Tomic Riter

Category: story

  • On my upcoming debut novel.

    Crossed 7000 words in my first novel’s draft. I have wasted a lot of days by not writing enough. But then , what is enough? How much will be enough? How to define the word ‘enough’ when it comes to writing. I have no idea and I got no will to define it. Sometimes, writing happens a lot. Sometimes, it doesn’t happen a lot. I guess that’s it. That’s how I can put it.

    Also, I renewed my wordpress account today. That means I have completed a year here with this website. It has been great! Met some really good writers. I thought all the good ones have died, I was convinced of it. But no, few are still out there doing a great work. I really thank you for it.

    On my novel, I guess it would be genre-less. I write on life and I write as I live. I am not a great story teller but I can surely tell a hell lot of lies. I guess that’s what it would take to finish the first draft.

    Wherever you are, have a good time!

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • I had a dream.

    I had a dream. Well, fuck it. It’s been a long time. I have been drunk so much since then. One bottle after another. One night after another. One song and then another. Nothing ends. Everything is on repeat. The food, the people, the bars, the cities, the roads, the beer cans. Everything. How would you like a table next to mine? You might like it. But were you here, you wouldn’t have a choice but to hate it. It’s like that. Life without choice. Zero from birth to death, from death to rebirth, from rebirth to another cycle of bondage and torment. How would you like that? You wouldn’t, I guess. It’s like that. You liking this and disliking that and in the end, you die. I am dead anyways and still drunk.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • From my red room.

    From my red room. Dirty as hell and unattended. The only light before my midnight. The only songful haven in this goddamn graveyard where not a grass grows. This is my red room and I come alive here and fall dead here almost every day. My disgraceful coffin inside which I lie and I lust for you and twist and turn in your absence. You light me on fire and run away to your video conference or an interview. I wait for you and your errands to end. I wait for you. I kiss you a million times inside my head. I kiss you here and then I kiss you there and in no time, I am kissing you everywhere. My red room keeps glowing brighter. It is open for you all days of the year, all hours of the day, all years of my life.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • All 700 days of my life.

    It’s the same road, only more damaged. I am heading on the same route and coming back via the same route. It’s the same dust rising and settling down and, the next morning, rising again. It’s the same people greeting me in the noon, the same tea in the evening, the same foolishness all day. The same men occupying the same chairs, breaking the same desks, laughing at the same jokes. The same people asking for silly favours, the same people farting egos, the same people screaming for nothing worthwhile. The same sky with nothing but clouds and a handful of rain. All the seven hundred of my life and I cannot differentiate any one from any other.

  • Not so late.

    We could make love right now, right here. Right here and now in this little den of mine wherever nobody ever comes and only I am the one leaving. We could make love right here and now, only if your were here and I weren’t alone under the stars, staring right up, waiting for the sky to tear up like a whore and all the rotten cum to spurt out and run down and out of my sight and out of this world. We could make love right now in my chair but you aren’t here. You are buried under files, or you are losing your shit somewhere or battling another headache on your own. I wish I were there but I am here, wishing you here instead. I look around. Not a man. Not a dog. It’s so quiet. Utterly quiet. We could make love right here and now and break this quietness.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Things like that.

    I had plans. They kept failing. Nevermind. Now, I can tell everyone that failed plans do not stop a life, that life goes on anyways in one way or another. It might not be the way you wanted but it is still going on in a way. That’s nothing to feel sad about it. There’s still time, and things waiting to be done. It’s some hour of night and I am half naked in my red room, staring at the fan blades, watching them cutting air again and again. Not a word or a scream. All dead things are lying around so quietly. I can barely take it.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Getting on track.

    I have been away since a month I guess. But I have been writing. I am writing as and when I manage to get time. Now that’s a lie. I think I always have time to write. It’s just that sometimes, I am not writing. But it’s not like I am doing anything else either. Most of the time, I am just alive and breathing. It could get tiring but you have got no choice in that. You have got to get tired and you have got to keep going. Sometimes, it’s like that and there’s nothing to look forward to.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Head out.

    So far, nothing has been done. Only the thinking. But that doesn’t lead me to anywhere. That’s what happens to people doing regular jobs. They start losing sight of what they truly wanted. They get tired of working and at the same time, they begin to accept being stuck in the swamp. They even try to fall in love with the swamp. I dread that would be my fate too. I refuse to accept that.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • With an unfilled stomach.

    Memory is a problem, so is imagination. I would prefer imagining nothing, remembering nothing. Dreaming drains me. My nightmares continue even after they have ended. For a change, I am listening to something else, something that is not jazz or blues or classic. The smell of a burning incense stick has made this place more livable. I can breathe without feeling, even for a little while, disgusted. A beer can emptied last night sits on my table. I pick it up and inhale. Pathetic. How could anybody drink such shit? And with this realization, how could anybody drink the same shit again the very next day without feeling anything. How could anybody do that unless it’s me doing that. Bagetelle No. 25. Ludwig van Beethoven. Tin tin tin tin tin tin tin the piano keys are struck down, emitting all the haunt at once and in daylight. I would empty my body of blood, if I could, as I listen to this. I need sadness. A tragedy would be better. Something that can bring me to tears for at least a whole night.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Celebration was an excuse.

    The smoke rose up from whatever burnt and drifted west towards a darkness that was unknown to me. The children had come out on the streets, burning their fingers with some kind of sudden urge to enjoy that evening. By 7, the whole town grew quite noisy. I began finding less pleasure than before in sitting outside and looking up, fixating at some random star. Although one can say that no star is random, that it is there in that position by some universal rule. I did not care much about rule or no rule. That there was a star above and it was shimmering and could be looked at was enough for me. For some reason, I felt this sudden uneasiness. Maybe it was all that noise. I felt getting up from my chair and have another drink or go outside – to where, I could not think. Somebody made a bonfire. I saw shadow of a kid dancing around the fire. He seemed quite happy. Maybe he was never wounded. Fear hadn’t found a place in his head. Good for him. The smoke was spreading evenly over the town. Some time later, a car went up in flames. Its owner looked worried. The bonfire was extinguished. The children were taken inside their homes like something ominous had happened, like death was lurking nearby, searching for a young victim. I sat in my balcony and watched and I realised that the town was not ready to grow quiet.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.