Stories by agaxos on Medium

Shreds

agaxos — Wed, 29 Dec 2021 23:52:57 GMT

When thousands came together. Sequestered in every drop. Tied together with bonds of rope. Torn to shreds in every corner. Could there have been something else, leaning in on us? The man came up to me one day, leave, he said. That was all. He fathomed not that I belong here. And every day, the same comes up to me. Before it's too late.

I have never climbed a mountain. Not the sierras that tore the sky. But upon hills, mere bumps I ran. Finished, I got tired. So sick I couldn't stay at home. But I couldn’t ever pick up the lake. Large, green, blue. The color of teardrops in bulging eyes. It ran up to me.

Just that day, I heard the noises in the night. Voices over phones that rang with only one tone, violence. I couldn’t help it but only to think, the day had passed by. It held no weight on its back. No burden. But till the end. I won’t wait.

A noise startled me. As it fled. Hidden beneath the vast pit. Only to rise up to the sky. But that, only to shower down on us like ninety shards of marble. It bent our necks until they cracked, because of who we were. Our thoughts sequestered, yet again. But only to wander, what was to come.

We found out the next morning, torn to shreds. Like a broken vase. Shards splintering bare feet. What wanders. What thoughts. All yet to come true.

It

agaxos — Sun, 12 Dec 2021 17:51:47 GMT

It came from that very corner. Hidden under the baskets of wool. For if there was one, it would never bring. The brisk wind outside froze every lasting organ to their faces. They blew them off the whim for it. But it never came. Still hiding in that corner, under the baskets of wool. But then the children came, only to go. Go to the other world. But it stayed. It. There.

Anguish

agaxos — Sat, 04 Dec 2021 18:55:57 GMT

He couldn’t help but to stop and pause. This cutoff on his continuous trotting of his toes on the pale rubber gravel. His wheezing and gasping for a breath inhaled, sharply. He wore those same rubber materials on his sole. Aching, yellow and white, dead calluses building up, only to fall on him. Topple him over. It felt as if he could almost see the brightness in the day. But he couldn’t. It was only for the lush greenery on the side that he saw the darkness. Where the scintillant parts of it brightened up the dashes. There couldn't breathe. Slowly going back towards the farthest end of the pale redness. It was faint but vague. Throwing him off course till he felt bruises building up as if on their own. Slowly scrambling around the side of his swollen to the inside cheek. The yellowness he could feel bleeding through, scraping the blue. It was just from the inside he could feel it. But the outside was bursting with anguish.

chronotinium

Ablaze

agaxos — Sat, 27 Nov 2021 19:03:21 GMT

Nothing. That bright light seared the eyes, here there. For there it assembled. In the pitch of the dingy overcast, it couldn’t be seen. Only for the small shard of it, ablaze like a vast auroral eye burning in the heat yet of not such a substantial size. It fits in the smallest segment of a unit. With not much of the greatest certainty, it still suffices. Opportune to such content. But all stuck in that dark dingy room where they talked, but for no reason at all.

@chronotinium

Green-Blue

agaxos — Fri, 26 Nov 2021 19:45:20 GMT

From behind, they snickered. Crackled, until he fell out of his senses. And just so they could be dropped below the green. The dark green with a tint of the blue flooded the bottom. And his hair roughly ruffled in the wind as if he drowned in the bloody green-blue water. Stuck in there, forever frozen to death. He felt the breeze killing him from within. It was almost as if the storm had come to nab him. Almost as if the sky was green-blue too. Like the slapping of the currents, churning to only hit the bottom. They were waiting behind him. His blood might’ve turned blue just then, except for the redness inside thankfully. It was almost as if he heard crackling from in front, not from behind, taunting him just like them. Was it reliable, secure? He closed his eyes, like the way in the movies, he saw himself clamp his eyes closed, darkness encircling him. There was not red. There was not orange. Yellow too. All he saw was the blackness. He tried to think of something better but nothing arose from his remembrance. All he was, the little boy standing. Arms shaking with partially dread and partially algidity like he was being stuffed in a fridge. He looked behind. Looked back in front. And then, they pushed him in.

agaxos

They Flew

agaxos — Thu, 25 Nov 2021 18:42:09 GMT

The faces couldn’t blow off. Running farther than it went. Stuck to, the nails struck on the rotten wood. The placid room filled with dreary wood. No light beamed with rays that kill for hunger. No wind gushed and walloped it down. Only stains remained. And of course, faces. How they exist, it is not said. But they grow pale. Blanch and raw. The flesh peering out and then given. It falls out on the ground where it thaws. Thaws and softens. Where it languishes in the coolness but yet the heat of the room. All like it until a day. A day when the landowner croaks his departure. And at that very day. That exact day. The door opens until it flows in from the impenetrable gaps of wood. It may never happen and may never will. But they flew. Like birds fleeing from their unswept hellhole. And they flew. And flew.

