My 100th post

Being my 100th post, I thought I should share something which I feel I have learnt until this stage in my life... they are more, but I thought I can share this to all of you for now

Until now, in my lifetime, I have learnt that…

• Loving someone doesn't always depend on reciprocation

• The best way of finding help is self-help

• When you fall, the only person that can pick you up the best is yourself

• During your darkest times, the only shoulder to cry on will be your own

• People will leave you when you feel that you need them the most

• Suffering through your toughest times will change you… but it’s entirely your decision what it changes you into

• If you are mentally strong, you are expected to be strong at all junctures in your life…

• Love is lasting for a few; hatred dissolves for a few

• On Health: The ones, who live like a saint, suffer the most

• When you reach the highest altitude of an emotion, the subject of the emotion alters

• On Karma: The ones meant to die always outlive the ones that are meant to live

• However bad your situation; someone, somewhere is suffering more than you

• You will always take for granted something until it is lost

• Ignorance can cost you much more than it appears

• Though it seems like a sea, there is never enough of time

• The ones whom you care about the least, may understand you the most

• However empathetic you are, you can never understand completely what another is feeling

• We have one life, yet we live with past effects, act carelessly in our present, and blame our destiny when our future becomes our present

The Atheist

It was going to be fun. Maybe. But it was also going to be boring henceforth. Routine life back at home, away from the University hostel seemed like a new life now, never anticipated; and the thought of getting back home – a new definition of freedom. The examinations were just done a week back. It was going to be her last day at the university. Also, it was going to be the last night with her roommates. They would return after the farewell function; some drunk and dimwitted and indecent. However, Megan was also happy for two reasons. One reason was that she was going to get home to her mom and dad. She was going to get back her room, her childhood friends and homemade apple pie. Second, she would get rid of all the boring lectures and lecturers, and was now eager to get into the world. A world which she was about to carve for herself. The world of architecture; which she was always interested in. After all, she had put in the years and her dad had put in the money. Anticipation of a pleasant future always made the patience in the present possible.

Megan and Sarah were childhood pals and Megan was the shy one. Sarah was always the one who strained Megan into drinking; and even smoking; also smoking pot sometimes. Megan was shy. Having no affairs and aged twenty two, she felt she was an alien; but she was unsure if she was happy or not. The prince charming watery fundamentals were still fixed in her mind, and she was happy just hoping for it. She somehow didn’t face reality the way it was. Hence she wasn’t sure, if her happiness – or dismay – was real.

The girls had bought dresses from the town a week back for the night. Sarah got herself the most neckline revealing dress which Megan had only seen in movies on actresses who always were in the news for their promiscuity. Megan hadn’t bought herself anything special. She just bought some artificial jewels to complement her frock, with some frills. Sarah, being what she was, thought it was too uninteresting, but she knew Megan wouldn’t budge on her idea about dressing sense. Anyways, all that was important was the night out. The girls and the guys night out – together.

The farewell was prearranged at a place known as THE WAY INN. The University being a standalone facility in the countryside of Rusthall; the only place for recreation – pool, beer and some music – for the locals, and the students of the University of the Third Age. Between the University and the Way Inn, was a stretch of road sided by trees and open land area and the distance between them was roughly a kilometer. The University would pick them up and drop them as and when a batch of ten students was ready.

The girls started dressing around at 6 PM and finished by 8 PM. No – 8:30 PM. Megan spent an hour and a half reading a book (the no-make-up-girl she was), until all the girls were done and then they boarded the bus together. Somehow Megan wasn’t so comfortable going, but since Sarah was with her, and so were the other girls, she felt alright. Jenny was the nerdy girl in the roommate group, who would laugh the next day if she heard a joke today. Megan somehow liked her, but always refrained from talking to her at length. This was because, according to the other girls, she was weird. Well, today was different and Megan sat beside her in the bus and they exchanged numbers in the brief journey. She didn’t care what the other girls thought – as they wouldn’t be there to nag the hell out of her tomorrow anyway. They reached the Inn at 8:55 PM and the sound and slight thumping of the music from the loud jukebox was resonant till the exit. Somehow this music was a little uncomfortable to Jenny and Megan, but they kept on that smile – to fit in. It was a full moon night - and the boys and girls felt like wolves, it seemed.

The girls reached there; and the boys were already waiting. There were couples, stags and some silly guys who hoped that they would get lucky. Megan stayed with Sarah, and included Jenny in the gang. Sarah headed straight to the bar and dragged the girls along; ordered a tequila. Megan and Jenny ordered for an orange juice each. Jenny looked ravishing for a change today; and the girls hummed to the music. ‘Summer of ’69’. Clichéd, but good to listen to once in a while. The guys were eager to make themselves visible to the girls now, and the party was getting started.

