Krystal Pen

Fiction, Poetry and everything Literary. Every voice should be heard.

Just some few thoughts


It was a mildly dull evening. The week long work was just beginning to take a toll on me. The scream of car horns reminded me of the slap a white customer unleashed on one of my colleagues earlier that day. The busy traffic was avant-garde, but I still wished I knew nothing about that usual traffic or it simply doesn’t exist. The smokes from an obviously fatigued Ford Explorer just in front let my annoyance hanging without a support.
It was exactly 5:47pm, thursday. A sight caught my attention, like beautiful shrubs oppressed by ugly trees. A fellow passenger asked to know what my wrist watch says.
When I turned to tell Him, I met something breath taking. A lady, most certainly in her early 20s, walking against our direction, wearing a beauty like spotless aprons of angels. The kind of beauty that you always almost want to give a second, third or even fourth look. Her nates rejoiced like a freshly morning bride. Her legs were like the smile of an humble mahogany; straight and perfect. I thought the nose was crafted from a fleshly gold; bold and merry. Her chest looked nothing like I have seen. It will be more beautiful if I let you describe what it looks like.
I wasn’t the only one that was stilled by the sight. Ironically, every one was dressed in a melancholic look. I was too. We were all supposed to have brows dancing with finesse, probably hidden, so that the next person wouldn’t notice you. The lady had only one hand. It was the reason for the sorry visages. So it is not actually an irony.
Now these are few things that kept my heart wandering till I got home that evening;
1. Accidents, heedlessly, Can befall even the most perfect being.
2. Stains, reproaches, know not the flawlessness of your structure.
3. The most glittering of beauties can be a sight of severe pity within seconds.
4. The world, almost certainly, will forget that you were once grandeured in a skin almost as perfect as one of those stars, if a quarter of your skin succumbed to the rage of a boiling oil.
Well, what can we really do but to say thank you to the keeper of even our flesh.


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