The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
Redemption by Manav Chordia
Unholy
RED. That’s the burden I carry on my naked shoulders with scars that remain untouched, unhealed and untold. I live like the Vikings but groomed, provocative but kind, adventurous but guarded, and in a way thoroughly unstable. I bless everyone, well, whenever they sneeze, but this mere gesture gives me the opportunity, power and control over things I cannot perceive without the possibility of hesitation and fear. I am Jesus’ son.
Vertigo
The clouds above the valley seem to bounce off the tower of Babel, I wish I could see the languages flow through the air surrounding them and then dive into a realm of beautiful, unfathomable boys. The dandelions that surround my feet are getting heavy and weighing my body into the quicksand that crept under me. I see bunnies resembling my lovers and munching logs of wood, but their ears are growing into inflatable balloons, and they fly. The bunnies are defying gravity, while I lie here, merely a head above sand—revitalizing the inner tendencies my body craves, the touch of an angel. I can speak all these languages. I can see the unconceivable. I am sober, but my head spins and my eyes flutter little blisters of heartbreak.
Addict
With the realm of the unknown revolving above the heads of the brilliantly blue bubblers, I try to behave the way my mother asked me to—dumb, beautiful and ready for anything. My job is a part of me, but I am my job; the money, the boys, the beds, and the never-ending supply of drugs. I was in heaven, I became heaven; everyone wanted a piece of me, even the bits I wouldn’t appreciate. They liked the worst of me, they loved the best of me, I became a central figure in the bedroom, but I wouldn’t be able to speak, I was used to being tied up, wrapped, beat and other kinks I wouldn’t want to discuss. My lungs are giving out toxicity with every exhale, but my mind just dives into an internal review of everything, protecting me from every demon out there but myself. I couldn’t believe what I had become, a sex addict. And here I sit and pride myself for being a heroin virgin. My duality is truly flawed and disallows conventional thought processes, but I’m a smart guy, or so my feelings have forced me to become. I am resistant to the world’s suffering as long as I am not sober.