Mark – the University hunk eyed Sarah in a very naughty and flirtatious way. Sarah – now three shots down, was just getting warmed up by his looks. She headed to the dance floor, where Mark was now standing his ground – slightly moving his steps to the music. They started jiving together and started to dance rhythmically. Megan and Jenny just watched now as they finished their juice. The other guys were eyeing them, and they felt uncomfortable now.

“I am not feeling good,” said Jenny.
“Yeah, Jen – I understand. Ditto here.” Megan replied.
“No – I am feeling something in my head.” Jenny said in a tone which was as if she was lulling to sleep.
Megan understood once, that someone had mixed something in her drink – Sarah, the naughty one. She had claimed she would make Jenny drink once, and this was probably her prank. But Megan felt sober – no symptoms of anything unusual with her head. She was glad, but got worried for Jenny.

Jenny got up from her seat and went to the washroom. She threw up there, and Megan helped her. Megan went up to Sarah – who was now throwing herself all over Mark – and asked if she could help.
“Some lemon. Just give her some lemon. That shoul take da kic oud.” Sarah said in a tone that she didn’t want to be interrupted. She winked at Megan. Megan gave her a bad stare.
Megan didn’t know what to do. Jenny felt a little better after puking her guts out in the washroom – but she wasn’t feeling great.
“I think I will go back and hit the bed,” Jenny said, as she picked herself up from the chair on which Megan had assisted her to sit on.
“I will come with you.” Megan insisted.
“No. I am fine. Thanks Megan. It’s just a short walk. I think perhaps the fresh air and walk will make me feel better. Please stay. I will see you in the room.” Jenny said aloud so as to make each word heard; amidst the booming sounds which rang in her head. She then left.

Megan felt awful after a few minutes. She felt suffocated in the smoky atmosphere of the Inn. She felt it is better that she should go and catch up behind Jenny and accompany her to the hostel. The girl didn’t look that good, she thought. Sarah wasn’t even bothered as Megan informed her that she was leaving. In a couple of minutes, Megan was on the road, looking for Jenny. The cool zephyr made her cuddle herself as she walked.

She now saw Jenny around a hundred steps ahead. She wished to call out to her, but Jenny wasn’t that near. Megan started brisk walking now to get close to her. As Megan was catching up along the side of the road, Megan saw four shadows catch up behind Jenny. What would happen next was quickly running in her mind and every second now was much slower than a million heartbeats contained in her chest. She couldn’t help, and let out a shriek. ‘No.’

They grabbed Jenny and took her on the side of road amidst the trees like a mannequin being carried by those store boys in garment stores. Megan couldn’t see anything now, but hid behind a tree. She could hear that Jenny was silenced – she didn’t know just how, but could hear her moaning with pain. She was being raped, Megan guessed. She waited. If she went back, the guys would see her and chase her. She went blank. Soon, the voices and sounds of the struggle in the dry bushes stopped. Jenny was unconscious – and for all Megan thought she knew – dead.

Two among those men who heard Megan started to tread backwards from the fields. Megan saw them and didn’t know where to run. They were fast and agile. She regretted her decision of helping Jenny out. Mindlessly she started running towards the hostel, praying that some vehicle, somebody, anybody could just pass from there. She was afraid to look behind, but did. She saw those men chasing her; running now. Though petrified, she could now see their faces clearly illuminated from the moonlight. She ran faster, but somehow was sure they would catch up and kill her too, for she had now seen them in the act.

All of a sudden, she saw two men behind her and two in the front. She stopped, giving in to her fate. But they stopped right there and in fact hid behind the trees after a few seconds. She continued walking; confused. Why they aren’t getting me too, she thought. Silly thought. No time to think about this. Run!

She did run. And when she looked back, the men were still behind the trees. She ran until the air in her lungs burned. And then she ran some more. She reached the hostel.

Blurting the headmaster about the incident, the headmaster sent out his troop in his car – and called the cops simultaneously. The janitors, the librarian and all went to search for Jenny. They found Jenny half naked, lying on the side of some bushes. They got her and admitted her to the NHS hospital. The worst experience in life. The headmaster forced Megan to come with him to the police, since she said she had recognized the faces of two of those men. Even in this part of the modern village, the police were effective. They arrested the suspects and called Megan for an Identification Parade. They were out of State criminals who had taken place in the motel nearby. She confirmed their identity, and they were booked. All this continued until 4 AM in the morning. They headed back to the hospital, and Megan was now a little hopeful that the cops would catch the other culprits as well…

At 10 AM, the inspector who did the arrest called in Megan for detailing down the whole incident on paper. She was a witness after all – and a close escape. Her testimony would very much be held in court. She closed her emotions momentarily and went to the station with the cop. When she narrated the whole incident, the cop kept repeating the last part of the incident, where she said that they stopped chasing her and she ran away. She was sure this happened. She requested the officer to see the men once as she wanted to ask them some questions.

“Missy. Are you sure? Meaning – why do you want to talk to them?” said the cop.
“I need to know something.” Megan said, emotionlessly but still in a state of enigma.

She went towards the lock-up, her legs shaky, remembering the incident now as a close flashback, picture by picture. The men looked at her, and seemed surprised. She stood there just for a moment and then asked them, “When you could easily catch up on me and you knew I saw you; I could indentify you – you knew that. Why did you ever let me escape? I was alone. Scared. Why did you stop chasing me?”

The men were silent. They looked at each other and then laughed mildly in a grotesque way. The black man among them, looked at her, but somehow seemed to shy away from looking at her at the same time.

“I am not sure of what that was. Perhaps we drank a lot,” he said. He looked at his partner, whose eyes were now widespread with some kind of horror.

Megan was silent and in oblivion.

“Yeh, maybe we were too drunk,” said the other man, his body language suggested he had a chill down as spine as he spoke.

The cop though was not interested earlier to know, now was. He beat his baton on the bars of the lockup, as if forcing them to answer the girl.

The black man looked at the cop, and then at Megan. “When we started chasing you, you seemed alone.” He said, as he rubbed his eyes. “When you stopped, you weren’t alone. We saw almost five to seven men walking with you. And when you ran, they stood in our way. We just stood there, and then those men disappeared before our eyes – and you were out of our sight.”

Megan swore to never visit that road again. Who were they? Angels? Or maybe what she had only heard about – Ghosts. Why they didn’t save Jenny was another question which lingered her mind for years. Jenny wasn’t an atheist either. But Megan was. She still is.

More Couplets

Sunlight never touched its wings, yet it flew with all its might. From the rains, heaviness it brings; success always sought in its flight.

A few moments to mesmerize, but a fewer came to me. The trees need the rains to realize, their purpose and true destiny.

The soul parades high and mighty flew its distance in its sky; the heart shall be the almighty, to decide the years it ponders why.

Present shall never decide a future of love so encouraging; come into the woods and walk by my side, to engage in a dream so engaging.

Couplets

Hence took away this moment asking for realization of my desire, forsaken is the previous minute for this trice to acquire.

All alive can’t be absolute joy, flowers though have to be chosen. In concert shall love arise, or all the bliss is frozen.

It flew in the dark, but in the bright it waited still. Heavens knew this difference, but it had to be from his will.

Just a scribble...

Facing a writer’s block for some time and my medium just won’t allow me to enter freely. Something is stopping him. Well, I shall wait. In the meantime I thought I should address something.

My few readers ask me various questions. The questions are pretty much standard I hear every time. The question is why do I write stories based on horror, paranormal or write the ‘weird’ type of stories? Why are my poems so dark and deep? Firstly, I haven’t even started on my journey into the world of writing – I am still quite amateur – a boy; compared to many legends. I have lots and lots of distance to cover. I have only written a few short stories and almost done with just the first draft of my novel. When I read prolific authors, I get jealous reading the way they write and able to express themselves. So, I haven’t written much yet, or found what genre I actually write in. I may write horror, mystery or a beautiful love story in my journey. It can be anything. To be honest, I still haven’t been able to catch the drift of my own imagination. As for poetry, well, I believe I do not write poetry at all. They just get written. And by the way, if you look at it, there is quite some happy and light stuff in all I have written as well.

Secondly, I think I do not have any standard answer to this question, because usually my answer is ‘I truly don’t know.’ Why does anyone need to assume that I ‘choose’ specifically to write in a particular genre or type? I simply write, as the stories or the poems form in my mind. I think I do not have a choice there. I simply just write it. I am not (and never have been) an avid reader yet (but I am getting there) and I do not write getting motivated or influenced by anything around me or inside me. My life is much less or as normal than most of you folks out there. I am not mentally imbalanced (well, the people around me have never wanted me to visit a psychiatrist or a mental asylum – so I guess you must ask them – and I believe I am pretty sane person with an unbiased conscience). I just write the stories as they form from the seed of an idea, and most of them get written by themselves. In fact, I believe strongly that I am at only a fraction of my capability to expressing myself till date. I just want to get better and better - and then a little more better.

I love language and the rhythm various words can give to the blank page. It gives me the satisfaction of creation. It gives me an insight into my own self (whether I am creative or not). I look back at the things I wrote when I started writing and I sometimes think ‘gosh, how did I think that?’ Or ‘well, I still think like that.’ Fiction is fiction. I suggest readers all across don’t try and judge a writer’s personality by his stories. If they do, well, it is at their own discretion. To me, stories are stories and are meant to entertain and make the reader feel something. It may be good, beautiful, scary, bad or ugly. But whatever I try to say must be (from me) complete without any curtains – due to my constant affiliation with being truthful to others and more to myself in my writings. I write to be my first reader and to write things which I would like to read as a reader – but maybe haven’t come across yet. I know one thing for sure, I write what I write and if people like it, I am lucky.

That’s all there is, really.

Unbind

The breath which is warm, is now also cold,
The flight craves to cover distances now old
Coveted sleep for the perception unrealized;
Pleasant moments to liberate and kill the lies

Firmly are reverberating some cherished notions
From murky images of the land and the oceans
The isolated resolves which formed the past
When sacrifice essential, disappeared so fast

Furious angels are now torching one another
Not all needs to be analyzed or questioned
Resonate with the doubts I now wither further
Never empty, though my intellect repositioned

Confused, though envisage the mind full of precision
All the senseless destinations of fruitless decisions
A façade of a result beyond a realm or bound
None can expect ecstasy, when the self is not found

Butterflies sweetly sometimes around me flutter
But with the truth at hand; imaginations stutter
Sighting the sun, at a distant land beyond the sea
Drowning may be eventual; no fact to disagree

And the hand which holds firm another
Sometimes feels like caressing a feather
Also has the ability to turn, never blind
Ruthlessly shatter the glass, and also unbind

Marinela Reka - welcome as my follower

Dear Unvarying Readers,

I am glad to have Marinela Reka as my 10th follower on my official blog – actually it’s more of a privilege for me, the prodigy she is. She started writing at the age of 6! Born on 23rd April 1996, I doubt we will encounter any writer as skilled as her at such a young age. She writes poetry of all sorts and they are truly engaging. I am deeply impressed. Please visit her on http://marinelareka.com/ 

Thanks Marinela, and I look forward to your valuable comments.

Godspeed

Marcus Hades

First Sonnet - An Engaging Sacrifice

Simply put, the 'sonnet' is a form of poetry containing fourteen lines. The Shakespearean sonnet consists of three quatrains and a couplet--that is, it rhymes abab cdcd efef gg. It is usually written in iambic pentameter and I consider it the opposite of what is a free verse form of poetry; as it is so structured. This is my first attempt at writing a sonnet.


The woods being alone but yet sufficient;
Of passerby’s who numbered very few
Weather’s amend and care isn’t deficient;
To look after are merely the sun, rain and dew
The persistence tantamount to a mountain
But rarely only, it’s affected by weather
The hardest chisel or a fierce cloud fountain,
Didn’t change anything; felt like only a feather
The tourniquets now are my flesh and blood,
Probability swallowed my wounds now so open;
Seeking the kill; shallow dearth of a flower bud;
Riding along with the future sinister and undertaken
Thus when the paths are fine with dreams that entice;
Weeds of arrogance and ignorance; an engaging sacrifice

Cinquain

The Cinquain (pronounced ‘sin-cane’) also known as a quintain or quintet, is a poem or stanza composed of five lines. The best known form of cinquain poetry was created in the early 1900s by a poet named Adelaide Crapsey.

Though the cinquain has many forms and many rules have been formed and confused, I prefer to keep mine as I deem fit and which puts forth the best meaning in five lines (as in any other form of my writing), and that is because I believe meaning is more important than form.

Flowers
Though beautiful
Can be crushed
Through, while with ignorance
Ambushed

Absence
Binding pity
Felt through today
As darkness awaits this city
Fooled by yesterday

Riveting
Some feelings
Of your love
I feel like I am dreaming
Like a dove

Couplets (cluster 3)

Dark and bright; I return to everyone what is rightly due.
Like the clouds that flow everywhere; but pour rain on lands very few.

Though the wrath feeble, it knows; destroying the peace of the hours.
In absence of virtue none will grow; an essence to crush beautiful flowers.

Fire when all went through, ice at the end; and never water.
The soul always knew that it be true, ignorance it must slaughter.