the towering erected domes.

And some dreamed of heaven above, while most strove to erect One of their own devices, heavens bricked with concrete and blood of their fellow beings.

But each man is born to burn in this funny little town, is what none of us realize, not in the nick of time anyway.  

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An Unkind Birth (An Excerpt)

Posted by A Great Liar

(The following is an excerpt from the currently undergoing novel, The Liar's Lobe)

(Narrative by Martha – Danny’s Mother)

Danny was disposed off the Heaven as if treated as a mistake.

It was as if the child would break into pieces any moment. He wasn’t too well done as a creation. Came off a month early, my Danny did.  
 

But Danny did make it home. After months of labor, which Good Lord has devised in His plans for women to bear, he made it soundly. Unlike many newborns I have seen, Danny didn’t seem to have enough tears to shed. It’s as if providence do away with him in some urgency, disgusted or repelled by what it has got at its disposal.

The little child Danny was hardly complete when he was first unhooked of the meaty strings. Hardly breathin’. Looking starved, and not much stirring, puffing noiseless in the well lit room surrounded by faces indecisive of whether to rejoice or be alarmed.


I am just a mother. Now bearing a child that I could never save, knew the moment I lay eyes on him. He demanded too much work than a woman of mortal capacity could muster. Faith’s a thing plenty, but it ain’t enough to save everybody.


My suspicions were confirmed when, days later, baby Danny first opened his eyes, his dark black eyes just like his father’s and the busy brows. Those were beautiful eyes and what lurked beneath the early years of innocence was sea of lies waiting for the right moment to gush out. 


Much as I loved him back then, and did for the rest of my life, for I never stopped loving him, even when the moments when I looked at him with nothing but spite and wish nothing more than to ram the dagger down his baby chest and let him take it down to his young grave, I never stopped loving him.


But the dagger moments were too many and the love at times was forgotten in the moments of intense hatred and enmity in the air, though it continued to exist.  


But there were no surprise, because even as a young baby, my Danny had a look of a liar in his eyes. If eyes are windows to the souls as some wise mouth cracks it out to be, than my baby had a soul prone to deceit, fallen already at the time of its awakening, fallen to the touch of the devil.


I had no chance. What happened probably wasn’t fair, but who am I to complain. All I can say is that Good Lord in the sky has created angels, demons, and men, and everything in between that walks upon two or four legs in this world.


And then He goes on to do the inexplicable; He creates Danny, my boy. 

8 comments:

Saturday, April 30, 2011

The Liar's Lobe (An excerpt)

