tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92043136299090069542024-03-19T03:47:15.970-07:00Sounds of SilenceSounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-44351905580399821152016-07-28T08:51:00.000-07:002016-07-28T08:51:39.013-07:00Serenade for Winds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I awakened to a distant, pulsating sound that soon dwindled into silence. I listened rigid and heard nothing but the creep of blood in my ears and the occasional sigh of the wind around me. Gray and shadowy was the world. The weather and scene without seemed to mimic those of my feelings within - everything was draped in unrelieved shades of gray. Shrubs of Juniper and Cranberry, and pine varieties, were grayish black; those of the broad leaved sort, were grayish green; the crags and the eternal hills were grayish brown; the sky, dropping behind all, gray of the purest melancholy, curdled and the clouds arranged themselves into little clumps like strewn cotton wool.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>And I drifted solitary through its vast mysteries.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Raucous and throaty cries, like those belonging to larks or linnets or finches, sounded harsh in my ears as I thus wandered like a zephyr; as if I was an intruder in their midst. A remote, palpable question of where I might be drifted and hovered in my mind. I found myself standing astonished on the edge of a precipice : a steep, dark and dreadful abyss whence great pulsing clouds of white steam rolled upwards.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I felt giddy yet excited; my emotions penetrated by something inexplicable and pregnant with uncertainty. I felt naked. I felt as though perhaps a wounded bird may feel into clear air knowing that a hawk wings above and that it will swoop and be gobbled up. As though perhaps Dante Alighieri might have felt when he found himself one day at a fateful doorway which he hesitated to enter. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>What is this spirit in man that urges him to forever depart from happiness? This restlessness and indefatigable desire to toil and to place himself in danger?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It is merely because there is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, at any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It was this restlessness, this insecurity perhaps, that drove me further and further afield in my explorations. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It was maybe a while or so since I stopped hearing the various sounds accompanying me as I thus wandered, pensive and engrossed in my own whirl of thoughts. There were no warning cries from birds, no rustling of the leaves and no whistling of the wind; just the crunch of gravel under my shoes.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The silence was deafening.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It was then, that I began to feel the need of fellowship. I wanted to question, wanted to feel; wanted to relate my experience. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>As the hush of the evening crept over the world, the sun touched the mountains and swiftly became a blazing hemisphere of liquid flame and sank.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Then, slowly and softly the myriad colors of the evening sky mingled into each other and enwrapping the world fold after fold into deepening blue, came the night. The icy chill of the night pierced my bones and entranced by the splendor of the sight, I sat down and mused. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>In the sky, one bright star shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>At last, I realized the full temerity of my voyage as I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back to my life. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I reclined upon the ground and gazed at the multitude of stars twinkling in the sky above, wondering at how many people like me would be out there searching for solace.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A cool breeze had started blowing from the west and the leaves resumed their rustling.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A smile danced on my lips and I whistled a half remembered tune, in the hope that this musical note would remain suspended in the air for someone else to be a companion for.</b></span><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-39598449702224319982016-04-02T01:51:00.000-07:002016-04-03T22:09:18.694-07:00The Fugue of restlessness <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />Dawn.<br /><br /> Deafening silence, yet somewhat relaxing. The city replete with yawns and sore eyes. Transient skies grimace at a scowling block of nimbus, heralding light rain and soon, tiny, little droplets of rain fall in boundless abandon from the skies. Startled birds flutter in their dark recesses; crows fidget in the trees and caw their alarms and then, as if calmed by a foraging conspirator, dwindle into silence.<br /><br />Recursive, recoiling, redemptive thoughts tug at your synapses and when these mad, kaleidoscopic scramble of thoughts lapse into your disenchanted state of mind, you count the next sheep. Tossing and turning in your sleep you give out a sigh of resignation, and sit upright. Still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you are bound to the window panes, watching the tiny little drops of innocence leave a trail as they roll down the glass pane. A slight chill of monsoon creeps under your skin and wrapping yourself in a blanket, you lean closer to the window, engrossed deep in thought. Outside, an inexplicable heaviness weighs on the atmosphere; save for the rain relentlessly beating a solemn tattoo on the roof. Lull before the storm. Soon, a blur of black and blue umbrellas could be seen wading through the silence : the early risers. It is still quite dark now but the slowly rising sun sends brilliant streaks of light through the wisps of clouds to illuminate the pockets of early morning mist that had blanketed the streets.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Its majestic. You have a sudden urge to open the windows and you do : letting in an icy blast of cold wind that treads softly into your hair, whispering to you, invigorating your soul. And you feel a change. Not that aggressive slamming, whistling, hurtling of wind into your ears that assails you as you bow your head and torpedo through the gale. No. Just that calm, quiet, solemn wind that carries woes with it as it wanders; and you can hear them if you listen closely.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The wind that carries a tear streaked, unfinished letter from the lips of a sailor to his wife; or that which carries a stifled, unuttered cry from a woman as she stares hard into the distance, waiting for her husband to show up any moment.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your face is wreathed in smiles and your eyes are closed, feeling the wind caressing your face and the rain pecking it. Its beautiful. Leaning close to the open window you take a deep breath of fresh air; taking it all in. The faint growling of the clouds; the cacophony of bird songs ; the rain tapping on the leaves; drumming on the roof; the shuffling of feet as people walk to work and the intoxicating smell of wet earth. All of these transport you to another dimension. Another world. Another time. Its fantastic. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You find yourself floating over wide expanse of green fields; over jagged mountains blanketed in snow; as a shepherd on the moors and craggy highlands; over streams and pristine lakes. Its marvelous, this feeling.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>And yet...there is an inexplicable, stifling feeling that verges on reality; a parasite that lurks and lingers in the darkest corner of your heart. A marionette that holds the fibers of your heart as it beats. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>And you call it Love.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The expression of calm repose that you had a moment ago is now changing into a troubled frown as the heart beats frantically in its cage. Its ghastly, this feeling.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Suddenly, your reverie is shattered into a million pieces and you are jolted back to reality by the clickety-clack and trot-trot of horses on the cobblestones as they pull the carriages; street hawkers and newspaper sellers as they yell their lungs out and the ruckus created by the morning life.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The rain had stopped long ago and its hot and humid now. The air is windless and tensed; mixed with the smell of human sweat and refuse and the cacophony of noises in the shape of an exclamation mark.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Exasperated, you slam the windows shut and sit back.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>There is a sharp pang that touches the source of tears and soon, rivulets of tears roll down your cheeks and splash onto your hand which unclenches as a reflex; revealing a letter that had been crumpled a lot. It slides from the hand and falls on the floor with a loud thud. A thud that resounded within the four walls for a while.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Silence reigned supreme once again, save for the hiccups of sobs that erupted now and then.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Its horrid, this feeling.</b></span></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-42492186745148796792015-10-31T12:15:00.000-07:002015-11-01T07:13:52.531-08:00Of scarred faces and cheap Hotels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><b>Watch your step, dear reader. Keep your wits about you; you will need them. This city which you are about to enter is vast and intricate, and you probably have not been here before. The air is bitterly cold, and you find yourself led along in complete darkness, stumbling; recognizing nothing. </b></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Here, hold my hand; for you are likely to lose your way.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Its an ashen hour of night, blackish grey and you blunder forward into the haze of your own spent breath. You hear muffled, drunken voices from nearby that tingle your spine and your heart skips a beat. Now you hesitate, still holding on, but tempting to let me go; and find yourself hoping to God that the voices come no closer. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I assure you, you will enjoy your stay here; but let me add that the dwellers in this city spend the day hanging by a thread called happenstance. Oh, not 'hanged'! By God. That is terrible. You seem pale, dear reader, have you eaten yet? My colleagues tell me the food here is, well frankly speaking, to die for.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Here, we are in the clear now. This lamp post should provide you refuge till morning or you can go to this place called 'Odin's bar' at the end of the street.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Something smells funny, thought Eric. What sort of devilish city is this? </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Odin's bar? Sounds like something straight out of Norse mythology.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Something was definitely eerie about this place. His mind was filled with innumerable bearings, all pointing at different directions; and a terrible headache seemed to paralyze him, as if a large, metal spider was slowly clicking away at the walls of his skull. His face distorted with pain and he dropped down on his knees, shaking his head with both hands in the hope of returning back</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>to reality.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>But it was too late to turn back now.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Finally mustering enough resolve, he stood up and trudged forward but sickness and pain caused him stagger back to the lamp post. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>'Was i hurt?', Eric racked his brains for an answer but found none. Suddenly, a violent spasm in his diaphragm caused him to vomit profusely; a rising nausea that tasted like rust in the mouth. He stood up and sighing explosively, wiped his face with his shirt sleeves and almost fainted at the sight of blood among the pool of his own vomit.</b></span></div>
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<b>All of a sudden, it all came back to him. </b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>There was a bullet in his stomach and a bad gash in one of his legs which accounted for his limping.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Sleet stinged his cheeks, sharp little spits of it so cold they felt hot, like fiery cinders in the wind. His ears began to hurt; and then he heard amid all the confusion : the wail of sirens reaching a crescendo and echoing in the stillness of the night, the city howling after him.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>'I'm a fugitive', realized Eric, and trudged forward toward the flickering, neon sign of the Odin's Bar.</b></span></div>
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<b>The first light of dawn crept up onto the horizon and slowly streaked among the clouds like fine strokes of brush on a pallid sky that was the canvas.</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The sleet was now reduced to a low moan of the wind, as if warning him not to enter. On reaching the Bar, which looked more like a hotel, Eric raised his hands to knock when the sharp rustling of the leaves made him turn round in fear, darting his eyes in either direction. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins and his heart beat accelerated. Slowly, painstakingly, he slid a hand into the waistcoat of his jacket and divulged a Beretta. As if mechanically, he took out the magazine, checked the bullets and rammed it home; all done while scanning his surroundings.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He'd done it a million times before.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>'It is fear that gives men wings', he had heard someone say once. A</b><b> gentle push opened the door and he entered, closing it softly behind him.</b></span></div>
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<b>It was dank and cold inside, and a sickly, sweet smell of incense pervaded the atmosphere. A sad, old thing indeed. Old broken chairs and tables strewn around the room, shards of broken glass everywhere. It was a mess. A den of cheap mobster punks and tired-eyed prostitutes. Eric cocked his gun and walked straight in, playing it Bogart, like he'd done a hundred times before.</b></div>
