Stick it together, little soldier

“Stick it together, little soldier” echoed through the crowd
dressed in all whites, polished boots and slick hair
“stick it together, little soldier” echoed through the chaos in his chest
marching in a symmetry similar to a beetle’s breath:
one two three, one two three, one two, one two three
“stick it together, little soldier” buzzed in his reddened ears

one to the left, second to the right,
one more to the back of his knees
each lash reminded him of the smell of Jasmine oil,
hot water and delicate hands
“stick it together, little soldier”
‘grrrrr’, he grunted for the first time
thud!
The floor felt soft and cushioned like her lap
the edge of an abandoned nail pierced through
his belly fat
“stick it together, little soldier”

the blood drained into his mouth,
involuntarily,
he licked it clean from behind his incisors, and smiled
“I’m done, I’m done” he screamed, standing up
but his ankles felt like caramelised sugar: burnt, burning, buoyant
thud!
He fell once more, hitting his tiny head against the wooden table
“stick it together, little soldier” his mother barged in
“stick it together!” she lifted him with her delicate hands, wailed
and hailed him meritorious

cleansed of his wounds,
she fed him warm rice and curry
‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’
he scribbled on the shabbily set wooden table,
and smiled.

“Stick it together, little soldier” she lullabied into his reddened ears.

Typeface tales

Red Fish: I’m a tiny child from a tiny village in Madhya Pradesh; my village is typically colorful and playful. My house, though, is blue. Because my dad likes blue.
He also likes corn. He’s taught me how to harvest corn.

You see all these corn cobs beneath my feet, well, I helped my dad with growing them, you know. They’re mine!

And yes, this swing here, this is where my five siblings and I sleep. This is our place.

Little days:
I’ve not known what ‘childhood’ is, and that’s okay.
I get to take care of my little sister here so I won’t crib.

But whenever I look at those kids in their chaddis playing in the sand outside, something in me slides way beneath its position. I feel a weird tingling sensation inside, as if I am being coaxed by the universe to abandon my responsibilities and take up that identity.

I, obviously, can’t.
Won’t.
I’m happy being with my sister, feeding her, changing her clothes, and standing here at the window- looking at the lovely world out there. I’m happy where I am.

Uptown Elegance:
These fairy lights, flickering as if lit by a fire as cold as my heart, are all I have to call my own.
They’re my rooftop, my blanket, my floor; they’re the only support system I have.
I look at them- sleepy eyed- most midnights, and wish upon them for a love so strong, it’ll flip this fire upside down.
Fill my lungs with the giddy passion I had as a teenager, empty my head of logic, overwhelm my thoughts, bleed me to death.
These fairly lights, with a name so comforting, remind me of my fairy godmother; my mom always told me while she was in the hospital, that she would turn into my fairy god mother and stay with me till my end.

Alas, I grew up.

But these fairy lights- with their elegance and sass- are the only reminder of any love I’ve ever had.

Stoney Billy: 
Hey Ya’ll, I almost read this as Stoned Billy; hi my name is Billy. But I’m not as stoned right now as I usually am.
Oh the radio? well the radio is my heart you see. Everytime I fall in love, my heart skips a beat and the frequency changes. Yeah I know I’m a shitty artist but god, I have to emote!
I don’t know about you guys but I can’t live without a little drama.

Oh, and I’m old school too; so if you ever want to tell me anything important, just make a mixtape or a radio recording of it, and I’ll share my weed with you.

Folktale:
Once upon a time, there was a village near Kanhan- oh Kanhan is where that tiny boy is from!
This village was known for ghosts and oddly, for the purest air in India; they said that the oxygen content in that village was so high, people often described it as ‘paradise’.
Sadly, nobody lives there anymore.
The village’s residents have all died, lying unburied, turning into ghosts each day.

Except for a broken board near the narrow gauge track, nothing suggests of this village’s existence.

My maid tells me this is just a folktale, but for a person who loves scary movies, I wouldn’t want to agree with her.

Home made apple:
Best friend: Look up look up! Isn’t this a wonderful feeling? I love looking up, at trees. At such a blue sky. It’s so soothing: just the head tilting, the blood rushing abnormally.
I: yeah, I feel like I’m on a beach, even though this is a public garden.
Best friend: Let’s go to a fucking beach then!
I: Let’ go!