Posted by A Great Liar


The first time Danny went to the liar’s lobe was when he was five. That’s when he had his first real visit to that place, standing at the edge of the pond with the cool heavenly breeze against his cheek. Peering down against the surface of the pond, both amazed and a bit scared, because he has never seen anything like that before ever in his life.
But above all, he was relieved to be here. He had started to feel strangled, the despair rising inside of him, while watching his parents have another fight on the dinner table, all that yelling and shouting. With mother cursing Dad, calling him names, especially the ones that always started with God, God this or God that. Though young as he was, Danny was already getting to grasp the scope to which this God thing could be used by adults in their daily life. He could understand that God was a major part of an adult’s vocabulary in their everyday life, and Danny was sure that it wasn’t a mere coincidence that it would always come out especially when people were angry or sad or in some kind of trouble.
Was it because everybody who ever went there was in some kind of a trouble. Danny wondered. In Danny’s brief experience of this world, most people were always in some kind of trouble or another. At least Father Callahan always maintained that they were. He always reminded him of his mother whenever Danny saw him talking in the church. Shouting, cursing in sheer excitement, speaking of things, bad things that are coming your way.
But of course, Father Callahan never offered the solution to the dark future awaiting mankind, and that was just as well. Because it’s been more than a year since Danny first heard him speak, and nothing even remotely that bad had fallen to either his parents or to anyone else in the town.
One year is a helluva time, Danny was old enough to understand.
But apparently mother didn’t understand. She sat in one of the long line of benches, nodding her head vigorously while the tall dark figure of Father Callahan spoke of great mysteries about to be unraveled. Her constant agreement to the ramblings of that crazy old man had what irked Danny the most. Wasting her life in a self conceived entrapment, a web of fear around her woven on grounds that were most absurd if you come to think of it real hard.
And Danny was worried.
One night, on a dinner table, he couldn’t resist and eventually had to bring it to her.
Danny asked her if she knew that how Father Callahan was crazy. The question, coming out of her only son who has not even reached ten yet, startled her.
From across the table, she gave Danny a curious look and asked. “Now why would you say something like that, Danny”.
Danny could sense her eyes piercing into him; they were full of surprise and something else. Something that Danny at first took as curiosity, but figured that it was something different, something a lot livelier, and almost malign.
It was alarm. That’s what remained veiled beyond her deep gray eyes, a sense of alarm that had suddenly become alive by the most unexpected question brought to her disposal by her son. To Danny, it didn’t look pleasant.
And Danny knew that mother will not believe him, having just experienced that magical moment of understanding, instantaneous and so clear, crystal clear. Just as that he knew everything there was to come. Darkness. All that darkness inside of mother now waiting to come out, now that it has found its prey, lurking in wait for an unbeliever to pounce at, to show him the way of the God.
The way of Father Callahan.
Now was that where the darkness was coming from, all that darkness that Father Callahan spoke of. It was from the inside of his mother. No wonder she believed him as well as she did.
He spoke. “It’s just those things he speaks, the kind of stuff he talks about”.
Mother persisted, as Danny had anticipated. “What do you mean by stuff, son. Father Callahan speaks the word of our Good Lord and the Bible. It’s called preachin’, not speaking, boy”.
“It’s all so disturbing, don’t you think. The kind of stuff he sa… preaches that is”.
Mother replied, her voice already growing sterner. “But that stuff, that stuff is from the Bible, Danny. What is it about it that you find so disturbing”?
Danny said. “It’s the things that he speaks of, things about death and destruction. The kind of things that are going to happen in the future, mom. He keeps saying them and they keep not happenin’.”
“But they will happen, son.” Mother replied. “One day, these things will happen, as Good Lord has promised us. Father Callahan only speaks of our Lord’s promise to us. It’s necessary that we shall be prepared.”
Danny asked. “How do you prepare against the mighty angels blowing the whole planet to hell, with massive earth quakes, storms and famines.”
Mother said. “By believing in them, son. And in Jesus our savior. It’s called having faith. You shall have faith, son, and you shall be saved.”
The idea of being saved by something as paltry as faith seemed a tricky proposition to Danny, it all seemed a little too easy, easy to believe that believing alone will save you. Something was missing, though he didn’t say so. Mother, like God, had limits, and he dare not test her tolerance.
Instead, he said something a lot worse. “But why would Good Lord promise us death and destruction if He is as good as you believe Him to be.”
Mother exclaimed. “Shut your dirty little mouth, Danny. Don’t speak of these things in that manner if you don’t understand what’s going on. You don’t understand nothin’. It’s the Devil whispering all that filth inside of you, and that’s what’s comin’ out of your little pie hole now, nothing but Devil’s filth.”
And that was the end of that, and later that night, father visited him in his room and told him that he was too young to understand. He must not mind too much what mother had said, because she was a fine woman, if only a little too much in love with our Good Lord.
“She loves the word of God more than anyone I have ever seen, that woman”. His father exclaimed. “And what she does is in the best interest of us all, which also includes you. Because she loves you, loves us, and would go to any length to save us, son. You ought to respect her and bear no ill will towards her, because she only means well. And because you are too young to know what’s going on, son.” 
Danny simply nodded his head and said nothing to his father. Though deep inside, he knew what was exactly going on. His parents perpetually afraid of the great darkness about to come, driving them on the edge of madness that was both quiet and destructive, eating them from the inside. Holding onto thin air for crutches that wouldn’t save them, because there was nothing left to save. How do you save someone who is as willfully mad as his parents, especially his mother.
That night he didn’t go to sleep, he stayed up late and believed, till he entered the place he cherished for many years to come, deep within the liar’s lobe.

