The Heroine.

Something made the whole point of the spectacle escape her comprehension. It was a language so foreign, so abstract, yet so ethereal to her. She didn't understand it at all, no matter how long she stared, no matter how long she stood trying to get the best shots of it, but she felt like she was part of it. She hadn't even imagined something like it, not even when she was under and hallucinating.

The first thing she did after getting home was plug her camera into her computer.
She flipped through the one thousand ninety eight photos she had taken that day. She had almost forgotten that other people were with her till she saw the pictures. There were some they took of her too.

She finally reached the pictures she took of the sky. She was disappointed. There was a connection between her eyes and the strokes of nature during that sunset that had been severed by the one thing that usually strengthened her bond with the world - her lens.

She closed the picture preview. She closed the windows on her screen. She plugged her mp3 player into the speakers, and played the Ólafur Arnalds album "...And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness".
With the pianist on repeat, she fell asleep curled up in the warmth of her blanket and prayed that she saw that sunset again in her dream, for tomorrow she'd have to go back to being just another actress, just another movie star.

Photos courtesy Chandni Sareen.

*Special thanks to Chandni for letting me use her pictures for this short story, and Nuzha Embrahim for being an unsuspecting participant and having nice frames!*

L'Artiste.

He pushed the button.
Silence.
He waited.
Not a sound, only the echo of his own nervous breathing.
He'd try again later.

In his head, she had the aura of a dream with the demeanour of a vixen. Something like an angel who had transcended goodness, what with all the piercings on her face and ears contradicted by her bright eyes.
But that was just the artist in him being romantic. In reality, she was just another muse.

His easel stared back at him, blank and lonely, reflecting his mental state without her.
He picked up his phone and flipped through her pictures. Has he ever "missed" a muse?
Was she just another muse?
It seemed insulting for him to think so.

He walked back to his kitchen, to the phone and hit redial again.
Still, no answer. Not even a dial tone.
It obviously wasn't okay to just go over there yet. It had been just a month since they met, and he had dropped her home just once, but never went upstairs or even close to the door. In fact, he even remembered her talking about some man or the other.
He was still dying to go. She was definitely more than a muse.

He tried her cellphone. It rang, and rang, and rang, and went to her voicemail.
*BEEP* and he hung up. How needy it would be to actually leave a voice message. He went back into his room. She hadn't contacted him for days. He wanted her around all the time, and she didn't even seem to care.

*KNOCK KNOCK*
Ah! There she is! Must've just lost her phone, or maybe she had been travelling and left it at home...
He hurried excitedly to the door, and then suddenly slowed down. From window, he saw postman.
At 4 p.m.? How odd. With a puzzled look he opened the door, "And how can I help you, sir?"
"You are l'artiste American? Parlez-vous français?"
"Oui. Je suis un Parisien."
"Ah, bonsoir. Cette lettre... est pour toi."

The address was scribbled in her writing, and he opened it gently, barely noticing the postman leave.
He stared blankly at it for what felt like 20 minutes right there at his door.
He looked up at the empty, blank, lonely street. Another reflection, another paralleled travesty of his life.
Finally, tears began to fill into his eyes. Of rage, of futility, of helplessness, and of reality.

He looked at his easel, blank and lonely, reflecting what was permanent at the time.
The paint on his palette had all but dried, and there was never any paint on his brush to begin with.
She had run away with some man, and either way, she was never his to begin with.

Words of a Muse.

She Didn't Have To Try.

"Colourful Thoughts."
Model: Namaah Kumar

*She adjusted her T shirt to make sure she wasn't sweaty.

She looked down at her shoes and bit her pierced lip. 

He was late, but it was okay.

She had all day.

*He stared at her for ten whole minutes.

He saw her shuffle around and try to look really pretty.

She didn't have to try at all.

He knew he was late, but the sunlight fell so perfectly on her hair.

He had to stop and stare.

The Sound Of.

I saw him laugh heartily, at his own joke of course. He cracks a lot of jokes, I can tell. He's such a funny guy.
He picked up his guitar right after, stepped to the mic, made an announcement and then started singing what seemed to be the best song in the world. The room began to vibrate from the sounds and the equally strong response from the crowd. As my smile grew wider, my heart began to race with the thumping of the bass drum. I blushed, and clapped.
The next morning was just perfect. Like heaven - waking up to his smiling face in some distant beach-y place. He took me out for coffee, beer and breakfast. I had the coffee, and watched his many changing expressions, the only response of his that I can so clearly understand and empathise with at every moment.
However ridiculous it is, I can't imagine being with someone else. I know what you're thinking and honestly, I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind. I wonder, sometimes, what he says when people ask him, "So you're a brilliant and successful musician in love with a deaf girl. Wow, man, what's that like?"

Don't Say A Word.

She quickly picked up her daughter and put her in the closet. She reached to the top shelf, pulled down her double-barrel as silently as she could and re-checked the cupboard door to make sure it was fully closed. They were still in the living room, she could tell.

"Wait here. Don't move an inch."

She loaded the gun, took a few extra rounds and crept out of the closet.

She came back to her daughter, squatted on the floor and said "There's just two of them, okay."

She looked over her shoulder, they were coming up the stairs now, she could hear their footsteps.

"Honey, I love you." She took her daughter's hand and placed it on her mouth. 

"Don't say a word."

Three seconds passed.

BANG. BANG.