Ashok Rajamani

AUTHOR + POET + ESSAYIST + ARTIST + ADVOCATE

ABOUT ASHOK

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reader talk
poetry
"words, brewed and unbrewed."
flash fiction
"stories, thumb-sized."
"why on earth would a brown american boy want to be an all-american star?"
essays
"Salman Rushdie uncovers the dream that imprisons."
"How a Drag King and the Carnival Stole the Show in the World's Greatest Poem."
fiction
"true Love," Ashok Rajamani, ink/charcoal,11" x 17"

TRUTH BE DAMNED, CREMATION BECKONS



“Please open the door," Nee said to her maid, as the doorbell rang. Nee's blind date had arrived, and surprisingly, he was two minutes early. Nee, however, had never told this prospective lover how obese, and how unattractive, and how old she was.

Didn’t matter to her though; she was expecting Death to arrive at her door. She was 98, after all. It was time.

three romances


true love oh baby true love


published in:


Lakhan knew he wasn’t supposed to fall for monsters anymore. Well, not since that embarrassing incident of 1987, at least. But he couldn’t help lusting after the one in front of him. The beast was, he believed, obviously male, although there was no discernable bulge. He was lusciously dark, the result of deep-chocolatey South Indian genetics, with, of course, long hours toiling in the hot Indian sun, Lakhan assumed. His face was as delicious as his build, with full lips and wide-set black eyes framed by thick charcoal eyebrows. His nine arms were muscular, sexier than the arms of any two-armed man. The horned tail was to die for. With his lengthy nose and prominent chin, both geometric in their sharpness, the beast’s face was as angled as Lakhan’s was round.

Lakhan’s intense desire for his object of lust stopped abruptly when his object of lust charged towards him, his claws stabbing, his mouth drooling, growling and roaring.

DOES THIS MAKE ME LOOK FAT?
a story of desperation


published in:


“What?” she inquired.

“I said, you look nice today,” he answered.
“I heard what you said the first time. I just like hearing it.”

He was exhausted. Every time he complimented her, she asked what he had said.
Only to tell him that she heard the compliment the first time.

Of course, there was no woman standing before him, or no woman on the phone, or no woman on skype.
Just the brick façade above his fireplace. A man yapping at his wall. Not uncommon. Lotsa folks have conversations with their walls.

But few think their walls fish for compliments.