__________________

Inside the liar’s lobe, it was a middle of the night, and the crimson moon shone in all its glory, its orange flare setting all things aglow in Danny’s surrounding, keeping the darkness of the night at bay.
It was a powerful vision, and Danny was awestruck by it. Looking back, he could see the town he had left behind, quietly settling down as night grew deeper, with people slowing disappearing off the street, off to their homes looking for seclusion from the harrows of the night. The darkness made them uncomfortable, brought out unnamable array of emotions the simple folks of Derry could only secretly acknowledge, but failed to face up to, or talk about openly. They merely went on to do what every normal man does when faced up with something he did not understand, or see, is to scurry into their hide outs, looking for light and for familiar faces of their wives and children. A simple remedy that has always worked for centuries after centuries. Helping their minds to wander, to forget whatever that lay in the dark for them, the things that came down onto the very streets the people inhabited, intruding and intervening in their comfort zones with their harsh ghostly presence.
Danny could see it all as a blur, as if through a thick glassy wall, with thin layer of water streaming down from the top. It looked magical though Danny was sure it wasn’t real. The barrier was merely his mind’s interpretation of whatever it was that separated the unseen dimensions in this world.
Danny has always believed in the worlds within worlds, just he believed in the Liar’s Lobe; the brain within a brain. And he has made a major leap, a significant slip into the other world that would change everything for him in the days to come.
But from the day he first entered the liar’s lobe, he felt right at home. Probably because he had always dreamed of places like that, places where darkness never made it home, not even as a mere rumor, where all was light, and even in midnight, there was nothing to be afraid of.
Danny saw the pool and the deep forest across it, he bent low to touch the grass, which seemed to grow curiously thin and long, and found they were soft to the touch, like velvet. It didn’t even look like the grass Danny had grown accustomed to, a sea of blazing blue narrow heads stirring in the pleasant wind, in unison almost.    
The grass looked blue, deep thick mesh of blue that shone beautiful against the orange flare of the moon reflecting off them. And the pool, the water, looked like a painted veil set horizontally across the barren patch, as the pond’s surface looked like a colorless crust of ice that was neither frozen nor melted, enamored with tiny dots that looked like tiny pebbles dancing on top of it. The pebbles looked white and remained floating above the surface, thousand tiny dabs shining like crystal dots.
Danny crouched down, onto his haunches, his knees feeling the cold touch of the grass against his skin, beneath the stripped pajamas he wore. He stared down at the pool’s surface and saw nothing but colorless sheen of the surface meeting his glare, blankly, and with one outstretched hand, he dipped his forefinger in the surface, feeling nervous but compelled, penetrating the magnificent surface of the carpeted visual and felt the thickness of the surface slowly enveloping his finger. He continued to bring his hand downward till the whole of his hand up to the wrist disappeared inside the pool and felt the strange sensation against his skin, almost ticklish. The water had a thick, jellylike feel about it, like a well garnered shake.
He fetched his hand back, and realized it wasn’t wet. Not a sprinkle of water like fluid on it.
It was as if the pool wasn’t even real.
But, Danny decided, real or not, it worked.
It worked against the stuff of mortals that Danny had enough of. The stuff of mother and her blind pursuits. What did she know? What did she care about but an angry old man clad in cassock squinting on the altar, with an eye sight that wasn’t improving with each day. Old as he was, Danny was sure that man couldn’t tell a boulder from a rock, let alone heaven and hell.
Yes, where was the sense in that. Danny wondered.

And where was Father in all that. He wondered. A hard working man who had sold his soul to the evil of manly labors, yet another anonymous soul cursed with an occupation of feeding his family, doing something that God alone was responsible for doing. If there was a grain of truth in the ramblings of his mother. Danny could recognize the streak of hypocrisy beneath the facade.  
For people like his father always ended up having the worst of everything, even in their own homes, where there is a corner in each house reserved for men like him, and it’s a lonely one. Danny called it the waiting place for working men, little factory men like his father, spent in solitude, surrounded by shadows they called family.  A waiting place till they are ready to be passed on.
Like most men of his kind who made a living working in factories, his father was too busy licking his own wounds. And as far as Danny could foresee, nothing would change that in the days to come. Mother was a succubus he had fallen in love with. And he would probably never stop holding on to her, not in this lifetime anyway. In a way, she was his Father Callahan, the one he could hold on to and believe.
Leaving Danny all alone in this fight.  