@agaxos

Flickering Fluctuations

agaxos — Wed, 24 Nov 2021 18:36:54 GMT

The sight of redness put her to sleep. The redness that filled her. The exact same redness that flooded her from the inside. She reached for the handle. It was gone. There were subtle fluctuations in her vision. Or was that another red? Would it give pain? She tried. She tried to stand but she hit the top. Broken glass everywhere. Shattered, splattered, splintered all over. In the back they were flickering. The fluctuations. The orange ones. Or maybe red. She couldn't tell. The heat made her sore other than the pain roaring deep inside her. All over. In the span of earshot, she heard nothing but the loud crackling. It tore her ears and blasted them to bits, shattering their parts over the vast yellow barren desert. She sensed it. Abruptly, she sprung out. Slowly moving on the floor. The pain burnt her to shards. She screamed. Her eyes watered, gushed out the liquid, pooling on the burning asphalt. A blast shook the ground. Those pieces were shattered into eighths. In the distance, a slight roar. The uproar louder than before, every few seconds, increasing. Closer it came closer. And then…it came.

agaxos

Dry and Barren

agaxos — Tue, 23 Nov 2021 20:28:31 GMT

He sat on the bench in the park. All alone. Afraid of the people. Afraid of the world. Afraid of himself. Shapes of yellow and brown tenderly floated around. In the distance, joyful shrieks, inaudible. Air slowly hit his face, a gentle slap of nature. Then of a sudden, a child appeared to him as if he called her name. As if a force scolded him, submerged deep inside him. Her face had no smile, yet no frown. She studied him intensely, wondering, pondering about him. In his drowsiness, to be desperate for air, to not interact, to be him. He didn’t move, stood paralyzed. Redness flushed her slightly chubby, rosy cheeks. Her hair, black, flowed down to her shoulders. It was almost blue, but brown, her eyes, all at the same time. Slowly, her fingers moved towards his face, towards the corners of his mouth. Suddenly she pulled her fingers up, cracking a grin on his face. She stared, eyes like fountains but dry and barren, for no drop came down her face. Like she had drained it all out years ago, a fissure cleared up, years ago. The rupture didn’t last very long, but slowly mended. Maybe they are yet to come when she is of age. The girl started chuckling, slowly and steadily. A light chuckle, from within. Ample emotion wiped from her face. The child sat next to him. Beads of sweat building up. Only to burst out in every direction, flooding each and every blade of grass, leaving them to drown. He too wasn’t smiling. Yet he wasn’t frowning. Bending his back, crouching. A needle poked his back, breaking through his spine. He felt it hard, burning all over. She was now beaming at him. He felt she was staring into his soul, like she was intentionally staring cross-eyed in the middle of his precious two bulbs of vision. She got up and walked away. A gust of wind blew an affable grin across his face.

@agaxos

The Blotches

agaxos — Tue, 23 Nov 2021 18:15:11 GMT

The man. He sits there watching. His own life rolls past him. Times after times as they waft by in the open wind. Nothing better than an afternoon in ease. The brightness from the screen blinds him no further. He stands upright. As he opens the window, the brightness of light burns through him as he stands. His eyes soar straight out the blinds. Burdens pound him down to the ground. Hands swaying in the air, a dinky crawler gently screams in the father's grip. Below the window, there the sturdy man walks up with his child to an array of colorful blotches, next to the old man. The youth reaches up for a blue blotch, grips it as hard. The old man creaks a vast grin of joy. The father turns to the grin on the face and inquires a price. Faces turn up. Smiles to sorrow. The child looks up in horror, for his blotch sails the air. His deep frown adjusts to a thrill of glee. Captivated by the sight, loud claps scream out. The man from his window sticks the wing of his arm out. Holding the long string and clamping his hand around it. The sun blinds him, piercing through his heart. He feels the rush of adrenaline gushing through his veins. Even through the bright rays and his newly adjusted eyes, he gazes down at the child, eyes like wells that wait to be wished apon.

Instagram: @agax.photography

Write for Us

agaxos — Sun, 07 Nov 2021 20:09:57 GMT

We are looking for Kashmiri Pandits who have memories of Kashmir or who want to share their stories of the exodus. Stories, poems, or any type of literature would be great.

Comment “I would like to become a writer” down below in the comments, and we will add you as a writer for our publication. As a writer, you will be able to submit stories to us and get your stories published on Paradise Lost.

IMPORTANT: We only accept Kashmiri Pandits as writers.

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