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<b>The reception area was a terrible sight; three dead bodies piled upon each other in their own pool of blood, their faces scarred with knife marks and '666' painted on the walls with their blood. Madness had begun.</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>There was an old telephone switchboard in the back room of the reception area. It wasn't hard to picture a fat pimp sweating with headphones on, listening to his hookers talk dirty and fake orgasms over the web of party lines; Right now, the speaker was on and there was a different kind of moans and groans going on...guttural, to be honest. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Eric strained his ears to hear a faint sound echoing in the back somewhere, gripped his Beretta tightly and moved into the corridors but stopped midway to hear another sound mingling with it. The cops had arrived a few blocks from here, Eric concluded, sirens singing in the off-key harmony of a manic-depressive choir. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Fear was rusty needles poking at his brain. Cold and scaly, it slithered down his chest. He could run, but with a bullet in his stomach, he was quickly running out of time.</b></span></div>
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<b>A beaten up phone was ringing in the empty corridor and sounds of crying and screaming from the bathroom joined it in broken harmony. It was now perfectly clear to Eric of what waited inside; drug addicts and junkies ready to explode in random acts of senseless violence. There was a scarred faced junkie lying in front of the the ringing telephone, wringing his hands in fear and agitation as he screamed and mumbled :</b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16px;"> "</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">Oh no, oh no. I think I died. I Think I'm dead. </span></b></div>
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<b style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I'm gonna die. I'm gonna hurt ya. I'm gonna hurt ya! </span></b></div>
<b><div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I'm gonna die. It- It's coming... It's coming. The flesh. </span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The flesh is coming. It's coming. You're gonna die. Shutup! Shutup! </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> All messy inside. The end... The end..."</span></b></div>
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<b>Time is of the essence, Eric reminded himself, as he avoided the corridor and searched for the door that led to the basement. The setting of the hotel was quite melancholy; sinister to the say the most. Flickering lamps, faded color paint peeling off plaster ceiling and walls filled with ominous, Gothic graffiti.</b></div>
<b><div style="text-align: left;">
<b>A baleful cult was growing in this hotel, and someone had to stop them before they got out of hand. Staying away from this doomed place would have been the smart thing to do. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>'I guess i wasn't that smart', thought Eric. </b></div>
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</span></b></pre>
<b><div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Suddenly, a tremor shook the building; followed by an ominous sound reverberating across the hotel. </span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">'Madness was afoot', thought Eric and cursed under his breath as the gash in his stomach worsened. Finding a door at the end of a dimly lit corridor, he opened it and descended the stairs to the basement below.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His Beretta stirred nervously in his hands as the looming darkness enveloped him in it's gloominess. As his eyes grew accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he could faintly see candles and glowing embers from the burning twigs lying around. The smell of scorched wood now intermingled into the heavy odor laden air. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eric inched his way to the walls, and looked around, in bewilderment, accessing his situation. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The hot air inside was like an invisible wall, thick with incense and something else, a sickly sweet something that made him gag. The murderous, twisted mobsters with shark smiles lurked somewhere ahead, like a spider at the center of it's web waiting. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Startlingly, Eric discerned in the dimly lit basement : a table, scattered with notes of demented arcane nonsense written in rusty blood, a mishmash list of demons, devils and dark gods evoked.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He might have laughed, if he had remembered how.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He turned round and found, to his amazement, that the room was stacked with light reading such as "Necronomicon", "Witchcraft", and "Paradise Lost". Old</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">exotic titles like "Malleus Maleficarum" and "Deumbrarum Regninoyem Portis"... Books with pentagrams on thier covers. All dealing with the Occult and the infernal lying between stacks of horror videos and a couple of Ouija boards. </span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The vapors in the air started to make his head swim, and he crouched in front of the table, gun in hand; waiting to shoot whoever came through the door. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It seemed like a cold day in hell. Searing pain shot through his temples, and he flinched in pain, dropping the gun in the process. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Suddenly, an ominous, head-splitting sound reverberated across the whole basement, piercing the silence. The sound was followed by a loud, eerie chant which was joined by the clickity clack of boots as if marching in unison. The clickity clack seemed to come closer to where he was, so he frantically groped for the gun in the darkness and having found it, stood up and tip toed to the door, listening intently. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Slowly and stealthily, he opened the door and slid out. The basement seemed to be a set, built into an old theater. Wooden stairs led to the backstage of the theater, lit by a sinister red and black light. Eric gulped down hard and ascended the stairs. He was stopped short midway by a menacing, thundering voice that chanted thus :</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"The Blood of Fallen Immortals! Come to me all! Asteroth, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Bapholada, Lucifer, Loki, Satan, Cthulhu, Lilith, Della! Blood, to you all! Shh..Secrets... living under the skin of reality. I've seen it, the corruption of flesh. I'm the wolf, yeah! I am the wolf! It's close, it's coming. You have come. The witness to the end, of time. It's now!"</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The words played with his head; pulling at it's roots, touching the chords, and before he could comprehend the situation, a cold, blunt instrument hit his head and he fell down the stairs, lying unconscious. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4;"><br /></span>
</b></span></div>
<b><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
</b><h2 style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Litany of Fear</span></b></h2>
<b><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span></b><div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>
When Eric opened his eyes, he could faintly discern two or three people surrounding him; their faces scarred, eyes bloodshot, and wearing a black hood similar to those worn by the Ku Klux Klan . They were chanting something under their breath and revolving around him, like moths attracted to light. Except this time, he was the prey and they were the spider.</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>This was indeed some sort of an occult congregation. A</b><b> most sinister one, at that.</b></span></div>
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<div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A giant fire burning in the center of the stage added a paranormal aura to the red and white surrounding. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Eric tried to move but his hands and feet were tied to a giant red cross. He was naked. His skin and flesh exposed to the scalding fire.</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>From out out of the frying pan and into the fire. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead and rolled down his cheeks. Tears glistened in his eyes, blurring hi</b><b>s vision. He thought he was going blind. </b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The black hooded people now sat in a circle, in the center of which was standing a tall, emaciated man clad in a dark red robe; his hood pulled down to reveal a terribly scarred face and eyes sunk deep into the sockets. The glare from the fire illuminated his face to show that he was rapidly mumbling something, a prayer of some sort.</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Black magic, maybe?</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>In his extended right hand was a glowing orange orb, which he slowly raised to his head; his blood shot eyes riveted on Eric, a menacing smirk dangling from his lips. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The chanting resumed and gradually grew from whispers to a tumultuous roar and then suddenly fell silent. The mysterious tall man lowered the orb and closed his eyes, a smirk still dangling from his lips. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>What happened next was all a blur.</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A staccato of gunfire ensued, followed by a rapid shuffling of feet and cries of pain as the bodies fell. Ear-splitting screams, maniacal laughter, and curses by the dying men completed the picture of a blood bath. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The gun had done the talking this time, not the cops.</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Had this been the Colosseum, people would have cheered or booed for a lack of spectacle. </b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was sort of ironical in a way. </b></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It is fitting to have been killed on the theater stage, they say. All the world's a stage, after all.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Outside, the wind groaned with cold. It was nearing daylight and had resumed snowing. The snow fell like ash from post-apocalyptic skies. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>All was silent.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The last thing Eric remembered before he was dragged into the crushing abyss of darkness was the face of the tall, emaciated man clad in a red robe, jelled into an expression of horror and ambiguity as a bullet sliced through his brain.</b></span></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-73369945264871583022015-10-22T01:38:00.001-07:002016-07-28T08:53:26.467-07:00The Fall of Icarus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>In the troubled twilight of a March evening, an old man, whose equipment and bearing suggested that he was fresh from travel, walked slowly across Brampton Road; and by the graveyard of St. Joseph's Church stood for a moment looking about him. His age could not be far from seventy, but, despite the stoop of his shoulders, he gave little sign of falling under the burden of years; his sober, light step indicated character rather than bodily feebleness and his grasp of a stout stick was not such as which calls for need of support. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>His attire was neither that of a man of leisure, nor of a kind usually worn by mechanics, he wore a garment which was something like a fisherman's guernsey. His trousers were old, shabby and flapping in the harsh wind that blew; his boots reached almost to his knees; for head covering he had a small cloth which he tied around like a bandanna. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b> To say that his aspect was venerable wouldn't serve to be wholly accurate, for there was too much of the past struggle and present anxiety in his countenance to permit full expression. It was a fine face and might have been distinctly noble, but circumstances were marred by Nature. Providence was equally to be blamed. He had long, thin white hair; his beard was short and grizzled. In his left hand he carried a bundle, which probably contained clothing. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The burial ground by which he paused seemed eerie at this time, but circumstances had made him too strong to be deterred by such trivialities. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The small trees that grew about it shivered in their leaflessness; most of the stones leaned this way or that, emblems of neglect, and certain cats and dogs were prowling or sporting among the graves. At this corner the east wind blew with malice such as it never holds itself where ever poorly clad people are to be pierced; it swept before it clouds of dust, mingled with light refuse from the streets. Above the shapeless, crooked houses, night was signalling a murky approach; a threat of sleet or maybe snow. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The old man had fixed his eyes absently on the inscription of a gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward along a narrow street. And on every side was the voice full evidence of toil and poverty; a pang of disgust and sorrow gripped his heart as he looked about him. Already he had seen a severed dog's head rotting in the gutter, its protruding tongue swollen with lice; half-naked infants throwing cobble stones at each other, their haggard faces distorted by rage and glee; he saw a host of spectres staring out of broken windows, their eyes hollow; their sex indeterminate, their flesh scarcely less grey than the rags that clothe them. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A disturbing number of them seemed to be housed underground, in basements accessible only by obscure stairwells or, in some cases, rickety ladders. Wet washing hung from window to window, speckled with soot; here and there a tattered bed sheet flaps in the breeze, like a flag whose distinguishing marks are marks of faded bloodstain brown. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and pondered ; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes had a stern resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly stopped where a woman was standing at an open door. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>'I ask your pardon', he addressed her courteously, ' but do you by any chance know of an old woman by the name of Greta here about?'</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The woman replied with a brie</b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">f negative; she smiled at the appearance of the questioner, and with a vulgar instinct, looked about for someone to share her amusement. With no one in her sight she turned round to face the man but he had already left, leaving her standing bemused and indignant.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night. As the night grew deeper, his resolve grew weaker; and with an explosive sigh he threw the bundle on an old cart, laid on it and within minutes was fast asleep. The icy blasts of cold wind pierced his bones and prevented him from walking any further. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It began to snow, slowly at first; and then the flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches deep and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The silence was broken at intervals by the chattering of the old man's teeth while snoring. All else was quiet, save for the creaking of crickets which resumed as soon the the snoring died away.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Suddenly, a light appeared in one of the windows of the house in front of where he was sleeping. A clamor was heard, followed by the breaking of glass and a faint shriek of a woman. </span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The old man woke up with a start and sat bolt-upright, straining his ears to hear the source of the sound. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Greta", cried the old man, and as if filled with a sudden burst of energy, stood up from the cart, picked up his bundle and walked toward the house.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The only light, in which his feeble,old eyes allowed him to observe the decrepit dwelling in which he was about to enter, emanated from inside the house; and the old man found comfort in the sound of a fire burning inside the hearth.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, it brought the old man to the conclusion that this must have been some sort of a tavern at some point in time. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He knocked on the door which was instantly replied by something hitting the door, which broke on impact, probably a glass. The bang which resulted from it made him recoil in horror; but he straightened up and advanced once more.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Upon nearing the door, he peered closely to realize that the door was partially open; so he pushed open the door which creaked loudly and immediately swerved to the right to avoid the jar that was hurled at him. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"Who goes there?" bellowed an old, feeble voice of a woman. ''Filthy rats!" she exclaimed, and dropping the block she was holding in her hands, sunk in her armchair and started singing in a hoarse voice :</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"When the sun refuses to shine, </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>when the sun refuses to shine, </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>O Lord, i want to be in that number, </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>When the Sain...wh..you filthy mongrel! Come back here!"</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>With surprising alacrity, she picked the poker from the hearth and pointed it at him, who had maintained his position this whole time.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"You can't hurt me. You..y..you can't." she whispered and broke into sobs.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The light from the fire was sufficient for him to study her face. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was a masterpiece, as if crafted by the very hands of Michelangelo. There were a row of innumerable creases on her forehead, an intricate pattern of wrinkles on her face which blended when she spoke. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh, if only she smiled; what a delight that would be. The blue eyes, of all, set her apart. Like two sapphires on a beach.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The emaciated hands that held the poker trembled as she sobbed until they were clasped by his hands, which caused her to look up. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He beamed at her, expecting her to scream in delight, smile at him, give some indication that he had returned, but alas, all he got was a blank tear-strained face, lost in the abyss of waiting.</b><br />
<br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Those three seconds felt like eternity. Silence reigned supreme in the room, save for the fire crackling in the hearth. If only it was him, instead of the log, burning in the hearth, then maybe there would have been far more embers to provide warmth for this poor soul. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He couldn't take it , and rivulets of tears rolled down his cheeks and fell on her hands when she suddenly raised them and placed them on his face, studying every crease, every border, every ridge on it till a smile started to dance on her lips as she wiped the tears from his eyes. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A smile is enough to rejuvenate a dying heart, they say.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>But alas, that too disappeared from her face as quickly as it had come, and the heart turned cold.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The same passive, dejected expression wore on her face as she sat down in her armchair and stared abstractedly at the fire.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The old man's face was contorted with emotions he himself could not perceive.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Agony, confusion, fear, despair.</b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Those sockets are empty, what could she be staring into? </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>If only I could pull out my eyes and give them to her so that she could see me!<br />All sorts of thoughts swirled in his mind as he racked his brain for solutions.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>He shook his head in shame and looked at her and found to his surprise that her head was lying limp on one side and her face was white as snow. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The old man recoiled in horror with his heart in his throat. He wanted to shout for help but his lungs ached and heart pounded until his legs gave way and he fell to the floor, lying unconscious. </b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Silence reigned in the room once more.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It was only pierced by the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the sighing of the wind outside. A perfect harmony.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>What serenity must Death enjoy, being the king of the immortals.</b></span></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-27145137313754097702015-06-04T06:35:00.000-07:002016-07-28T08:57:27.982-07:00Into the Fray<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>HUDSON RIVER - DAWN</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A blizzard, at the peak of its power. Visibility zero, Manhattan reduced to the hulking shapes of buildings on the banks.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai Petryovitch thrashes in the water, a long way from shore.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Somehow, somewhere, like a distant sound of a train approaching; he hears a familiar voice say,</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>''There's an army of bodies under this river. Criminals, people who ran out of time, out of friends ".</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A rumble starts to build, low but growing louder and eventually becoming a howling wind. Chunks of ice float in the dirty water around him. Nikolai's body freezing, skin turning blue. Heavy winter clothes saturating, like an anchor dragging him down. The rain was coming down like all the angels in heaven decided to take a piss at the same time. When you're in a situation like mine, you can only think in metaphors. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>''When you pray for the rain, you gotta deal with the mud. Everything is fair in this world, Nico, it's our choices that make 'em unfair ".</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Unable to control the kaleidoscopic whirl of thoughts swirling in his brain, Nikolai's face sinks below the surface...</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>A woman sleeps on the bead, curled up around a bundled baby. In front of her stands a black shape. A sturdy, well built man with his hand raised, clutching a Beretta. A smirk dances on his lips that soon turns into an ear to ear smile as the gun coughs twice. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Is this the final, peaceful memory of a drowning man? </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>''Mistakes are easy to make''.</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The figures disappear, like landscapes on a moving train.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai breaks the surface, gasping and struggling against the undertow. Not simply trying to breath...but trying to swim. His bones are numb with pain from the cold, icy water constantly piercing him; but he struggles.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Upon finally reaching the shore, he musters all his strength to crawl further away from the dreadfully cold river and then slumps down, unconscious. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>EXT. STREET (MHTN) - NIGHT</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Abruptly, the snow is gone. Just a bitter wind left in its place, whipping through desolate streets long after midnight. Drenched in that searing pain that felt like constant hammering in his head, Nikolai trudged on, leaving a trail of blood in his path. With one hand supporting the walls along which he walked and one hand covering the wounds in his chest from which the blood gushed out profusely, he looked for a place to spend the night. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was getting unbearably cold and the constant hissing and sighing of the wind was further deranging him. He was losing lots of blood, and desperately needed some sleep. He stopped for a moment in a dark alley; trying to regain his consciousness and energy, that was draining by the second. Nikolai sighed explosively and slumped down against the wall, completely losing his will to move on. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Slowly, painstakingly, he reached for the Beretta in his waistcoat when suddenly he was jolted back to reality. As if the rusted cogs in his brain started moving, he was gripped with a thought. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai had been here before. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Echoes from a not too distant past came to him, like a bad replay. His pupils become dilated and wiping the beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead, he rose from the ground. As if oblivious to the searing pain in his body, he straightened himself and walked</b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> swiftly through the dark alley and into another neighborhood. He stepped into the street with a foot in two worlds : the buildings are old and crumbling, but the shops inside are sleek and expensive. A jarring combination.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai walks up the street, brushing past homeless people and fashionistas jostling for the same space on the sidewalk. He stops in front of an old apartment building and frowns at it, trying to recall the apartment, and then climbs the stairs. The hallway is ancient brick, but the doors are pristine steel. Pausing at one with a dozen locks, Nikolai knocks.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The door cracks. An eye appears. Squinting, evaluating. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"You can't come here anymore", says a squeaky voice, probably drunk.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"Eric Dalton is dead", mutters Nikolai in a hoarse voice.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The door cracks enough to reveal the speaker : Travis, a skinny-fat in a sharp suit and sunglasses, shirt open a little far. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"You can't come here, i said. I'm done helping you. I've already...</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>(lowering his voice) </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>paid my debt to society, ya know? </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I've cooperated enough".</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"We need to talk. Won't take long".</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai follows Travis inside. Once they're inside, he slams the door behind him and with surprising alacrity, divulges a Beretta from his waistband and levels it at Travis. Pale faced and completely caught off- guard, Travis slowly stands up with his hands in the air and takes off his sunglasses, revealing a bruised left eye covered with a scar that ran from his brow to his nose and an eye patch covering the right eye. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"Remember me?" Shouts Travis, a smirk spreading on his face and letting the sunglasses fall to the ground.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>He cocks the gun.</b></span><br />