1 comments:

Thursday, April 28, 2011

In Close Range

Posted by A Great Liar

(The following is an excerpt from the currently undergoing novel, The Liar's Lobe)

1

The thing about coming back to your hometown years after you left it behind is that they are never quite the same. Not that a lot can change in ten years, not physically anyway. The only change, if any, takes place between your ears; in a solitary confinement inside your brain reserved only for memories that are meant to be locked away.

And with time, something always goes wrong there, because as you finally face up to everything that you once owned in the past long gone, none of it seem quite the way you had it remembered, in all those years you had been away.

You think you had it all figured out, but you don't; because there is a place in each of us’ brain that is ruled solely by deceit.



2

Looking at the body in the Town’s morgue, I realized how small my brother Danny looked, as if the whole of him had shrank, may be from the impact of the bullet, I am not quite sure. Because there is a lot about being shot at close range that I knew nothing about or wished to. And if I ever changed my mind, I knew there was only one way to find out; Danny’s way.

His head was heavily bandaged, strapped in white all around the temples, because the bullet had travelled its way across one temple to another, till it finally hit the part of the basement wall covered with an elaborate looking Monroe poster, splattering it with blood and everything else that decides to come out when you shoot yourself in the head in such close range, close enough to feel the muzzle against the side of your head.

Looking down on to the face, with hot tears streaming down that I had no control over, I tried to remind myself that the dead looking fella strapped in sheets didn’t look like my brother at all.

But I cried anyway, knowing that it wouldn’t help, knowing that the problem wasn’t the DNA, but my memory of it.

8 comments:

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Tears of a Serpent

Posted by A Great Liar

Tears are words that heart can’t express. It is the strangest form of grief, the one that makes you cry, a strange kind of sorrow, which if you closely observe, will make you realize the truth of it, that you are merely shedding tears for someone who has been your utmost delight.

Grief can have the best of even the worst amongst us, the saint and the angel amongst us, the deer and the serpent amongst us.

You will learn to hate it, you will learn to love it, to cherish it, rage against them running down your cheeks. But you shall in each case endure them. Like you learn to endure everything that is sacred inside of us, no matter how dark the soul of man, there is something that resembles like light even in our lowliest moment that we tend to hold on to from time to time. At times, it serves as our defense mechanism in the fight against the teasing gnawing conscience.

Tears, likewise, are sacred. They are not the tool of the weak amongst us, but of a power the like of which most of us stay unacquainted with. And they speak of a love which would otherwise remain inexpressible and beyond words. And they say so much more while sparing us the frivolities of tongue.

They say that only men who are good and worthwhile have it in them the nobility to cry. And I say to them, what of the ones who had lived in the shelter of darkness most of their lives, what of the villain who has the heart to shed tears. A grief to express.

And what of the serpent we all fear and dread, the dark specter that none shall embrace. What of his loneliness and his tears.

Don’t we all look at him and say, “Here goes a bad man, here goes a man without morals or worth.”

Have not most of us facade keepers, the one who divine about faith and moralities over lavish dinner tables, have you all not in one time or another enjoyed the fruits of the dark, not served in the lair of the serpent for your own worldly gains?

Or have you no sense of gratitude. That you may now pause in your frivolities only to mock what once served in your best interest. Provided you that pillow of comfort on which you now lay your head and dream of righteousness.

It is a pity that men, often blinded by faith, may often see the worse amongst others, and not the best. May only see the serpent inside the serpent and not the tears that now forever draw him nearer to goodness than he could ever imagine.

A lot nearer than most of you could ever have been.

