Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

And I spent two days laying in your sheets, unable to breathe, unable to speak, unable to smile but you caressed me and fed me and lay with me till I was better again. My mouth foul with bacteria but still you kissed my lips, held me to your heart and in the end I don’t think it was the medication or the ice cream, or the food you made for me, but it was your love, your touch, your attention that rid my heart and lungs of disease and brought me back to prosper by your side. – Shammy 10/22/12 5:05am


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I’ve needed a break for a long time now, but how can I do that successfully without stifling my momentum? Time can’t be created and neither can a world where my thoughts aren’t clouded by darkness. – Shammy 10/15/12 6:11pm

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I’m sitting in Union Square with my sister looking up at the clock constantly changing. I told you it was the national debt, but that was just a rumor. It’s actually just the countdown to and from midnight. From the left it reads the time since midnight, and from the right it reads the time till midnight. It looks complicated when you first see it because the numbers all together don’t make any sense at all, but once you break them up and see them as apart from the whole I guess you can understand them and then piece them together. It’s funny how the mind works that way, seeing things in wholes. I don’t see it that way, I just see holes in the big picture and it doesn’t seem to fit together in the end. It fucks with my head. If I could find the missing pieces, well I’d put them back so we could be perfect again but they aren’t within my reach.

There’s a dance group in front of us. With their tiny stereo they play a strange mix of music. I can’t quite make out what it is, but its urging me to relax and breathe deeply. There were two groups of two dancing in the square. They twisted and turned fitting in steps of salsa and swing all together. Now there is about ten. They come and go as they please performing carefree dance numbers with their partners. Some break out in dance, one couple in the corner seems to be doing a waltz, while others around them are poised with their arms tightened and heels raised in a fast salsa step. Most of them just stopped here on their way to somewhere else.

It’s a busy place, Union Square. Some came by to meet a friend or sit on a bench to rest their feet, others stopped for a cigarette while the more daring stopped and had a dance. See, now this deserves a clap and a shout I think, but equally the smiling eyes of their audience must be appreciation enough.

There’s something romantic about it all, dancing for the sake of dancing on the pavement on a hot summer night, while people gather to enjoy the free show. It’s just beats they are dancing to, no vocals, just random universal beats. Its chaos fit perfectly together creating a moment so true that you can’t help but let the weight go from under your breath. I can see it on the faces of people sitting beside me, the feeling of satisfaction and just being. It’s so unfamiliar to me. With every breath I let out I get a clear piece of mind back, but when I go to breath again my heart aches and the shine from my eyes grow dull.

Why is it that even in a relationship, I feel like the single most loneliest person on earth? – Shammy 5/31/12 8:50pm

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It was about twelve in the afternoon in London. I could smell the faint scent of sweat lingering on the clothes of people that strolled by. It was one of those lazy days where the air is humid and musty. The stores on Knightsbridge were crammed with tourists and pedestrians clustered around the fancy tea shops trying to decide which shop had the nicest décor. It all looked very prim and proper to me. I walked down the stairs and tapped my Oyster card on the pad. There was a woman sat directly across from me on the tube. At one point our eyes linked together. She was in her late twenties maybe even very early thirties. She had short reddish, brown hair and dark circles under her eyes. When she looked at me she pursued her already skinny lips till she looked like she was just squeezing the skin from both sides of her lips into her small but vile mouth. She looked at me with beady little eyes under her light bangs. Being from New York, I naturally started back and waited for her to look away, but much to my surprise she didn’t look away; she glared back harder. She continued to suck the skin from her face into her mouth and her eyes grew darker as they descended deeper into their sockets. Her unkempt eyebrows drew in and covered her beady little eyes with another layer of disgusting shadow. I started back still, noticing big red pores on her pale white skin. And then all at once I felt it; it crept up to me like a chill during sex starting first from my breast and going down till I couldn’t bare it anymore. The urge to laugh out loud in that woman’s face. I turned my eyes and a soft smile adorned my face. I wanted to say, “I think you’re really beautiful.” -Shammy

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Today, while I was buying a metrocard at the atm machine a woman came up to me. She mentioned for me to buy her a metrocard and offered me a five dollar bill. “4.50, 4.50,” she said. It was first day of classes for me and I wasn’t going to risk being even a minute late. I don’t speak Spanish, I told her. “Ask the teller,” I said pointing to the fat black man sitting inside the 24 hour booth. She nodded and mentioned toward the atm machine, “He say,” pointing to the machine, “he say here.” “I’m sorry, I’m in a rush,” I told her as I finished my transaction and ran for the exit. Now I’m on a bus on my way to class. I definitely won’t be late; I might actually get there ten minutes early. She is probably still waiting in the station for someone to help her. The asshole mta worker didn’t help her, and neither did I. I didn’t know her. Not my problem, right? Funny thing is, she kind of reminded me of my mom, *kinthu, ami kono patha denai. – Shammy 1/30/12 2:03pm

*but, I didn’t pay it any mind

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In Bangladesh, there are such things as Bhooths; they are like spirits but not quite. Allah made man and he also made jeen. Jeens are people who don’t have shadows. They are living with us but they are not the same; they are magical and can disappear at any moment. Just like in the human race there is good and bad, jeens also have good and bad. Good jeens usually strive to learn and help people; the bad jeens are called bhooths. This is a story of not one bhooth, but twelve.


A beautiful-young woman in her early twenties was walking down a dirt path. It was sundown and the colors of the sky were darkening at her every step. There were tall coconut and banana trees on both sides of the path that cast huge shadows on the narrow trail she was walking down. It is very dangerous in Bangladesh, for a woman to walk alone at night through the “jungle” let alone with her long-black hair let loose. It caressed her back and added enormous beauty to her lovely face.  She passed a very peculiar looking tree; the roots and even the trunk bark were all twisted up. What she didn’t know was that the tree occupied twelve bhooths and upon seeing her great beauty they were filled with temptation.


After that day the woman became crazy. Everyone in the village could sense there was something seriously wrong with her, so they called four of the local priests to “cure” her. They prayed all night, sprinkling things on her till finally the bhooths had left her body. An old-wise woman quickly opened a bottle and trapped the twelve bhooths inside.


That bottle was later buried six feet under a tree in the village. That tree’s roots and bare bark is also twisted violently and whenever someone walks by they are filled with a strange shiver.


– Shammy 10/21/09

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Man on a Bench

He was wearing khaki shorts and a guitar. His chest hair looked yellow in the sun, but under his baseball cap I could clearly see it was bright red and curly. His lips were chapped. His bag lay next to him, forgotten and unnoticed. After a long time, he reached out for it to see if it was still there, then put his hand inside and brought out a piece of paper. He looked at it for about 30 seconds, and then thrust it back into the dirty bag. The next time he takes out the paper it will probably be crumpled; some environment cautious individual might even mistake it for garbage and kindly place it in the can. I observed him for over an hour. He moved the strings one by one with his long stubby fingers according to the tune playing in his mind, the rhythm beating in his heart. He looked so at peace with his music. Nothing else in the world mattered to him. It was him and his music and the world was just there, all around him. He was encapsulated by a thin layer of meditation. Occasionally he tapped his foot against the cement pavement, creating a different kind of music, creating a motion. His head bobbing toes tapping and fingers moving he created a performance. I’m sure he didn’t think himself to have an audience as I was the only one looking at him so intently. He did not even once look up to see if he pulled in a crowd. He was so enveloped in this bubble he perceived there to be, so lonely and so happy. – Shammy 9/8/09

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