Shah Allah Ditta
The roots of the banyan tree cascade over the ledge, twisting ropes that sway in the breeze and obscure the caves beyond.
The heavy cotton shirt already clings to my back, jeans sticking to my legs in March. As uncomfortable as the stares. My uncovered blonde hair is a beacon, drawing eyes as I pass, and I duck into the cavern.
A single sign tells the truth of this place. The edges withered and cracking, italic writing of the raj almost faded to obscurity. Where Alexander the Great met the King of Taxila.
Above, the banyan canopy rustles, tendrils of long-dead memories reaching out. The march through the pass, fear of invasion running before the endless columns of soldiers. The trumpet of elephants high in the hills, earth rumbling beneath their heavy feet. …
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He was dead—that much was certain.
But, until the moment I stood over his coffin, the hushed murmuring of the mourners behind me, a part of me hadn’t believed it was possible. But there he was, he was dead.
His face looked serene; I had never seen the features so relaxed, so even; he looked as though he had only ever had calm, placid thoughts about flowers or puppies or babies. As though he had never had that sneer, eyes hardened by the anger that flowed out of him like an uncontrollable hurricane.
No, he was dead. There would never be another moment when those merciless eyes would be turned towards me, the eyes that told me that there was no help for me, that the anger was going to be unleashed, that destructive force, because of which, I hadn’t seen or spoken to the man for twenty years.…
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The rain is merciless, has been all day. Beside the wall, the earth has become a quagmire that pulls at Christy’s navvy boots with every step he takes, trying to suck him into the bog. And a thousand years from now, they’ll be burning him in the manor fireplace along with the rest of the turf, reflects Christy. But he doesn’t earn a hapenny for sitting by the fire so the rain lashes him to the bone as he chips, chips, chips, shaping stones for his lordship’s fine demesne wall.
His mood is black as the day. His eldest daughter has been acting out, bringing grief to her mother, threatening to run off down to Dublin, the city. And now, to top it all, the news on the radio when he was having his tea: The King is dead.…
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About twenty-five years after the deaths of Bonnie and Clyde on a country road in Bienville Parish, Louisiana, two boys were playing gangsters in their getaway car, a broken-down ‘55 Ford Crown Vic in the driveway at 266 North Campus Avenue in the City of Upland, County of San Bernardino, State of California. Every law enforcement group of those government entities was in pursuit, including perhaps the FBI.
The fugitives were speeding along at ninety miles per hour, bouncing in their seats along a bumpy country road, leaning with the treacherous curves. Several cop cars and state troopers were closing in, bullets piercing the heavy-gauge steel of the sedan. The driver revved the old V-8 in his throat, downshifting through the guttural gears on the steering-column shift (though his feet hardly touched the pedals) to take the curves and shredding rubber around high nasal squeals.…
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Gary stepped into the bathroom and sighed. He’d been wanting to disconnect the app-deck from the bathroom mirror and delete the app, but the deck had cost him $50, not to mention $100 for the required one-year subscription. The ad popped up one evening while he was perusing the profiles on Soul Mates. Need a personal coach who will help cultivate your perfect look and help you present your best self to potential partners? With Mirror Mirror, you are just one click away from finding your ideal mate in days!
The novelty of the app and speaker for his car had worn off quickly.
Gary flipped the switch, galvanizing the insectile buzz of florescence which flooded the bathroom. He stopped and looked at his reflection from the doorway.…
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WANTING
Wanting is problematic. Maybe. Of course we all want things. I want a lot of things. But sometimes I wonder if I actually want what I want, or if the wanting is covering up something else, some kind of desire. Which I know is also wanting. Or maybe a fear, or an anxiety. If I got the thing I think I want, I might not want it at all. Or maybe I would just want something else. And maybe I am doing the grass is greener thing.
My friend just told me a funny story about her husband driving her crazy by flailing around in his sleep, and making horrible snorty snoring noises, and how she wanted to fling him out the window, or maybe smother him with a pillow, and how amazing it feels to sleep on her own.…
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When I told you how I’d
love to take a picture of you—
I was talking about you as
you were then, in motion,
eyes alight,
hair framed in a halo
of the dying sunlight,
looking, looking, looking—
at something far away,
something through the glass
and the engines, the asphalt
and the crawling things—
something far from
this wretched place,
something far from me.
I wished to capture you as
you were then, in a moment that
we would never return to.
But the memory, I suppose,
is permanent enough.
A slow-developed shot,
already murky,
like vintage film.
Someone else will have you
that way again, and it won’t be me—
But at least I can hold on to this.
I will have you
in my mind, if nowhere else,
just as you were and
will never be again.…
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