Because if it is noble to love a good man for his nobility, isn't it nobler to love a dark one for his fallibilities, for his torments of mind and soul. And if for nothing else, for that small world within him, a mere idea, or a world of fantasy he often escapes into and does much good; where none of his own evil lurks to haunt him, and no marks of the beast upon his reflection.  

Where, for however unreal and briefest the moments, he stays a good man…

11 comments:

Thursday, March 24, 2011

To Love A Lie

Posted by A Great Liar

World is a facade, bounded by dyed rags around a squaw, dyed rags around each one of us, some with love, some with faith and rest with pure material pursuits.

Each of us living in a lie we would rather not give up, not because we have learned to love a lie, but because we believe there is not an iota of truth to be had around us. Because the world we live in and the world we have woven for ourselves is conceived of a lie, a lie of a wife to her husband that endures a shallow marriage, a lie of a mother to her child that endures one's upbringing, a lie of a father to the son, that endures his manly pride, the lie of a preacher to the herd of faithful, to endure a living based on the promises of the supernatural.

Or lie of a drunkard, or a rich man's, each boasting of a possession he could never truly own, neither a drunkard his wine nor a rich man his treasures.


Hence, what do we truly own in this world. What is it that is real and yet beyond ‘reachable’. That had made us accustomed to living with a lie. What are those obligations, hidden from our sight, that doesn’t allow a wife to give up on a shallow marriage, or a mother to give up on her worthless child, or a father to relieve himself from the duties of a boastful son, or never allows the faithful herd to pull away from the prospects of supernatural?

55 comments:

Sunday, March 20, 2011

To All Things Versatile

Posted by A Great Liar

This post is about receiving the Versatile Blogger Award, and as per the rules, offering special thanks to the one who honored you with the award, passing the award to the bloggers you hold in high esteem, (or the ones you have the hots for!), and lastly, sharing seven things about yourself with utmost honesty.

So first thing first.

Dear AL, thank you so much for the award, and for being an avid reader, simply can’t express in words how much it meant to me.

Mind you guys, AL writes at Let Me Whine! (http://al-whodoesntntgiveashit.blogspot.com/), and reading her stuff will shake all the traditionalist bones in your body, if you have any that is. Do pay her a visit.

Now moving on.

And now here are the bloggers with awards, in no particular order mind you.

34 comments:

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Darwin Land Dropouts

Posted by A Great Liar

“Have you ever wondered what it is like to fall in love with someone?” I asked her. “I mean really and truly fall in love. Not like one of those hormonal seizures called crush or something”.

“Yes.” She replied. “Though I have a serious objection to that term you used.”

“But why?” I asked. “It’s only fair to regard it in this vein. Crushes aren’t real, I mean they are so fake that they are not even fake. It’s as if they are simply not there. Just a manifestation of one’s desire to sleep with someone one physically admires. Leaves no room for any strings attached, and the only nuisance you can think of is the blood you see on your hands accusing you in the morning light to come. But of course, one can wash it all off. I mean, with a bit of effort, one can pretty much wash off just about anything from one’s life these days.”

“Well, Lev.” She said, a touch irritated. “That has always been one of your problems, you never thought of people as people, you merely think of a primitive human model and turn it into an abstraction by stripping him or her of all human emotions.”

26 comments:

Saturday, March 12, 2011

What’s In A Name...

Posted by A Great Liar

When you stand in front of a mirror and begun instead to see the faces you once left behind, you realize that the worst has started to happen.

People you once left behind now resurging from that deep dark hole of discarded memory bag, to remind you of the mistakes you made.

And memories, unlike even the most unpleasant things in life, have no balancing act, there is a certain purity of form about them that is rather nonchalant, lacks in compassion, and knows no forgiveness.

In short, a memory is past’s way of returning the compliment.

Because we all go through an age when we value not a person in person but instead value things that are transitory and evaporate with age; like beauty, always enjoyed in present and treated with aversion in retrospect. Perhaps it is there to remind us of Nature’s dry humouredness towards its earthlings.

36 comments:

Thursday, March 10, 2011

My Kingdom for a Catch!

