Sorry mom for not writing back
there were sparrows by the
bar I was at

remember the time
we found a baby
on the ground its
feathers fluffy grey
‘may we keep it?’ I said
(I’ve always wanted a pet)
you said yes
so we brought it back

but dad thought no
the bird had to go
we argued and you put me to bed

the next morning
I was yanked out of sleep by
weak squeals as sharp as
breaking a harp sound travels well
and I could just tell
it was from outside—
the stairwell

I asked if you threw it away
you said ‘I wouldn’t do that,
it’s still alive! All I did was put it outside!’

but as you said it you
avoided my eyes
and that was when you taught me to lie

so (,) sorry
I can’t write back now
the sparrows are here
and they look confused

the sun’s back anew
the rain’s blurring the view

they never learn
by now they should know
love’s behind murder and lies


sketch iii

i wanted to
strangle the
hypnotic clock

for its deadweight
took it

down to hate
it better but
the patter of

water and laughter-
a child’s smile
as his father

showers him from
a pump outside-
cooling his (its)

hands; and I
found that time
can slow down

Dear Santa



The dull sound echoed for the umpteenth time that night. He was a slim, lean figure in a dark suit. Crouched over the lock, you could almost mistake him for a rebellious shadow. A trick of the eye.


The magnetic device he held in his hand looked futuristic. Indeed, it was futuristic. Handed down from generations it was far beyond any contemporary human technology. Such primitive creatures.

He slowly opened the door without making a sound, and slid into the apartment.


It was like the rest of the apartments in the building. Your standard living room, two bedroom flat. Similar to all the other ones he’s visited tonight, this one was decked with festive decorations. The plastic tree stood in the corner, conscious of its own fraud under the eerie lighting of Christmas lights. Laid out on the table was a single stocking.


Strange, how some things never change. That said, humans’ stereotypical image of his species were laughable. The fat belly, the red and white costume, the hat. Simpletons. And to naively assume that there was only one of his kind around. How on earth could one Santa do all of that work in one night? But that’s humans for you— even reality had to conform to their arrogance. It’s a pity his species were bound by their own ancient laws to perform this ritual every year, as an act of charity to their gods.


He froze. There were sounds coming from one of the bedrooms. Muffled voices. Whispers. Not the in-your-ear-secret whispers of lovers though— this was vicious, like two snakes strangling each other.


I don’t have to worry. They can’t hear me. This suit takes care of everything. Traceless.


He glanced at the single stocking lying on the dinner table. They haven’t even bothered hanging it up. But it won’t be of much use tonight. He wished it was otherwise.


He made his way slowly past the room with the hissing snakes, the voice of his Tutor echoing in his mind.


We have no choice. Our rules say that if the kid’s been good, and what he asks for is neither something to be done to someone else (to prevent ill-wishing), or over the annual per-capita budget, we have to deliver. That’s what the gods say.


Well, that’s just because they never had to deal with something like this.


He opened the door slowly, hoping that it would make a sound. But he knew it wouldn’t. The suit took care of that. He wished the parents next door could hear his footsteps and come to investigate. But the suit took care of that. Even if it didn’t, they would be too busy in their silent jousting.


In the room was child 7564. He remembered this number, and the asterisk next to it when he first got sent his List. James. 9 years old. Blonde.


The silence emanating from his suit was suffocating. I’m sorry. And he thought of the gods as he plunged a needle filled with heart-stopping fluid into James’ arm. He didn’t even check whether the child was dead. The technology of his species was light years ahead of that of humans.


As he left the room, he unfolded a piece of paper, torn from a school scrapbook, and left it in front of the door. Maybe the parents will find time to notice it. He exited the flat, heavy with the silence around him. The door closed.



Dear Santa,


I’ve been a good boy this year. Mommy and Daddy have been fighting every day and it’s really horrible. Mommy sometimes comes to breakfast with bruises on her face. They never talk and their smiles are weird. I heard them saying nothing will fix this. For this Christmas, can you fix this? If not, can I just die?





Quite a personal piece based on an unhappy childhood memory. Hope this makes up for the lack of content for the last few days. Like, follow and share to support.