Category Archives: New Writing

Designed for Chapters, Scenes, or short stories to be shared

Flashpoint

FLASHPOINT

It’s Aiko’s birthday today. Just as the new chrysanthemum dawn begins to beckon, she awakens and her naïve sleep-filled gaze is captivated by the spreading dawn that’s only an hour or so into its ineluctable theatre of nature. Its flamingo-hued fingers are drawing back the veil of night; a clarion call if any were needed to announce that today is little Aiko’s birthday.

An auspicious day with celestial harmony and tranquility prevailing. Later, once this nascent day has matured into full morning, Aiko will show her draughtsman accurate hieroglyphs to the school-teacher and he will smile, applauding her endeavour.

Having breakfasted with special treats her Mother made and fastidiously donned her uniform, Aiko accompanies her grandfather holding his hand on their stroll to school. Looking up, far up in the early morning sky, the observant Aiko says that she can see a silver kite drifting slowly, slowly across the azure canopy. Her grandfather squints and knows it cannot be a kite. Though from that”kite” a tiny silver sliver appears to begin to somersault endlessly earthwards.

Momentarily transfixed, Aiko pulls impatiently at her grandfather’s sleeve, and in that moment he understands that all the rumours were true and that this moment would forever be separated from all the other moments and all the other times and all the other places would be separated from this time and this place by this silver kite.

Without knowing that to-day is Aiko’s birthday and she would show her classroom teacher her draughtsman perfect hieroglyphs, that silver kite brings with it an inauspicious augury. Aiko will not be celebrating her birthday today, the day when time itself will come to an end, and it will foreclose on all birthdays. On this sixth day of August. 1945.

Warriors

Running. Days spent running. Long days running away. Far, far away from that Hill. Senlac.Where Harold Godwinson fell. All that remained of his Housecarls, all that evaded the keen eye and whetted blades of those Normans was here in this rout.

They are seized by fear as they broach the deep autumn green of the forest with the day darkening about them. They trample into the swirling grey and brown. Heaving past trees so gaunt, so erect everywhere flecked with its shadows.

They feel feral eyes lurking, they smell that stench only warhorses make; the tang of their salivary breath as their stalking footsteps are tramping heavily on foliaged ground.

Warriors, masterless curs with their master dead, are breaking, staggering into a run. The run of hearts and minds now fleeing and pounding all at once as if seized by a madness. Their fevers fired by diagonal shafts of sunlight and arrows. Threading and piercing. Whispering their death, clattering and cutting.

Bone bared, sweat-browed fighters are now falling amid the dense. And of all the summers that are to come, those summers no longer are theirs but the forest’s.

The Saint,A Stranger Among Men

The Saint, A Stranger Among Men
A previous age, perhaps less materialistic than our present one would have recognised and
acknowledged his otherness. His air of inner spirituality which others say he carried with him
and wore as lightly as the finest cape about his shoulders. Shoulders that others imagined
might have sprouted angelic wings. Eccentric, a flaneur with a quietly assertive insouciance
he wafted along the boulevards with transcendent equanimity. Then on a day of no particular
significance, at least none that I could apprehend at the time nor afterward, I actually
encountered him at one of the more popular Cafes, this figure of some Left bank
intellectual /philosophical speculation /admiration/veneration. This itinerant dispenser of
wisdom and insight.
The Saint with the shabby overcoat and hangdog expression asked me if I could spare him a
few reminiscences. I replied that the change in my pockets changes with the changing tide,
though I could offer him some reflections instead. The Stranger sat back in his chair
ordered himself another absinthe and began whistling some nameless tune while he waited
for his drink to arrive.
” If all our pain and sorrow only came on the morrow would we set the alarm late or not at
all? taking the chance that vicissitudes had all somehow passed us by while we were fast
asleep.”
This I realised immediately was the aphoristic balm which the Saint dispensed with
customary generosity to those he presumed were in need of immediate spiritual relief of some
kind; which in his own inimitable view included just about everybody. Though not all at the
same time.
” And were we to store all our tears shed in our lives, how big would the bottle have to be?
Could we claim back some pennies if we returned it empty? ” I was inwardly responding with
something akin to mild annoyance, outwardly with a beatific smile bordering on rictus when,
the Saint glanced askance at his watch where time had stopped years ago.
He wondered aloud where the waiter might’ve got to with his drink? “ If we don’t feel the
suffering of others, how will we know if we have blood in our veins? ” thereupon the Saint
got up, bid me adieu and was gone.
Some time after he’d left I saw in the mirror that there was no longer a reflection there
of me.

Les Autres

The unexplained disappearance of the reclusive author had never been properly investigated,at least not to the satisfaction of his fans,his readers and most of all his adopted son,the wannabe reporter on the local rag.
For years this state of dissatisfaction festered amongst the interested parties,who if nothing else managed to commemorate the renowned scribbler’s vanishment with an annual pilgrimage of sorts.
Then one year with the weather being particularly inclement,even for the usually desolate Scottish lochs,only the reporter had made it to the venue,the deserted house.Whereupon finding himself alone resolved in an instant to make a foray into the abandoned domicile to perhaps, in his own mind, satisfy an unquenchable curiosity.
Nothing actually came of that quixotic foray,nothing that is apart from a chance discovery,in the drawer of an antique dresser of a manuscript.
A suicide note perhaps? may be not.A last will and testament? no one however questioned its authenticity when it was scanned and reproduced in the local weekly under the adopted son’s byline.The absent author alluded to his own ineluctable disappearance in the form of a poem.Simply perhaps to add to whatever mystery was bound to ensue from his vanishment.

When winter’s cadence sounds,
burn their pictures
the photographs of the dead
burn them,
so that they shan’t
trouble you again
when winter’s cadence sounds;

the gardens are shrouded
in snow
upon which no earthly foot
will fall,
and the door chimes dormant
hang suspended by a thread
of your own disbelief;

an imperceptible menace
waiting for a breath,
a snap of cold winter’s
air to cut the thread
and send it crashing,

crashing onto the floor,
where you shan’t hear it
except in your imagination’s
ear firmly fixed on the
sound of winter’s cadence.

‘Positive Sutra: Life says never give up!!!’

 

Image: Amit Bose

Abandoned on the road of love, without a destination

Let the pain not relieve, for it transforms into beautiful poems.

 

The book will be called ‘Positive Sutra: Life says never give up!!!’

Thank-you Louis Kasatkin Sir and Destiny Poets for giving me this wonderful platform to share a few words about my book which is yet to be published.

A blook: A book created by picking some of the writings on my blog. www.researcheye.wordpress.com

Blogobook

My blog www.researcheye.wordpress.com is my life. It is dearest to me as it reflects everything that I experience in my life. A medium of self-expression, it is a journey that the reader will experience beyond words. I have a couple of followers on the blog but, I wanted to reach to a broader audience. So, I decided to publish my writings from the blog and put them together in a book. Here is my first blook (A book prepared from blog posts).

 My blog has been my constant companion and an immense support during tough times. Life is so tremendously exciting when you have a blog. You keep searching for topics to write so that you keep updating the blog. It gives you a reason and motivation to write. The other day I wondered why I write and this is what came to my mind.

Why do I write?

When you are hurt you hit hard with words,
You don’t know what you are hitting at, who are you hitting with words?
Some who read say, “You wrote well”,
Some call you insane,
Some ignore but, you write because writing empties you and then fills you with immense joy. Words do have that soothing power.
This poem shares my reasons for writing.

Writing

Screaming out to the heaven,
Loathing in disharmony,
Fuming in fathomless anger,
Restless regardless of the world,
Hiding, hoarding deep in the shackles of daily worldly disdainful, tasteless world.
Weighing words with disgusting balance.
Yelling within, peaceful ‘me’ is just a sham.
Words wane the anger, disgust and fury
String of hurriedly typed words with a gush of emotion.
Now a peaceful me is a picture of perfect happiness.

Advertisements

Occasionally, some of your visitors may see an advertisement here
You can hide these

UPGRADE NOW DISMISS MESSAGE 

INTRODUCTION

I took to writing this book with the aim of reaching out to people who have faced depression or immense emotional challenges. We often get hovered by spiral of negative thoughts to get pulled into depression. The force of negativity kills energy within us and replaces it with mental lethargy. Sometimes even walking a few steps to pick up a glass of water or grab a newspaper becomes a herculean task. Our will power is weak and we only see the negative aspect of life.

Only positive thinking can pull us out of this spiral.

The book has poems that date back to the years when I have gone through moments of stark darkness and disappointment. And to each dark poem there is a poem reflecting the positive attitude towards life that I hold today.

This collection of poems is divided in two parts, first being Aikya: Nirvana & dispelling of negativity and second being Smaran: Fragrance of Times.

 Aikya:

Aikya means unity or oneness. A spurt of laughter often wets our eyes. In humour is reflection of sorrow, and pain. A transition from sorrow to happiness and back again, is all one; a confluence of positive and negative. The dusk of negativity has to end, because, it has to be followed by a beautiful dawn. This is a disposal of negativity, which has to end and only from it will flow positivity. Ironically blended in it is all that is positive to life.

Experience a trance that is a confluence of end and start, has a scent of sorrow with fragrance of time.

Smaran:

We are all knotted in relations, which give us something special and which compels us to wish that we could live longer. Smaran is the fragrance of time that is temporal.

” New Writing ” section of Destiny Poets

” New Writing ” section of Destiny Poets

1 Post per Author per Month.

For all authors out there who wish to share short stories, a scene from a playscript, or chapter of a novel.

We advise posting a suitable length section which others will enjoy reading and giving their considered views on.

Just create your post as usual, but choose the category ” New Writing ” from the correct section.