Posted by A Great Liar

I watched her rolling the cigarette on the table in front, sneezing and puffy eyed, hoping that she would have it her way and go in the slumber she so badly needed, and leave me with the disappointments of the evening all by myself. 

Her face like a once lovely bouquet now gone dry by the prolonged intimations with the stuffed cigarette. But after having witnessed what she just did, how could I blame her for resorting to such toxic measures.

Because tonight the tranquility of any cricket lover lay in that magic cigarette. Somebody needed to put the proverbial humpty dumpty back together again, and it possibly couldn’t be one of those eleven green men in the field, each of whom now looked older beyond their years.

But I decided to interrupt her anyway. “Ammo. That stuff will do no good.”

She looked up as if from a dream. “No?”

“No.” I replied. “Definitely not. And besides it is just a cricket match.”

“Perhaps so.” She said. Paused. “But I am having it anyway.”

22 comments:

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Best of All Possible Worlds

Posted by A Great Liar

 “All that mendacity!” I exclaimed. “I am so sick and tired of it. Just about everywhere you go in this god forsaken town, two things you will always encounter; people and women.”

“People and women!” She asked. “What’s the difference?”

“Well, as people they represent a form of nuisance minus the sex appeal, so they can always be avoided without any significant degree of self application. But as women, hmmmm, you might forgive most of them for their human frivolities simply because they are beautiful.” Paused. “Well, to come to think of it, you might forgive just about anyone willing to share a night or two with you.”

“A night or two you say! Since when were you a one night stander, Lev?” She looked at me, amused. “I always took you for a dreamy type, a little shy boy with a streak for poetry and heartbreaks. If I count down the number of women you almost netted, and I do mean almost, you made quiet a career out of heartbreaks.”

“That’s so nice of you to say.” I winced. “Sometimes I just wish I could shoot myself.”

28 comments:

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

In Belphegor, We Trust

Posted by A Great Liar

Belphegor
There she was, barging in the room without a warning just as her moral senses permitted her to, her morbid visage, in one fell swoop, is revealed before my eyes, containing not an element of surprise. The smoke queen I am often privileged to witness post midnight hours, who couldn’t tell the difference between a Turkish hunk and a Mexican grizzly, not that there is much to speak of.

She was in just as I was lighting the candles, the last of the rituals before the ceremony could be started. It was my first dabble with the initiations of the dark sides, and I feared she was there just in the nick of time to ruin it.

She saw me dressed in a black robe, the dark candles on the altar in front, and an elaborate looking Pentagram drawn on the floor right in the middle of the room.

She asked. "Lev, what the hell you think you are doing?”

42 comments:

Sunday, February 13, 2011

For the Love of a Swan

Posted by A Great Liar

Standing against the window, I stared far into the distance unknown, dark clouds and beyond, watching the demons of the night smiling at me.

I lost the track of time till, with my back against the door, I heard her barging in the room.

“Don’t you ever knock!” I said, visibly irritated, turning around to face her.

She was all perked up and shining as a well done corpse. Wearing a white blouse with long sleeves and black pants so tapered they made her legs look like sheathed swords, with narrow face and hollow cheeks, her black hairs with dashes of white hung around her face in a lank cowl, and lips painted so brightly red she seemed to be bleeding from the mouth. I also couldn’t help but notice the half finished cigarette sticking between the fingers of her left hand. Or call it weed-candy.

She was apparently off to a date; some slime ball fella with thin shaky legs, sunken cheeks and hippie haircut dipped in olive oil, and cocaine written all over him was the best possible thing I could imagine for her.

22 comments:

Thursday, February 10, 2011

A Day in the Life of a Bee

Posted by A Great Liar

“Well, you just made my day.” I studied the sketch she has drawn and sighed. For all she was worth as an artist, the guy inside the canvas simply didn’t look like me.

“Something wrong?” She frowned.

“No.” I replied. “Nothing. It’s just that I could never relate much to sketches and drawings. Don’t have an eye for an art I suppose.”

Silence followed.

I continued. “By the way, something really stinks at my office these days.”

She looked towards me. “What? Is it some girl?”

