December 26, 2010

Short Story 15

"He hurts me more than anything else. Every failure is related to him. Every success is a proof to what he's missing out. He's too embroiled in my everyday." she sobbed and wrote.

Her tears touched the paper and turned crimson. The book ripped open. A gash was formed, and as if from a hidden mouth the painful wail of a woman was heard.

The book burst into a million droplets of blood. They splattered the wall. They splashed on the lone hurricane lamp that was flickering beside the table. The fire turned red.

December 12, 2010

On Writing

Writing is my self-defence. It is my way of making peace with myself. Somehow, when you see words shaping your thoughts and insecurities, everything seems lighter.

I don't write for anyone. I know a few people read me. But I don't write for them either. I write to send a fragment of me into the cosmos. To get rid of that excess baggage of thoughts or emotions that can't seem to be held anymore in my pea-sized brain.

I'm glad I can write to vent things out.

© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall