Astha Prakash
Content Marketing Manager
Butterflies and Hurricanes
Though I have been writing in notebooks and diaries since I was 3 feet tall and fashioned two pig-tails, my first foray into blogging was when I was fourteen. I started writing simple journal entries on this Yahoo blog portal, which soon converted into an outlet for any thought, experience, idea, rant or opinion. My blog best portrays who I am, who I'm not, and who I want to be.
Goodbye, Kentucky
Dear Danielle,
From the day you moved in to the farm, I knew I could talk to you. I had spent many a day alone, tending to the farm all by myself, with only the hens and the chickens for company. I never had a very exciting life, you know? And then there you were, sitting in your father’s jeep, a seven-year-old testament to the most perfect brown hair I had ever seen. You first came out and spoke to me when your father and mother told you to stop talking about your old life. That it was over. That you better move on. How you cried that night. And how I held you. “You’re always ready for a hug, aren’t you Kentucky?” you used to giggle.
The Bookmark
Her bony, twig-like fingers moved along the ridges on her skin. Her wrinkles ran along the entire length and breadth of her face, racing around her forehead, splitting into tributaries at the corners of her eyes, and lining her mouth. She only had a few wisps of cotton candy hair left on her head, and there were probably about sixteen teeth left in her mouth. She thought about how becoming old was like becoming a baby all over again. She smiled. Then giggled at how ridiculous old age makes you look.
On her 91st birthday, all Nina wanted was to sit on the couch in her veranda and read.
The Typo
“I feel like I’m a typo.”
Ed’s buttery fingers froze mid-way before he could fill his mouth with another handful of popcorn. It was an awfully regular Sunday afternoon. He didn’t shave. She didn’t wax her legs. They were watching re-runs of their favourite show, sprawled on the floor on a messy blanket. It was perfect. For him, at least.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I feel like I’m a typo,” Ann repeated, and looked at him petulantly.
The Bolt
It was the end. It was finally, truly, the ultimate end. It wasn’t like one of Nostradamus’ prophecies, or the farcical 2012 prediction, or the old blokes who sat around a bonfire waiting for it to happen. No, this time, it was real.
She felt goose pimples forming all over her skin, as the storm picked up and uprooted trees and buildings. It vanquished everything in its sight, as town after town tumbled into nothingness.
It was eerily dark in the middle of the afternoon. The wind was cold, the dust blew in swirls, and lightning struck mercilessly. Over and over again.
Words
They were sitting there, perched precariously, tipping ever so lightly on the tips of her fingers. There was electricity pulsating through her nerves, as if her heart was bursting to pour itself out on the keyboard.
Words flew, like tiny wisps of cotton candy dandelions flying through the summer breeze. Words, like fireflies released from captivity, out of a bell jar, flitting towards a dark, velvety, moonless sky.
50 Shades of Messed Up
A bumbling, messy, clumsy girl falls hopelessly in love-at-first-sight with an extremely hot, rich, expressionless, guy who is forcefully dark and deep and intense for no reason. She is low both on self-esteem, and common sense. He stares at her like a creep, while she behaves like a nervous puppy, breathing heavily and biting her lip awkwardly. They have never had a real conversation, but their surging hormones draw them towards each other. Generally, the guy stays away from women, but for some obscure reason he falls in love with this particular girls’ plain-ness. He asks her to stay away from him by telling her she is not right for him. But the girl still wants him because he’s so gosh darn good-looking. Sounds familiar?
Nope, I am not talking about Twilight. I’m talking about 50 Shades of Goddamned Grey.