<br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In that moment, Nikolai examines the room they are in. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Deafening silence reigned in the room. A ring of candles in the center of the room provided the only light. A hint of warmth and a sickly sweet smell, like burning incense, drifted from it. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Its not enough to really see the PEOPLE inside. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He hears them CHANTING, low voices MURMURING in unison..</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Quick glimpses in the candle light, bare flesh writhing. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cast on the walls, corresponding shadows twist and shift..</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A black feather billows across the floor between the candles.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Spreading up the wall, a new shadow rises above the rest..</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'Why had he not seen them first?' Nikolai rummages in his mind, squinting in the darkness.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Travis smiles, noticing the water droplets trickling down the muzzle. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>He looks at Nikolai, his gaze penetrating the feeble, bloodshot eyes of the opponent; approaches him and lowering his gun, whispers in his ears, </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"No need for a drama, Paul. Come back to us. You were our finest. 'Nikolai' was only created as a collateral for our deal with Vlad. Come now, join us."</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>'Paul? What the heck is going on!' He racked his brains to search for answers but none came.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The sickly sweet smell of burning incense, along with the diabolical whispering made him dizzy. Paul staggered and was about to fall when the big, strong hand of Travis gripped his throat and rammed him against the wall. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It all came back to him. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Paul was strong, and he resisted the grip by shoving his knee in Travis' groin that made him fall on one knee and then broke his neck with a snap. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"ENOUGH!" A soft but loud voice emanated from somewhere in the darkness. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Breathing heavily, Paul strains to see detail in the dark room, a face materializes in the haze : a finely chiseled face with silky hair covering the brow, pink cheeks laced with tattoos, green eyes twinkling flames sunk in deep shadow. NATASHA FILLIPOVNA.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The words came to him blindly, like an animal instinct.<br />"MURDERER!" Shouted Paul, as he took a few steps towards her in the darkness.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"Patience, Paul. You're interfering our communion.''</b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">''Damn your communion! Tell me WHY!'' His eyes were bloodshot with hatred.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The silence was not broken by the other people sitting there. Such blind devotion! </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>She stood up and walked nimbly towards him. </b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Under the light she looked completely different. She looked pure. She looked beautiful. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But menacing nonetheless. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>She was clad in a big maroon robe that completely covered her except for her big, firm breasts that bounced as she walked. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His legs felt weak and his heart beat accelerated like a wild beast in a cage.</b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>When she was within arms length of him, she smiled, undid her robe and let it fall to the floor; and with a swift motion of her hand, pressed a 9mm Desert Eagle deep into his stomach and said in a soft, musical but sly voice, </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"Collateral damage, Paul. Our line of work is filthy.</b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> You knew that, right?"</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The gun coughed four times, piercing the deafening silence.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>His face was a mixture of emotions : joy, fear, ambiguity, sadness...</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>His head slumped on her bare shoulders, arms lying limply on her sides.</b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She shrugged in disgust, letting the body fall down ; and ordered the people to throw him out of the window. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She put her robes back on. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The sickly, sweet smell of death still hangs in the air, and sitting down cross-legged in front of the candles again, resumes her chanting. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></b>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>The windows are opened, and the body is flung out into the blinding snow. The windows are closed again.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Nikolai Petryovitch thrashes in the water, a long way from the shore.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>"I don't believe in heaven, but i have this idea about it. Something i heard in a song." </b></span></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-62886651045618013612015-04-20T00:34:00.000-07:002015-04-20T00:38:25.728-07:00Psycho-sphere <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Daylight. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>A train on the Warsaw and Peters-burg railway was heard approaching the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything from the carriage windows. Deafening silence reigned in the cabin and i sat propped against my suitcase, keeping a watchful eye on the passengers sitting opposite my seat. </b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>All of them seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a
shivering expression, while their complexions generally appeared to have
taken on the color of the fog outside. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>They feigned sleep, just like me. I know that for a fact, i know that look. They were watching my every move, as i was watching theirs. A second felt like a decade but no one moved, and with a swift motion i slid a hand into my jacket and lifting my arm, slowly brandished a knife and boldly stepped forward</b></span>. <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Lifting that knife over my head i was about to bring it down with full force when a terrible stench reached my nostrils and i recoiled in horror, dropping the knife and falling on my suitcase. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>My shirt was drenched with blood, so were my hands and face.<br />I had butchered them. I stood in that pool of blood with a smirk dangling on my face and turned my head to look across the window only to see that the train wasn't moving. <br />But the time was, really really fast. The day passed on rather quickly then usual, and the continuous tick-tick on my wrist watch increased in sound till it reached a crescendo and i had to cup my blood stained hands around the ears. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Everything went black then.<br /> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Its crazy living in that foggy, jumbled blur. Which is a whole lot like the ragged edge of sleep, that grey zone between light and dark, or between sleeping and waking, or living and dying, when you know you're not unconscious anymore but don't know yet what day it is or who you are or whats the use of coming back at all. If you don't have reason to wake up, you can loaf around in that grey zone for a long, fuzzy time.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b> The darkness was overwhelming, and i groped around to find something to sit on. I felt like drowning, but i wasn't dead, and that made me smile.<br />Suddenly, somewhere in that crushing, dark abyss i heard a shrill, metallic ringing of a telephone followed by a loud wailing of a child and i jolted back to reality.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Somehow, somewhere, a light penetrated my feeble eyes and i half opened them, squinting at it till i was forced to concentrate on the constant whirring of the fan revolving above me. It moved at a snail's pace and it sickened me, just like the fans in the rooms of strip clubs and cheap hotels with springy beds and sweet smell pervading it. I felt hot, bruised and battered, was i junkie out of drugs? Nah, i couldn't be. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Or maybe i was. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I had completely lost my bearing and with an explosive sigh i sat up and surveyed the room i was in. Pink and grey walls with their plaster falling off; cold,white, glossy tiles; a broken exhaust fan on the top right corner of the wall above a door which was roughened and squeaky from the constant slamming and greasy from the innumerable hands that touched it. Torn pornography posters which were losing their stickiness covered a pink wall and a blinking, neon light above the bed post.<br /> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>The room disgusted me, and putting aside the covers i stood up, putting on my pants and shirt and proceeded toward the door when a stifled breathing caught my ears and craning my neck i saw a woman lying on the bed, drenched in blood. A rush of adrenaline flowed through my veins and i quailed in terror. My face grew convulsed with fear, the eyeballs started out white and vivid and i fell to my knees. It was as if i had a seizure but i controlled myself and slowly, painstakingly crawled towards her.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Her face was convulsed, her eyes glassy. They darkened like indigo pools against her pale skin as she watched me kneel at her feet. Splinters here. Scratches. All things i could fix.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b> But i couldn't right now. My hands were still shaking. I'd almost lost her.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>The rage in my gut poured out through the veins. I barely held it in check behind the tightly clenched teeth.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b> "Did he hurt you?"</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>She murmured something but i couldn't hear her. I climbed on the bed and before i knew it my hands were on her waist, at her hips, up and down her arms and to her neck, holding it firmly. I stooped down to her face, tunneled my finger into the tangled fall of her on her temple, snugged it behind her ear and swore at the blood staining her lobe. My own pulse thundered in her ears.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>"Where are you hurt?"<br /> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>And then her hands were on me. Those strong, beautiful - bloodstained - hands were on my face. My heart skipped a beat, and everything stopped still in that fraction of a second save for her stifled breathing right at my face. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I shook my head in anger, clenched my teeth, and my face distorted into an evil expression and before she could reply i twisted her neck and broke it with a 'snap'.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I released my grip on her neck and stood up, wiping the beads of sweat on my forehead with those blood stained hands. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>The room didn't smell sweet anymore.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I felt triumphant, and all of a sudden started shaking convulsively as if with mirth, but my face remained perfectly sober. I winked at the figure lying in bed in a quiet repose, opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut behind me.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>It seemed that i had entered a long, white corridor with white, glossy tiles. The longest i had ever seen. There were iron doors on each side of me with iron grills in them through which i could feel dark eyes staring it me, nay, piercing me with them. <br /> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>But i felt happy. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I felt at home, and picking up a broom waltzed to a half remembered old tune, with my eyes closed and a smile dancing on my lips.<br />Hysterical, shrieking laughter with multiple hoots resounded all around me and i felt big. Bigger than i had ever felt since my Momma died. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Opening my eyes, i saw four or five shadows flying towards me.<br />Maybe they were running, i couldn't tell. They were coming after me brandishing swords and spikes, and throwing the broom aside i ran as fast as i could. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>But i wasn't scared, though. Not at all.<br />I felt big, bigger than i had ever been since my Momma died. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>I was clapping my hands as i ran and seeing a light shimmer at the end of the corridor i dived at it.<br />Maybe i had escaped.<br /><br />Ash, sulphur, white tiles, Aluminum.<br />I been away a long time.</b></span><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-23482440773879699392014-11-03T09:26:00.003-08:002014-11-03T09:26:37.202-08:00A tempest in a human skull<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<u>Paris, 1830</u></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The charred and blackened remains of what was left after the French Revolution constituted Paris. Dark, squalid, dilapidated and a smokey smell pervading the atmosphere. Paris during this time mainly consisted of overpopulated slums crammed with each other with a labyrinth of narrow streets creating a mesh. Beggars, thieves, vagabonds, escaped convicts and other parasites that infect the society were the chief inhabitants of this city. In short, nothing had changed after the Revolution. No vehicles were to be seen either in the morning or at night, as they were either robbed or were set on fire to provide for heat and warmth from the harsh winter. Happiness wasn't a choice, nor were there any means to acquire it from. Those people who were seen to be smiling or laughing were either deemed crazy or were killed, simply because there was no place for doubt : God had forsaken them, why then should anyone feel different? Gendarmes roamed the streets of Paris day and night, scanning for any unlawful activity and having caught the person, took him or her straight to the Gaol. It was true that they resembled hounds, nay, ferocious animals with their piercing gaze, waiting to catch the scent of their preys,who recoiled at their sight and cowered in the shadows, trembling from head to foot. Altogether, Paris was a boiling cauldron. The fiery tentacles of hell and the enveloping darkness never ceased to abate. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>All of this came into being as a result of Charles X, then the Count of Artois, succeeding the throne after the death of Louis XVIII. This was followed by bad harvests and hard winters, due to which the people in France were burdened with high food prices. Thereafter, there were clashes between the people in the streets of Paris and agents of authority. Business in Paris was at a complete standstill. Crowds were rushing through the streets with various instruments screaming : ''Down with the King!'' and ''to the Guillotine!''</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A sad sight indeed to behold.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was during this time that Pierre Tholomeys, a blacksmith working for the Gendarmerie, was faced with an opportunity : to take this distraction of the Gendarmes caused by the furor in the streets to his advantage, steal a horse and ride away from this wretched place as fast as he could. Since there was commotion everywhere, he faced no difficulty in stealthily slipping into their room and procuring what he thought would last him throughout his journey. The evening was slowly creeping over the land, and making use of the darkness, he untied a horse from the stable and rode off East in the direction of Montreuil. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>By daybreak he was in the open country with Paris a good distance behind him. He was wearied beyond endurance, having rode throughout the night. Feebly, with half opened eyes, he watched the skyline grow light, and was aware, without observing, of the chilly aspect of a winter's dawn. Morning, like evening, has it's ghosts. He did not see them but was still conscious, as though by their physical presence, of the dark shapes of trees and hills making their mournful contribution to his violently agitated state of mind. Passing an occasional isolated house at the side of the road, he thought to himself that there are people still sleeping! The clop of the horse's hoofs, the jingle of harness and the clatter of his sac containing various instruments over the cobbles were a monotonous accompaniment to his thoughts - delightful sounds when we are in good spirits, but most dismal when we are melancholy. It was evident from the sac being dragged over the cobbles that he was almost asleep and stooped low over the horse. The horse having completely wearied itself from trotting continuously without a stop had now stopped to catch its breath, causing Pierre to slide and fall on the ground. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The fall caused Pierre to start and open his eyes but had difficulty in doing so since the sun having now fully risen, shone its bright light which penetrated his feeble eyes and forced him to shade it with the back of his hand. He had lost all bearing and his mind was a kaleidoscopic whirl of thoughts. He slowly became feverish and a sharp pain in his leg caused him to scream in agony. Dark clouds had now blotted the sun as if they understood his plight, and grumbled as if to call for help. In a few moments, a heavy downpour lashed the earth accompanied by icy blasts of cold wind, and Pierre being already numb with pain made one last effort and crawled to his sac only to find it empty. This discovery further deranged him and made him question his reality until a heavy blunt instrument hit his head and he fell unconscious. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Nothing is more terrifying than to peer into the depths of a human conscience and that too we can't do without trembling. There is nothing more obscure, complex, mysterious and infinite than the human soul. To make a poem of the human conscience is to merge all epics into a single epic transcending all. It is the labyrinth of illusion, the furnace of dreams,and the battlefield of passions. To peer at certain moments into the the face of a human being in an act of reflection is to see something beyond their silence, is to discern struggle and conflicts of dragons and hydras, of the anger of Hades and the power of Zeus, of thunder claps and hailstorms. The infinite space that each man carries within himself, in which all the seasons are mingled with each other, and contrasts it with his spirit is altogether and overpowering thing. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Dante Alighieri found himself one day at a fateful doorway which he hesitated to enter. We too are confronted by such a doorway, and we too must hesitate but enter nonetheless. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Pierre Tholomeys was now confronted by such a doorway and he too hesitated to enter but was about to enter when a sharp blunt instrument hit his head and shattered his reverie. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Alas! Pierre Tholomeys was never a blacksmith, nor had he stolen a horse, he was but a servant to King Charles X and was on his way to the guillotine, the fateful mistress no one could deny. His face was haggard and covered with bruises from the blows he received from the butts of innumerable rifles, his eyes swollen and bloodshot from the lack of sleep; his hair was unkempt and covered his forehead from where some blood flowed from a gash, and was clothed in rags and tatters like the rest of the people around him that were either shouting, laughing, crying, throwing various things at him or dancing in ecstasy. The contorted and convulsed faces of men, woman, children with pitchforks, axes, and other instruments screaming their lungs out was a frightful scene to behold. The whole place was a pandemonium filled with the roar of thousands of people which rose to a shattering crescendo.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>But Pierre Tholomeys meeting the frightening gaze of the people merely managed to give a weak smile as he ascended the stairs of the stage, which further piqued them and made them raise their pitchforks at him. It was still raining heavily when he neared the 'mistress' and a sharp nudge from</b></span><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> the rifle in his back caused him to kneel in agony, his hands being tied, and with the serenity of a man resting on his own bed he placed his head on the guillotine and closed his eyes. A radiant smile had now spread on his haggard face and anyone who pitied him then would have guessed that he was thinking of his home in Montreuil, of him being there with his wife and singing a lullaby to his daughter that slept in his lap.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The clouds grumbled furiously which was followed by a thunderclap and finally the guillotine began to swish downward, gathering speed with a horrible, metallic whistle, towards Pierre's neck and cut it with precision, his head rolling down the stage toward the spectators who clapped and applauded the fateful event. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Darkness had now completely enveloped Pierre and he slept that peaceful eternal sleep.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>To die, to sleep, </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>to sleep, perchance to dream,</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Aye, there's the rub,</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>For in this sleep of death, what dreams may come.</b></span><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-47127561300494295732014-06-22T23:53:00.003-07:002014-06-22T23:53:45.730-07:00The Contour of our Shadows <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<u style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Paris, 1892</u></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Damien always woke up just before the dawn, maybe because he never slept much, or maybe because the darkness somewhat soothed him. As per routine, he would gather his tools and head towards the graveyard with a lantern to check on the condition of graves, but on this day, he went towards a mound overlooking an old farm down the hill. He dropped his tools on the ground, put the lantern beside him, crouched and after mechanically selecting a tool, started digging. Although the light emanating from the lantern was little, it nonetheless illuminated his face and highlighted his strong cheek bones, finely chiseled creases on his forehead, deeply sunken eyes and wrinkles around the mouth. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: bold;">The time around dawn elapses very rapidly and so, a faint light from the sun escaped the clouds and slanting towards him, radiated his figure. He was a tall, thin, pallid man with an unkempt beard and shriveled hair and his mechanical digging in the earth showed his dedication to his work. He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat ; his shirt open at the throat, and from time to time wiped the beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead with the back of his hand. Suddenly a light passed on his face, a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought. Lifting his eyes to the old farm down the hill, he heaved a sigh that was pregnant with emotions and sat beside the grave he had just dug up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: bold;">His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort; his whole world being limited to a few feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band. Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the flowers at his side in such numbers as to weigh them to the roots. The strange </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>colored butterflies which this graveyard produced, and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and revolved around him in a jovial sort of way. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers leaped over his feet, falling awkwardly on their backs, heads, or hips like unskillful acrobats; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations under the fern-fronds with the silent ones. Huge flies, ignorant of wire-netting, and in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing that he was a man. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>As the sun now showed itself in full splendor, small and large snakes glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being season immediately following the shedding of their old skins, when their colors are brightest. Litters of young rabbits came out of their forms and warmed themselves upon the hillocks, the hot beams blazing through their skin. None of them feared him.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The monotony of his occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure. He stooped down and with his emaciated hands touched a cockroach on his back, which immediately stopped and listened intently,its antennas ever attentive. A faint chuckle escaped his lips and his eyes brimmed with tears.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Hey there, little one. Want to hear story?" he said to the cockroach. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Saying this, he propped himself against the stone wall of the ancient cemetery, closed his eyes and started his usual soliloquy. a faint smile still lingering on his lips.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><u>Paris, 1772 </u></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was a time of turmoil and a time of joy. A time to make amends and a time to get punished for. A time when felicity and grief walked hand in hand and reigned in the streets of Paris. When thieves, beggars, vagabonds and drunkards lived like there was no tomorrow, laughing boisterously and dancing to a broken tune, their bodies gyrating in a disgusting manner. People roamed, or rather, crawled the streets day and night wearing rags and tatters, even the men of higher class had themselves drunk and roamed with the wild crowd. The whole city was overflowing with sewer and gutter refuse. It was altogether a shameful and disgraceful picture to look at, but well, that's how Paris suffered then. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was during this time that i arrived in Paris and was looking for a lodging for the night when i chanced upon a deserted street, and my intuition instantly told me that this was a bad sign. I immediately slipped into the darkness of an old tavern and waited for any signs of movement. I sniffed the wind and listened, but no avail. Quivering with fear, i came out of the darkness and had advanced only a few steps when the path became muddier and muddier. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Now i observed something rather extraordinary; the street was not deserted. Here and there were to be seen creatures crawling in a certain, vague, shapeless mass, which moved towards a light flickering at the end of the street. It reminded me of those heavy insects which drag themselves along from one blade of grass to another, towards a shepherd's fire. I was mortified at this sight and darted in the opposite way only to hear them crawling towards me and joined by more cripples, paralytic and blind men swarming around me. Also one armed men, one-eyed men, and lepers with their open sores. They emerged from the houses, from the side streets, from the cellars, howling, bellowing and screaming- all running towards the big fire at the end of the streets and that's where they forcefully led me.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Where am i?" i cried, with tears streaming down my face. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>They all answered with a burst of demonic laughter.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>At last we came to the great fire and then, it came upon me, something of a revelation : the city of thieves, a hideous blot on the face of Paris. A sewer from where there escaped a monstrous horde of people every morning only to return to this grotesque place to celebrate. People of all religions covered with painted sores, beggars in daytime and robbers at night, enacting prostitution and murder on the streets of this once famed city. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It was a vast square, irregular in shape, lined with crooked, hideous frames of old houses whose decayed, worm eaten walls presented an ungodly sight. Fires around which swarmed strange groups, roamed here and there. All was commotion, confusion and shouting. One heard shrieks of laughter, the wailing of children and the high pitched voices of women. The hands and heads of this crowd, silhouetted against the luminous background, made a thousand fantastic gestures on the wall behind. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Beautiful. Nay, ghastly, i would say. As soon as i regained my senses and my bearing, i had a bottle of beer in my hand and some woman's bonnet on my head. This was ludicrous, i shouted indignantly, and throwing the bottle and bonnet, stormed out of the company of this vile crowd and climbed the roof of an old shop, in order to have a clear view of the ceremony below and propping against the wall fell in contemplation. These poor souls weren't celebrating life, they were celebrating death. And what was more terrifying about it was that they knew it. These people were cursed. Nay, this wasn't witchcraft. They were being dogged by death the day they were born in this vile city. It was death that roamed the streets of Paris at night time, and not these people. Or rather, it was death disguised in their shadows. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Any time now", was the sentence which lingered in their minds everyday, every night, every waking moment. Thus, it was for this sole, unwavering reason that these men, women and children, armed with daggers and pitchforks reigned the streets of Paris at night and celebrated death in this obnoxious and repugnant manner. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Every night. These ceremonies were held every night for 17 years and more, till these souls finally succumbed to their shadows.</b></span><br />
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<u>Paris, 1892</u></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"....<b>Since time immemorial, death has been crouching in our shadows, ever watchful, ever attentive, to feast on the next soul it decides upon."<br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He finally heaved a sigh and opening his eyes, turned towards the cockroach.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Little one, do the dead ever dream?", he asked in a matter of fact way.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"I guess they do, they do dream. And a lot. Maybe, the dreams are the canvas on which the dead paint their sorrows. Eh? Let me know what you think."<br /><br />And saying this, he picked the cockroach between his forefinger and thumb and turned it over on it's back. The vigorous, spasmodic kicking and flinging of it's arms and antennas gave him delight, and he burst in a fit of demonic laughter, rivulet of tears streaming down his face.</b></span></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-74370429286145549402014-01-12T11:30:00.000-08:002014-01-12T11:52:54.749-08:00The Ballad of the Winds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A Sunday afternoon in a cold and windy November was slowly approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as the Helmcrow moor was being enveloped in a mist. It was at this precise moment in its nightly roll into darkness that the moor came into its particular glory. The solemn stretch of rounds and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom, the moor exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Slowly and gradually the place became full of watchful intentness now; for when other creatures sank brooding to sleep, the moor appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night its huge form looked as if it was waiting for someone, but it had waited thus for so many centuries with no one to keep it company save for the storm as its lover and the wind its friend. Civilization was its enemy, it seemed. And ever since the beginning of vegetation, the soil had worn the same antique, brown dress and it took pride in wearing it.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Even though Helmcrow or the wasteland, as people used to call it, was the most peaceful place one could find and with its majestic form spreading to as far as the eye could see, people abhorred it. Its bleak and dismal emptiness sucked the marrow out of them, as they used to say, and made them depressed and melancholy. But with no other alternative at hand, they lived and died a dejected life. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>At this point in time, you could discern albeit not easily, a crooked and weary form amid the gathering mist moving to and fro upon the moor. Upon close inspection after a while, the contour of a man becomes dimly visible sitting on a stool in front of a small fire. The red hot coals from the perishing fire greeted him like living eyes in the corpse of day and lighted his face. He was white headed as a mountain, bowed in the shoulders, wore a glazed hat and long boots. His whole figure was wrapped in a shawl but still his frame was shaking with the cold gusts of wind that had started blowing. He neither had a whisker nor a mustache and his lips were thin, and now and then there was a twitching as if he was often engrossed in thought. The old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze in the north east direction and then reverted them to the fire.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Silence reigned supreme, save for the chilly gusts of wind that were howling among the bushes and the chatter of the old man's teeth. He picked up a stick from the ground and was using it to shift the coals in the fire with considerable alacrity when suddenly he stopped. It might reasonably have been supposed that he was listening to the wind, which rose as the night advanced. The wind, it seemed was made for the moment, as part of its tone was quite special. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other and ricocheted against the objects in its way. Treble, tenor and bass notes could be found therein. People unaccustomed to this land would have found this conspicuous murmur of the wind to be ordinary, but in fact, it held a more deeper meaning.<br /><br />The frail, bony hands holding the stick started quivering as the surge of emotions swelled inside him and made his eyes well up with tears. He perpetually fought the urge to wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks and instead, closed his eyes. Listening to the winds engulfing him, caressing his wrinkled face with the remembrances of the past. These were no ordinary winds, these were the sea of voices, cries and laughter kissing the shore one last time before returning the next night. They were the wind chimes, the church bells and the laughter of the past Summer.<br /><br />A chirp from a blue bird broke his reverie, and he opened his eyes rubbing them, startled at the scene around him. It was a beautiful morning and he screamed with joy and with a smile across his face started jumping, amazed at how he could do that. A deep frown now settled on his forehead and he raised his hand and saw to his surprise that he was young again! But that didn't stop him in his tracks, because there she was : Rachel. The love of his life, the very name radiating happiness. Those blue eyes and those lips could make anyone swoon.<br />She was walking towards him in her favorite blue dress but she was walking very slowly, as if afraid of something. As she came closer he saw the look on her face, the look which made him scream in anger, '' Oh Helmcrow, what have you done? Bring Rachel back! NO!" But no sound came out of him nor could he move. She looked worried, nay, terrified. Her face was pale with fear, and on approaching him, she raised her hand and on touching his face she immediately crumbled into dust.<br /><br />Suddenly, a few drops of water fell on his face and blurred his vision, followed by a loud croak of a frog which brought him to reality. He wiped his eyes and watched it hop and jump into a nearby pond, an indication of rain. A peal of thunder further confirmed it and heralded the coming of a thunderstorm. What he uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something which had led to his presence there. There was an erratic abandonment about it, as if in allowing himself to utter the sound, he was accepting something. One point was evident in this, he was existing in a suppressed state and not one of languor.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The mist had cleared by now and the gathering dark clouds further enveloped the moor in its gloominess. The bells had started ringing to call those who were outside back to their houses. The old man stood up and wrapping his shawl around him more tightly, retraced his steps from memory towards his home, guided by the sounds of bells.<br /><br />The die is cast. <br />But even now, if you were to venture to Helmcrow moor at night at that precise spot, you could hear the winds hissing and sighing as if it never ceased to converse.</b></span><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-27964160633609752312013-10-06T10:02:00.000-07:002013-12-17T08:53:42.653-08:00Soliloquy of Silence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A </b><b>dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on </b><b>the eerie, abandone</b><b>d street. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night and the hissing and sighing of the </b><b>wind am</b><b>ongst the trees carried a macabre touch with it, as if the rustlin</b><b>g leaves were having a conversation with the wind. The colored and wrinkled leaves on the road suggested the advent of autumn and their dancing on the wind presented an ironic sight, as if they were bursting with joy and life after being withered from their branches. There was a flurry of movement behind a hedge and a figure soon emerged clad in a reefer jacket and worn out jeans, hands thrust deep into the pockets. He walked with a cautious tread lest he should disturb the fugue of excitement that the night had chanced to bring about, but, each footstep produced a resonance which pierced the night and replaced the howling of the wind with indistinct, receding voices and laughter that chased him until he reached the porch of an old, abandoned house.</b></span><br />
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<b>The door creaked open, moving open a centimeter at a time, it could move faster but the door had grown moldy and soft with water and neglect. Once inside, the sheen from the moonlight slanting through the broken window illuminated the room and revealed a poignant scene. A thick coating of dust and mold encrusted everything. The once, grand wooden staircase was now thick with dust and dust covered papers were strewn on the stairs, each paper a burning memory. Old teacups lay on the coffee table, thick with dried up mold, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew and stale air. Silence reigned supreme in the house, and its only occupants weaved their webs from the spindle of the stair banisters and and from the ceiling to the wall. Each mote of dust dancing in the moonlight carried a voice, a laughter, a cry, a shout, a silence. Until tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down the cheeks, his legs became weak and he lay on the floor, sobbing explosively, hands outstretched, crying for redemption. </b></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, drown yourself in your guilt, go tell yourself nothing is worth smiling at, let that sonorous voice echo into your conscience and convince you that this is what happiness sounds like. Maybe we're all stories in the end, read by fractured, depressed and guilty souls in silence, reflecting on their lives. Perhaps i am redemption, or perhaps i am damnation. I am the songs left unsung, the stories left unwritten, the pause between each telephone ring, each honk, and each...sob. I am the cloud pregnant with emotions and anticipation hovering over every soul. </span></b><br />
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<b>The crisp, musical rustle of her gown on the polished, wooden surfaces of the stairs is what you could have cherished. The fresh, rejuvenating perfume of her skin is what you could have yearned for. The child curled up in a white blanket in her lap is what you could have smiled at...but you..you apathetic being turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to her and now, after all these years rings the familiar telephone ring somewhere in the pit of your brain, erasing the memories into wisps of smoke which fade into the background, like landscape on a fast moving train.</b></span><br />
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<b>A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on an eerie, abandoned street. In this circular area stood a woman with a bundle of white blanket in her hands, rocking to and fro, shivering, shrieking and vibrating with cold at the same time, like the shrill, piercing urgency of a telephone ringing somewhere. </b></span></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-37007962838878768732013-06-24T04:54:00.000-07:002014-02-25T06:17:03.855-08:00The Wandering Zephyr<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It was a lovely night, one of those nights, dear reader, which can only happen when you are young. The sky was so bright and starry that when you looked at it the first question that came into your mind was whether it was really possible that all sorts of bad-tempered and unstable people could live under such a glorious sky. The mention of bad-tempered and unstable people reminds me that my behavior during the day and in fact during all other days has been reproachful.<br /><br />When i woke up in the morning, i felt strangely depressed, as i did every morning. The disheveled hair covering my forehead, the reek of piss and vomit from my bed indicating that i didn't changed them since a week, and the disorderly state of my room completed the picture of a man depressed with his life and an enemy of himself. I must confess that i liked my room this way, for it made me aware of my conscience and i didn't trust the maid. She would barge into my room every morning to clean it which resulted in my cursing and swearing oaths at her till tears glistened in her eyes and i was forced to stop and let her clean it. Oh how a girl's tears have the ability to pierce the strongest of hearts!</span></b><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am spiteful. i am vile, base and impudent. I am a sick man. Forgive me, dear reader, as you must be cross at my disdainful demeanor but it really relieves me by expressing myself so. I have not been able to make a single acquaintance during all the years i have been living in Baltiysk, Russia. But what do i want an acquaintance for? I know the whole of Baltiysk without them. Every Sunday night i would go to Hob's market where half a million workers, men and women, with their children spill into the streets like a flood, flocking to certain parts of the town, all through the night, till five o' clock in the morning, eating and drinking like beasts. The people swarm round the open taverns and into the streets, eating and drinking everywhere. It was as though a ball had been prepared for them, the public houses were as gay as palaces. I, however, did not take part in the festivity and felicity but rather enjoy watching the expressions on their gleaming faces but at the same time feel sorry for my unhappy state. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Suddenly, new jobs were being available in the country and the whole town leaving for them. It terrified me to be left alone, and for three days i was racking my brains in trying to find if something was wrong with me. I would no longer see and meet the old familiar faces that i used to see every morning, and it hurt me to even think about it. It is true, i am a complete stranger to the people on the street, but they are not so to me, i know them rather intimately, for i have made a thorough study of their faces during my wanderings in the street. I am happy when they are happy, and i am sad when they are sad and downcast. This particular old beggar used to wave his cap and blanket at me whenever i left my house, and i did the same to him.</span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The houses too, are familiar to me. When i used to walk along the street, they seemed to be running before me. They would gaze through the windows and practically say to me, " Good morning, how are you? I am fine, thank-you They are going to add another storey to me in April", or " I was nearly burnt last night, oh how withered i am now, i was so terrified!"</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It seemed as thought everyone and everything had left the city for good, as it looked like a desert now. Perhaps they had started to dislike my company and my presence After a day or two, the houses too, had lost their charm and gaiety with which they saluted me every morning and looked forlorn and sad. I had no excuse to go to the country, as i had no cottage or relative to go to.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Days and months flew by but the deafening silence which prevailed in the city was not broken, for i strained my ear against the window pane for the slightest sound of their arrival. During my lonely walks in the day, i noticed that even the birds had stopped singing, as if they were hurt that nobody liked them and had forsaken them because of their incessant noise. </span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After getting dressed in my usual clothes and an overcoat, i left the house in search of them. for it was impossible that they should forget me. I walked for hours and hours and, as usual had for some time been completely oblivious of my surroundings, when i found myself near the toll gate. I felt cheerful at once and stepping beyond the gate, walked along the road between fields of corn and lush grass, unconscious of any fatigue and feeling with every breath i drew that a heavy weight was being lifted from my heart. There is something incredibly moving in the way nature, with the coming of spring, suddenly reveals herself in all the glory, splendor and blossoms out with flowers....She reminds me of that girl, ailing and faded, upon whom you look with pity and compassionate affection, but who in the twinkling of an eye, becomes by some magic chance indescribably fair and beautiful, stunned and fascinated, you ask yourself what power it was that made the sad eyes gleam with fire? what caused the rush of blood to her pale face? What brought the passion to that sweet face? Why her bosom heaved so wildly? What was it that filled the face of the poor girl with life and vigor and forced it to light up with so brilliant a smile and so contagious a laugh? You look around and wonder who it could have been, you begin to suspect the truth. But the brief moment passes, and tomorrow perhaps you will encounter the same forlorn gaze, the same remorse in her eyes and traces of vexation in her movements. And you feel sorry that the beauty, so suddenly evoked, should have faded so irrevocably and so to little purpose that she did not even give time to fall in love with her. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Suddenly, a loud boom occurring at intervals reverberated across the land and shattered my reverie. It happened in a bell-tolling sequence, perhaps it was a bell tolling. A wedding? A hanging? It could be anything. A tear glistened in my eyes and the cheerful countenance which i had just now, faded away. I turned around and walked back the way i came, dejected and dispirited eyes downcast.<br />And so, i would always wander away in search of my dear friends and in search of solace, oblivious of my surroundings, drowned in my own thoughts, until the 'sound' would reach my ears and would force me to retire back to my home.</span></strong><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-4997839902508839412013-06-20T02:30:00.000-07:002013-06-20T02:35:35.029-07:00Whisper of the Sirens<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<u>KAZAKHSTAN,</u> (1)</h2>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>From the ramparts and their jagged towers, the village of Balkhash presented a wonderful sight. Woman paced through the market, a blue blur of burqas. Children guided goats through the crowds, struggling to avoid the throng of cyclists . Pigeons wheeled in the sunset. Various birds squawked from treetops in an evening chorus joined by barking dogs below. Some street mongers pushed trolleys along, selling scrap metal and pieces of plastic. Sheep entails hung over the bicycle handlebars of a butcher's shop. A row turbaned 'white beards', the elders of Balkhash, sat on a mosque rooftop talking among themselves while they waited for the call to prayer. On the mud roofs around them, boys of all ages ran here and there, shouting and chasing each other wildly amidst the smoke drifting upwards from the kitchens below. Many were flying home made kites which fluttered in the breeze, gathered around the sun like excited moths. In the distance, lights were being turned on in the sixteenth century mosque. Further off, hovering over the Balkhash like a dark cloud was the black crayon smudge of the Paripomosus mountains.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Then it came, first the crackling, croaky whir a large intake of breath and them, the melodious voice of the muaddin calling the faithful to the evening prayer. As the call continued, a tide of men, swelling by the minute, flowed across the city towards the mosque, and the white beards descended from the roof to pray. High above the street, a man stood on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the low parapet, surveying the scene with delight. He was clad in torn shirt and jeans and raising his cellphone to his face he muttered something and closing his eyes, pressed a button. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It seemed like everything and everyone had stopped. The time had completely ceased to move forward and the only sound that was heard was the ticking of the second hand until the minute hand moved forward and then, it all happened. An immense explosion erupted near the mosque in a ball of fire and all the shops, stalls, cars, people and houses disintegrated and disjointed as a beast pulls its prey limb from limb. The fire and smoke spiraled up into the air and the twisted, blackened remains plummeted to earth with breathtaking speed. Madness began.<br /><br /><br /> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The DC-8 landed with a short bump and taxied on the runway to the airport where it was to line up with the corrugated disembarkation tube. The exit door opened and i stepped into the tube and came out on the terminal floor, passing tow or three airport employees who eyed me suspiciously. Oh well, its their job, i thought, and moved on. There was a man standing at the end of the platform. He was of middle height, with dark hair and black, cold eyes. I recognized him immediately : Nathan Lloyd. He was dressed in a black suit and overcoat but his forehead was accumulated with beads of sweat and looked worried. As he came forward to greet me, his worried countenance jelled almost instantly into an expression of pure shock. It was then that i observed , almost subconsciously, that he was looking to his right and not at me. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>In that small fraction of a second, i caught a glimpse of a man in grey suit to Nathan's right with a pistol raised to his head as he pulled the trigger of his silenced Walther. He jerked convulsively and fell on his face on the floor, as the assailant made his escape. My senses were numb and i couldn't react, waves of nausea engulfed me and my stomach was in a knot. On noticing the dead body riddled with bullets, the whole terminal was soon enveloped in furor and madness. In this commotion, i lost my bearing due to the pushing and nudging of people running by but soon regained my balance and on impulse started towards the door of the second terminal.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>On my way there, i found myself correct as the first terminal was flooded with screaming people. Suddenly, i saw the man in grey suit making his way past the door of the second terminal. I darted towards it and tried to pass through but the damned door was blocked by a person trying to enter. A girl. I dodged to the right and she dodged to the left. I dodged to my left and she dodged to her right. Check. You can see the same performance take place any minute on a city pavement when two over polite people succeed in blocking each other's way. I looked up to see her face but right then, a heavy, blunt instrument hit my head and i fell on the floor, lying unconscious. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>When i opened my eyes, i found myself seated on a chair with my face on the table in front of me. I guessed myself to be in a cabin of a boat or ship with a single light at the end of the room, as it was swaying side by side. I tried to sit erect but couldn't, and my face and body ached painfully. My head was swarming with unconnected places and people and my thoughts were a kaleidoscopic whirl. I couldn't focus correctly but on shaking my head, i made out some pictures on the table and two large hands picking them up and putting them down. There was a brass knuckle on his right hand, from which i judge, i got the bruises on my body.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Silence reigned in the room save for my muffled groans, and after a lapse of some time , a hoarse voice spoke in an Italian accent from the darkness in front of me. He was probably fat and short necked.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"You scoundrel! You failed us, dammit. You've failed us ALL!", exclaimed the fat guy.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Kazakhstan, the Mosque, You ruined my plan. Nathan Lloyd, shit, he was YOURS, goddammit! It was a good thing i tested you, you mole. Look for yourself, you twerp!" </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He threw the pictures at me, and i found to my surprise, that it was me in every picture. How could that happen? I gasped in horror and recoiled in my seat.</b></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Ten years of my planning gone down the drain. Ten years! Hell, you were my best man, Brain. I relied on you. But, no....NO! You do not get a pardon this time. This time...you sleep with the fishes!" He shouted in anger, and pounding his fist on the table he cursed at me in Italian and pointing his burning cigar at my face, whispered in my ear the words, " Brian Cain". </b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Brian Cain. Brain. Oh God, no, this cannot be. And then, it all came to me. Everything. And before i had time to assemble my thoughts together, i was lifted off my feet and thrown into the sea. Struggling against the current in vain, i kept myself afloat and saw to my horror, barrels of oil being emptied into the sea. I was slowly losing my balance as the waves pounded and engulfed me, and the last thing that my eyes could register was the light of a flickering flame coming towards me. Everything turned black after that. </b></span></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-13577776280931580892013-01-26T07:08:00.000-08:002014-02-25T06:18:56.506-08:00Of Dust and Ashes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The moon, looking as ageless as ever, peered through the wisps of clouds and graced the graveyard with it's graceful splendor The time of the night when the churchyards yawn and profound silence reigns supreme. When the owl hoots it's mournful song, careful not to disturb the dead, when the hum and murmur of the crickets and grasshoppers blend into a chorus which gradually ascends with the passage of night. This is the time of the night when softly and deftly, the music of the night caresses you and then secretly possess you.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The wind fell; it's distant moaning were more low and mournful, carrying with it the hum and hiss and clatter of the train passing by. By degrees, it lulled and died away; and then it came onto snow. The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches deep and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. Rows and rows of venerable gravestones dotted the churchyard, and were slowly being enveloped by the falling snow. The Church, with it's low, cracked arches, fragments of blackened walls and foliage and overgrown grass crowding the porch indicated that it was built many hundred years ago. Besides the Church was a small house with a quaint, thatched roof with walls that were blackened by time. This is where the old Sexton lived. The door led to a small room, with two old windows on either side of the door and a large hearth. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with age, a table which had a pile of papers and the Bible upon it and a bed. On one of these chairs sat the Sexton, wearing a black wool jacket. His eyes were deep and sharp, but they had a peculiar shade under them. There were deep creases on his forehead which showed that he mused a lot, he had grey, unkempt hair and his emaciated hands, like his body, were worn rough by the constant digging and repairing of graves. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He sat hunched on the chair with his chin on his chest, eyes inward. One would have thought that he was asleep, but in truth, he was thinking. Thinking about the grave he had recently dug and the person he had laid to rest in. A few tear drops still remained on his cheeks, and wiping them with the back of his hands, stood up and leaning on his cane, approached the table. Holding the jug of water with both hands, he poured it in the glass, but halfway through, it slipped from his hands and fell on the floor. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Frowning in vexation, he turned towards the hearth and shouted, "Marge...Margret! Where is my darned juice? I've told you to keep it with in my reach! Old hag, never learns." </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Muttering the latter part under his breath, he returned to his chair and sitting down, sighed explosively.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"You look adorable with those wrinkles, David, try smiling sometimes. Lights up the face", returned a woman's voice, chuckling.