Prompt: You have to write an article (anything of your choosing, it could be a piece of fiction or poem or anything really) and you have to include the following lines in it: “We writhed in pain but it was in pleasure, Now the bruises just tell a story of disaster.”
A Rough Night
There is a night, etched into our memory where it survives. Lightning had struck that night, just like tonight. A white sliver of crackling electricity ripping the blue velvet into two, trailing into a slow rumble like logs being rolled over the rooftop of the world. In that momentary illumination of the cosmos, two bodies were revealed. Our bodies. Bejewelled in beads of sweat, the bodies engaged in a strange dance form resembling tarantulas duelling with poisonous fangs. The dance followed its own rhythm yet strangely fell into place like the cogs of clockwork. It was a wordless dance of visionless beauty, bereft of barriers, logics and limits. And the dancers were lost in the spirals of passionate embraces, adorning each other in bracelets of nail marks and necklaces of bites. It was a night of unfurled desires, when the soul, the breath, the flesh curled into unison. On such a night, we gained flight at unparalleled heights, soaring high above the heavens to drown deep within the seas. The whistling wind caressed the flowing hair and bristles, as did the gently electric fingertips. As if realizing the temporary existence of this doomed unison, the rhythm of this celestial dance increased. Now a frantic pace was dictating the sharp and hurried moves of the dancers intoxicated in the scents of the night. Our own physical well being did not matter anymore. What mattered was the dance, the perfection, the essence of each moment. As it gained an infernal tempo, as the crescendo reached its own heights, as the end drew near, we drew each other into a vicious grip, as if covering our bodies inside an impregnable fortress of our embrace to defend against the coming onslaught. But no amount of defence could save our doomed alliance. The final thoughts from that night which our memory brings to surface are of the moment of singularity; It was adorned by the beautifully bejewelled words and decorated with profanity and trailed by wistful sighs and traced by the blade of nails and teeth over the canvas of flesh. That night, as we lay consumed, we writhed in pain, but it was in pleasure. Now the bruises just tell a story of disaster. A disaster around which we centred our lives. A disaster in which we die every night and are reborn. A disaster in which our individual souls collapsed and crumbled into dust and ashes, from which rose the phoenix of our love, carrying our souls in unison.
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Arnab Mukherjee 