“Oh no.” I replied. “I steer clear of all things feminine in the office; I mean we have enough of Piccolos playing Dudley-do-right back there, as it were. No, it ain’t that. It’s the new timing.”

24 comments:

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Sex, Hormones and the God of Proximity

Posted by A Great Liar


With the perfectionism of a junkie she fixed herself a cigarette. Her thin bony fingers worked her way around on the table in front, rolling out the cigarette, and all. And soon the air in the room grew dense, with dark whirls of smoke rising slowly.

She coughed after the first couple of puffs, and asked. “You want a bite, Lev”.

“Oh, no thanks.” I replied. “You know I am done with all that.”

She nodded. As the stuff inside the cigarette hit her, she grew more talkative. And next thing I know, she was talking about marriage.

“You believe in getting married.” She asked.

“Well. Yea, kind off.”

“Well.” She chuckled. “You don’t sound too believable.”

Do you? I wanted to ask but didn’t. She was in one of her post-weed sessions and her responses couldn’t be transparent enough.

25 comments:

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Just Fuggedaboutit

Posted by A Great Liar


Here is the thing; liberals, democrats, moderates, conservatives, aren’t they all the same? Doing the same old act, promoting an agenda, be it that of rightist or the leftist. One unable to bear the stench of another or vice versa.

Because here I am walking inside a slushy bookstore on phase V, and Voila! all heads roll as the Devil trots in.

I saw a middle aged mother wrapping her (queen-sized) arms around her little tyke, who seemed wide eyed and hopelessly scared, against her breast, and whispering. Here cometh the dark man, sonny, you better behave to your mama now.

And the rest of them turning around, looking in unison, their eyes probing anxiously. And I especially noted that narrow hipped, bandana wearing, clad in tight tops chic now able to look right through his boyfriend as her eyes never strayed off me. As if I would explode any second.

And for a moment, I wish I had. If you catch the drift.

17 comments:

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Of Nukes and Girlfriends

Posted by A Great Liar


It’s been six years since I last met her. And the question was a long time coming.

‘Where have you been, Lev?’ She asked, her eyes never leaving me.

Where else? I wondered. But drunk in mindless abstinence and faithless despair.

I stammered back. ‘Well, I got kinda religious, and grew a beard. My priorities changed. You know, one of those things.’

‘Overnight?’ She asked. ‘I find it hard to believe. You were such a party animal, hon.’

‘Well, yea’. I replied. ‘Kind of. I wanted to blast all the liberals to hell, or tie a nuke up my ass and jump from the Empire State Building.’ Paused. ‘Like I said, my priorities changed.’

22 comments:

Friday, January 28, 2011

A Vampire Beyond The Waistline

Posted by A Great Liar

Did the sexual prowess of a vampire ever exceeded beyond the waistline, not till the world was swept away by the bubonic plague (of literary essence) by the name of twilight. Not till Robert Pattison and Kristen Stewart began to cuddle in the scorching sunlight or under the oak trees tirelessly sequel after sequel. 

“Who would want to date a girl who reads twilight?” A friend of mine would often exclaim over lunch, petrified by the injustice done to the vampire creed by Lady Meyers. “I wouldn’t”.

Inevitably that resolution of his narrowed his options down to a considerably degree, since if there is anything a girl lives to achieve in her life, that is to read twilight. And if not all, then just about all of them would eventually end up doing it.

10 comments:

Sunday, January 23, 2011

A World Without

Posted by A Great Liar


Imagine discovering a world without an end, or a meaning; inconsistent in its glory, changing and emulating both in essence and visage.

That precious secret … pressed firmly against the palm of your hand, your eyes wide with excitement and anticipation. Your whole being concentrated to keep the secret locked within your grasp, with every sinew of your existence focused to keep the treasure buried within your cupped hands.

Keeping the proverbial butterfly within. 

The very question of your existence lingering, imprisoned in that one moment of covetousness. Like an exercise in infinity posed by the dreaded question of what would happen if the butterfly ever managed to get away. 

Imagine that strangest of all world being lost once and for all, never to be had again.

Imagine your poverty.

[Do leave a comment, it matters...] 

4 comments: