Creative

On days like these, when the air is so cold it bites at your face and hands, and your breath is visible before you, one cannot help but think of the past. Amelie had always been the type of person to prefer the past. There was something comforting in its solidness, something reassuring in the fact that everything had already happened and that she, as an observer from the present, could look back on it without having to make the same decisions all over again. It wasn’t just her own past she liked. As a child she buried her head

My dad taught me how to toast campfire marshmallows when I was young. But no matter how hard I tried to follow his instructions, I always burnt them. All my cousins got to enjoy their smores and to the corner, I had a growing pile of coal like I was on some naughty list. I followed the same recipe every year, only to end up eating char again and again, I thought I should pretend I burnt it on purpose, and so I did, my smouldering secret. It’s better than admitting I still don’t know or that I am just

“Mister Speaker,”  he said, “I rise” – amid the stare of waiting eyes he rose –  “to ask the Prime Minister-” saw the hungry journalists, “Sir- What’s the government position-” Can you feel naked ambition? “on this or that moral outrage?” Headline writers, op-eds engage, with heavy guns, artillery, turning shit into millinery, forcing ammunition onto heads. Every trace of trust that he sheds Is pleased, knowing soundbites secured - Media, public, all skewered, One simple piece of mockery.  Who really wants democracy? Please, forget your apprehensions. This is how we win elections.