Posts by Kanav Sharma

The Dollhouse

It began in the old village of Matera which rests on the bank of the wild, when on her seventh birthday, Msanii begged her mother for a doll house.

One Wild Night

As thy skies unpeel the morning lights on her, I see her stripped elegance masked by the morning dew which so elegantly cups her golden-silvery innocence, but I’ve seen the few moments of her intense wild which unveil the goddess that lurks amongst the evil waters she drowned me in, the bosoms of heaven she boasted off whilst I spent eternities caressing her peachy peach, cloven by the roots of

Suffer, Oh Mistress!

You melt like vanilla in the essence of the half burnt fireflies breathing into your bare skin. You repel the nineteenth second, for it marks the end of the spiritual journey you’ve been on since ages. The twentieth second might just last forever if you let me misbehave.   And the thirst in your rushing blood is a testimony to my severed senses. Why severed, you ask? There is no

The Perfect Love Story

The Husband’s Diary:   September 2012:   Hello Diary,   I need you, today. I am desperate, I guess.   Like always, I took the eastern subway after work. The lights were dark and cold, but in these times, London is always cold. Whilst I cursed the city and its dull aroma, she happened. Sudden she was and painfully beautiful; unlike life. How couldn’t I see her coming? The work,

She Stuns

She was elevated to the grandest of the thrones and the pious royal would sin for her forgiveness. Her skin, like radium, masked the scented shade of elegance. She was poisonous too, maybe. The common folk would talk about her, ages with nary a rest, mostly about her immortal honor and her filthy yet appealing pulchritudinous. The saintly echoes about her would stun.   She bore justice to the words,

The Other Side

In such darkness, let there be peace and nobility; none the same without peace, is life.   Drenched it is in such purity that all men must die with honour and embrace the darkness. The dark, indisputably, has a larger domain than the lights; inside a violent mind and within the heart of a lover, darkness prevails. Where the sun doesn’t find ground to rest, darkness celebrates.   And I

The Bloody Lake

“A story, mother, I desire. I wish to dream tonight.” murmured her five-year-old, shrouded in the cocoon of a Pashmina blanket, yet to be stained by horrors which dare not leave without salvation. Her hands, red as the blood on a widow’s ledger, were cold and she would shiver in peace and in the process, spill the milk from her cup.   “Raid the bookshelf, shall we?” she asked again

The Woman with Many Faces

She would sing by the yellow lake, carving stories on the ever-changing canvas of the wet sand. She would mesmerize those who were fortunate enough to make her acquaintance. To find her in moments of dismay, men would pass legions of armies and travel countries. They all murmured stories about her; stories that would unleash pathways to separate worlds with each passing man. Men with ages behind them would exchange

The Woman Who Would Be a Goddess

It was a fine summer evening, with the usual touch of ignorance and the promise of an approaching winter that would take the moist breeze and along with it, the fine evenings. Not that it would hurt a middle-aged man without a family, but summer, sometimes, promises to last forever.   I had plans for a theatre show, that fine summer evening. The word of a dancer had plagued the

The Black Barbie

“Her skin was like the moonless nights. Probably because she was conceived to them. Her heart was darker. They worshipped her but she would rather have them beg and suffer in the agony of lust. She was cursed and condemned but like the last inch of darkness, she bound light to light. Like the last breath, she bound life to life. We gave her a name; one that she did