Best friend: so yeah, before that, which movie do you want to watch right now?! And what do you want to eat? I’m really hungry!

Znikomit: This is our hideout. Our getaway.
This is ours.
No, this is of no religious importance to us.
She’s a Hindu and I’m agnostic.

We’ve sat on its stairs, at 3:00 in the noon, and discussed the most dramatic life events.

We almost got raped the first time we visited this place, but obviously, she has a little too much faith in humanity; she just won’t agree on the intentions of the man who led us into the tiny room on top of the church.
Who leads you in and closes the door behind you huh?
We almost got raped, believe me.

The steps to the room were dwindling, circling the huge bell hanging at the centre.
The only other company we had, was of the pigeons and our hysterical breath.

This is out hideout. Our getaway. This is where most of it began.

Note: All the utilized typefaces have been downloaded from this brilliant site called ‘101 free fonts’. All pictures are (sadly) mine; Stories, mine.
Each photo, typeface and story/anecdote has been integrated in a way that- together- they convey a sense of wholeness to you- developing each story into a character if its own. 

This is just an experiment. More to be created soon.

Just for 999/-

Let me tell you a secret, she whispered into his ears:

When you’re too young to understand logic, they’ll tell you you’re made of magic.
They’ll tell you that you were born as a curse, or a blessing; they’ll want you to believe that you were indeed sent to earth with a purpose.
They’ll kiss you on your gentle forehead.
They’ll tell you a story: ‘Once upon a time, there were thunders on a hot summer midnight, and a beautiful angel wearing a gown till her toes, came and dropped off a basket at our doorstep.
Inside the basket, were you. You, my dear little God’s child.’
They’ll tell you- you are made of magic.

Don’t believe these creationists; they’re the privileged.

But then you’ll turn old enough to wear two pieces of clothing and brush your teeth, and the story will have a plot twist.
‘You little monster.’
A little older, and the monster will have undergone a genetic mutation and almost become your mother. Or father.
Or your father’s ex-wife. Or your mother’s brother.

It doesn’t matter; you’re no more just ‘you’.
You’re a variety of people who disappointed the world and were thus reincarnated as your alter ego.

Don’t be fooled by these realists; they’re just creationists in shrouds.

The best is when you’ll turn old enough to be morphed into a robot.
Your day will start and end by their clock and you’ll have only two pairs of school socks.
They’ll then brainwash you: ‘you are made of biology.’
You have a heart, a brain, nerves.
You have lungs- which should never be corrupted by nicotine or your monsters will grow bigger.
‘You have a wrist which you can slit when you feel sad for yourself, but never do it without adult supervision.’
They’ll destroy your insides, replace with it science and boom- you’ll have a heart that beats and a brain that thinks.
You were never made of magic, they’ll prove.

But don’t you dare let them butcher your reality; they’re just some desperate creationists who never had a childhood.

Soon, you’ll be old.
As old as their lies.
You’ll be allowed to pick your own undergarments and stay out till no one molests you.
You’ll be free.
‘Do not iron’
‘Made in Burma’
‘is a joke, lol’ .
Free.
Free as a bird.
‘You’re inconsequential’.
Free as a fucking free bird.

Your actions will be preceded with a lecture on you being made of a soul and ‘Satan’ will be the only word you’ll recognize instantly.
They’ll dictate your Achilles heel: ‘you’re old enough to make your own decisions. Don’t let this freedom ruin your life’

Suddenly, one summer midnight-when the thunders shall be too harsh to bear-an angel wearing a gown till her toes will come to sweep the maple leaves off your doorstep.
She’ll tell you that you are made of atoms, stardust, science and magic alike.
She’ll whisper into your ear a secret and you’ll then know, you are made of nothing but your moments.

You’re not made of ash, or mud, or your parents’ money; you are not made of the universe.
You’re not made of sunflowers and sunshine, neither of the Xs and Ys.

You are made of your loves, un-loves, losses, founds, and keeps.
You are made of the Angus and Julia Stone songs that you play every night.
You are made of the Zen comic you shared with ten odd friends at 11 in the morning.
You are made of the smell of your farts, the booger in your nose, the tears in your eyes.
You are made of her smile, his kiss, their life.
You are made of them, all of them.

She’ll whisper all of this into your ear, trust me, and until then, you’re better dead.
Here.

There’s not much life on earth anyway, unless well
‘Just for 999/-‘