Wistful

W for Weep.

“For longer than she could recall, she had been holding her pieces up with intricate threads woven out of the myriad slices of Rainbows she would pick up each day. But like the rain, they all came crashing down, pouring over her pallid and tired skin, failing miserably to paint her. Weeping uncontrollably, shaking sometimes with the sorrow of a thousand unsaid words, crumbling under the weight of the millions actually said, at other times. And the colours bled out into the Night, becoming one with the monotonous darkness. That’s when, almost as if taking care not to wake Time up from his deep slumber that night, Fate whispered, “She’ll leave the skies raw, you know. Soaked and dripping with her strokes tomorrow. Painting, indeed.”

W for Wail.

“There were only two things left to do. Everything else had been taken away from her. Her memories, her friends, her family, her books, her haunts, her city, her education, her livelihood and as if these weren’t enough, their wars had taken her identity as well. And in times of insurmountable odds like these, where she had no scraggly branches to cling on to as she fell like she always, always used to do, there were only two things left to do.

Wail.

Scream out, as if in an effort to fill the great black void that the missiles had left so carelessly, effortlessly. And then, survive, for that was something she could do effortlessly, carelessly even if she was feeling spunky.”

W for Wrath & Wound

“They say the Worlds above and below quiver as she readies her bow, fearing the tumultuous wrath that was to follow. But they sparkle with anticipation, for a swinging of the sword seldom happens without reason strong enough to even move the Earth. With unshaken grit, she releases the string and it snaps forward with tremendous ferocity. Without any doubt, she struck where she had to strike, when she had to strike. And whichever unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of this bolt of lightning would make sure not to wound another person so wantonly.”

Wishful

W for World

“For far too long, she had had worlds built for her. And frankly, she was getting tired of all the saturated creativity thrown at her, each new one being nothing a blatant plagiarism of an old one. As the rhymes, the curving strokes and bleeding works drowned her mind, she realized the only way to find her amidst all this chaos was to dive deeper. Down to the field where she could lay along with her silence and her musings, marvelling at the skies as time rolled over on its side, as if awoken from sleep on a Sunday afternoon.

She was off creating her own worlds now.”

W for Wonder

“With wide-eyed expectations and an insatiable curiosity, she sat day in and day out in class. We could do nothing but silently and internally gape at the wonders she could oh-so-impeccably perform. Never scornful, never impatient, she would help all others with the most genial smile you would ever come across. To say that the Universe brings to you what you desire most, in this situation, is a cruel thing. But in her case, even though the Universe had taken away something from her, she was having none of it. She was moving the Universe, with her immeasurably strong will and omniscient arms, and with it, what she desired the most was being pulled towards her.

She may have been blind, but she sure saw, and exuded, White more than the usual Black.”

W for Wings & Words & Whole

“Waiting by the doorway, for the other piece of her soul to return from yet another day of soaking up all the wisdom in the world, she holds a face that is inscrutable. Parts of it show expectation, hoping her child would materialise, any time now, beyond the freshly painted gate, upon which he had played only the day before. Some other parts reflected fear, for there are very many things that could have happened to her one true love. Some other parts reprimanded the fearful parts for overthinking so much, instead replacing those feelings with quiet and empty monotony of waiting.

And then, euphoria reigns supreme. Such a smorgasbord of emotions collapse into sheer happiness and the inebriating comfort of completeness, and she unfurls her wings to fly out to hug her child tighter than ever, as if wrapping the Universe around the child in an effort to make impermeable.

Right at this point, words become unable to decipher the palpably raw emotions buzzing in the air.

She is whole again.”

Wildfire

W for Wind & Wolframite

“As she runs across the tops of the mountains, she feels the unbelievability of her situation creep slowly away. She can finally bask in her own glory. The Sun too, kisses her skin gently, for it had been shielded from the light for far too long. And like the wind, she sweeps away the dead, unattached leaves of disbelief with her whispers. Coming and going in fits and bursts, she writes to those who are willing to lend an ear, telling them that there are no Wizards or Witches in a world as real as ours, save for people of magic with souls steeled in Wolframite and dipped in Wildfire. She says that they are wicks, for they bleed and burn to lead others to the light. But make no mistake, for they too were forged in the hearts of dying stars and will burn the world down if wrung the wrong way.

And as she turns to leave forever, without hesitation but with clear premeditation, she says this:”

Whirlpools, but chained wolves
Were we, once. Freed, we lay siege
To the skies above.