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Yeah, yeah. Butter me up. Keep sewing your whole life, and clean the hearth! The ash is piling up", bellowed the old man, scratching his head in anger.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">" Yes sir. What would you do without me, i wonder?" </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A chair was pushed back, there was some shifting of feet and the sound of the poker being used to shift the coals in the hearth was heard. The old man shook his head in dismay and resting his head in his hands, cried uncontrollably. Hysterical sobs bubbled out, tears ran down in rivulets, blurring his vision. All this time, an almost deafening, painful and stressful silence filled the room.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At last, he wiped the tears from his face with his jacket sleeve, and holding the sewing cloth tightly in his hands, spoke softly, "Mar..Marge? Margret It's me, David. Would you like some juice? An om..omelette, perhaps? Oh, you do? Ha ha! You naughty girl, i can't cook. Its c..c..cold outside, Marge. Oh how my bones creak! You want some flowers? I'm going outside. You look pretty, Margret. K..keep sewing, i'll be back." Smiling and chuckling as he talked with gestures of hands, he stood up and leaning on his cane, approached the door. A gust of cold wind rushed inside the room as he opened it, and smiled, " Yes, Marge, i heard you, some sunflowers too." Chuckling and talking as before, he trudged forward, closing the door behind him.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The old church bell rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the dead and unheeded warning to living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping. </span></b></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-1791562761445927362013-01-12T00:35:00.001-08:002014-02-25T06:20:21.320-08:00Fear in a handful of dust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Paris, France.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> The Blue Ripples International Airways landed with a short bump and then slowly taxied its way on the runway towards the Charles De Gaulle airport. It was forty-five degrees in Paris, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. The snow from the previous days had blanketed the whole airport. Frank Adkins of the British Embassy disembarked the plane and had simply no difficulty going through the corrugated disembarkation tube which linked the airport and with a slight, cunning expression on his face, he entered the security check.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Going through the security monitor he felt ostensibly anxious for some reason and after coming out of it he heaved a sigh of relief. Three policemen near the check point were talking to each other in a jovial kind of mood like a college student has when talking with his friends and when he came near them, the smile on their faces disappeared and changed into a slight frown. Their eyes were glued to his briefcase for some dim reason and in that frozen moment in time ,he really felt that there was something truly dreadful with his luggage and then, the inevitable happened. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> He was always scared of these moments since his childhood, and when one of the policemen yelled at him, he totally ignored him and kept on walking. The policemen then revealed his silenced Walther from the waist band at the small of his back and aiming on him said, ‘‘stop right now or I’ll shoot your head off! You understand?!” and then, at that very moment he seized his opportunity and darted to the door. He could hear the ricochets of bullets behind him but paid no heed to them and reaching at the door he almost stumbled, but had caught the handle of the door and rushed out.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> High above the street, a figure crouched on a flat rooftop, elbows atop the low parapet. He was holding a MR-k41 bolt action sniper rifle and his eyes peering through the sniper’s lens were focused on a particular target on the street. He took his Nokia cell phone from his olive green army holdall and after punching the redial button he placed it on his ear. In a deep, hoarse voice he said something in Russian, and after listening for sometime, he put his phone away and looked through the sniper’s lens. The figure on the rooftop shifted his gaze for a moment to see if someone was looking at him or not, capturing everyone like a mega pixel camera. People of all shapes, sizes, religions, walking, staring mindlessly, standing undecided, lounging, slouching, smoking, getting on and off vehicles, talking to one another, plugged into I pods, shopping, eating on the run, kissing goodbyes, cuddling, arguing, saying bad words, forgetful, cell phones glued to their ears, hunched, drunk, fighting with one another, first- date embarrassments and mumbling to themselves. Suddenly his gaze was distracted by the bellowing and yelling of the people on the street. He quickly peered through his sniper’s lens and found his target running with the cops on his tail. Aiming on his target he shot one, two, three times and then stopped. Madness began. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Frank was running on the sidewalk with all the strength he had albeit his legs were killing him, but was suddenly grabbed by the lapels of his trench coat and was pulled inside a dark alley beside the sidewalk. His stomach churned up and was in a knot, fear surged through him but when he looked closely in the eyes of the man who pulled him in; he saw to his surprise that it was a girl. A short, middle-aged girl with a pale face and dark eyes. He was about to open his mouth to speak but she grabbed his arm and led him towards the door with a sign post that said ‘Hades inn’.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> Inside it was dull and overriding, two large fans revolving in a low ceiling. There were several booths against the walls, a scattering of marble topped tables across a floor with black and white tiles. There were high stools on the long mahogany bar, bottles on glass shelves against the mirror behind. A large, handsome black man with graying hair was constantly polishing glasses, Tom Curry, the barman. Only two people were sitting at the darkest corner of the room, talking discreetly amongst each other. The girl stiffened her grip on his arm and as they came near those men on the table, her hand was slowly turning into a tight fist as though she was about to hit them but she suddenly relieved herself and stepped back from him as if it was his turn to go in the noose. The man with the broad shoulders stood up, his face calm, and looked at him, “What’s your name, old son?”, he asked him, there was a hint of Russian in his accent and calming himself, he replied, “ Frank, sir, Frank Adkins”. The man with the broad shoulders nodded in satisfaction and sat down. Frank hesitated for a moment and then sat down, putting his briefcase between his legs. The man removed his cap, and ran a hand nervously over his hair which he’d dyed black and then turned to him. “The name’s Melvin, Melvin Strauss. I’m the head of the DCRI here, that’s French intelligence. The thing that concerns me is the briefcase that you’re carrying, nothing else”. Frank swallowed hard enough to choke himself up, then replied with ease, “my personal belongings are in that case sir”. Melvin patted vigorously on the shoulder of the man sitting at his side and said angrily, “even though my brother here doesn’t speak English but is quite efficient with weapons, and so, if you refuse to answer me, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to blow your kneecap off, you understand!” At that moment, his brother took out the silenced Beretta from the pocket of his overcoat, took out the magazine, checked it, and then rammed it home. He was thunderstruck, beads of sweat came trickling down his forehead, his throat became dry, and before he could reply, a huge, blunt instrument struck his head, and in minutes, everything seemed to drown into the abyss. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Goddamnit!” shouted the man on the rooftop, and kept on cursing himself while he was collecting his gear, and then stood up, picked up his army holdall, and proceeded towards the stairs, the rifle slung on his chest. He took out the cell phone from his jacket, punched the redial button, listened for a while and then closed it. He had failed his mission; he knew that pretty well, his career, his fame, was now all drowned just because of one silly mistake. He went to the curb on the road, and amidst the huge furor on the street, he waved to the van that was approaching him, slid open the door and jumped in. “So how’d it go, me ould son?” came a voice from the front. “It went as planned”, he replied and sat back, relaxed on his seat as the van started to move. “To tell you the truth, if I were you, I would never lie in front of my boss”, the man said. “Go to hell!” Came the reply to him from the back, and at that moment, some hands grabbed him from the rear, the man in the front turned around in his seat, raised his gun, and shot him between the eyes, killing him instantly.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Frank was all of a sudden shaken from his reverie with the sound of the keys that were rattling in the door. He opened his eyes and saw that he was situated in a room not big from his own, and had seen better days. The only light coming in the room was from the window above him that was too far to reach. The door flung open with a bang, and he saw two men appear in reefer coats, coming towards him. At the sight of those men, he stood up, went back a few steps and then lurched at them, hands crawling on their skin with a fierce anger that was beyond their control and then, one of the men divulged a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer from his coat, and the other one punched him hard in the kidneys that made Frank lose all his strength, and crying in agony, he fell on the floor on one knee. All of a sudden, the fluorescent bulbs above him were opened, letting out light that penetrated into his sullen eyes, weakening him, and illuminating the whole room. The man with the gun had now concealed it in his coat, pulled a chair in front of him, and sat on one himself. “Have a seat Mr. Frank; we have some real questions that need some straight answers, okay? Now straighten up and be a good lad, and by the way, Erich’s the name”. Frank stood up and sat on the chair given by Erich, and after glaring at them furiously for some while, he said wryly, “Is that a fact, now?” </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> “I’ll give the spanking of your life, you cheeky old bastard! Do as he says!” bellowed the man beside Erich with enraged fury in reply to Frank’s statement, and lurched forward in an attempt to hit him but Erich got in his way and grabbing him by his collar, took him to the corner and said in his ear discreetly, “ you get out of this Johnson, don’t spoil this one now, we can catch the fish when its still in the bloody net, you understand?” “Fair enough”, replied Johnson, his face red with anger. Frank glanced at Johnson and noticed the prominent scar on his face that ran from the corner of his eye to his nose, which along with his long hair gave him altogether a more sinister look. </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Sorry for that, that’s my brother, he can get stupid sometimes, especially when it comes to interrogation. Anyways, where was I now?”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“The damn questions! Now don’t get all Gestapo with me here, okay?” Frank frowned and lit a cigarette from the Zippo lighter provided by Erich that now dangled from the corner of his mouth.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Ah yes, so, how did you happen to come to Paris?” asked Erich, a sly smile dancing on his lips.</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Paris? Well, obviously for vacation!” Frank answered back thoughtfully. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Okay, then would you care to tell me that why, on a vacation like this, would you be carrying a aluminum briefcase comprising of two .32 AK assault rifles and a Belgian automatic, which I’m afraid would be your only luggage?” inquired Erich, a slight ironic smile had now appeared on the corner of his mouth.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> Frank sat facing him motionless and in complete horror, his face pale, he tried to speak but nothing came out, actually felt his bowels move, and so, he ran his hands on his face, straightened up, and then, looking at Erich, he told him the worst, stuttering in between. After hearing what he wanted to, Erich took out his silenced Walther from his coat, and aiming at Frank he said merrily, “ all’s well that ends well, my friend”, and then, the last thing Frank heard was the laughing of those people as the Walther coughed once, swaying Frank on one side, his eyes staring into oblivion. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> John Hopkins was making scrambled eggs and sausages in his kitchen and was humming the Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony simultaneously, when the phone rang, he cursed at whoever it was, then went over to answer it. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“John here, who is it?” </b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“It’s me Carter, something bad has happened, Johnny boy”, there was a slight pause, he sighed, and then continued, “Frank blurted it all out. He's dead. Gunshot wound.” </b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>“Holy God!” exclaimed John, and then the line went dead.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He stood there with the receiver still in his trembling hands, thinking of it all, replaced it, then went to his door, he paused for a second to hear the rain that was still drumming relentlessly against the roofs, got his rain coat on, opened his umbrella and went out. The rain increased the intensity of cold and was followed by a loud peal of thunder. A few gunshots and shrieks were also heard outside but were soon drowned in the ascending sound of thunder and rain. Inside the house, the phone rang for several times and then stopped.</b></span></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-34514837404408813422013-01-11T22:27:00.001-08:002013-06-23T06:40:57.609-07:00Fear is the key<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DrGAiHJgjLRq1yXny-gAsoDmuebhzzTrbYHpUtuXAxRfLdC2WNkasx4gXkqPIaqNKkHTmralza9Un1TWspbKC-yhyGdkzc6idrlNNzY9WX4grakVnLfA4QmMyUwPkFhHuDV_QTikZZM/s1600/3951141957_f15c0aece7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DrGAiHJgjLRq1yXny-gAsoDmuebhzzTrbYHpUtuXAxRfLdC2WNkasx4gXkqPIaqNKkHTmralza9Un1TWspbKC-yhyGdkzc6idrlNNzY9WX4grakVnLfA4QmMyUwPkFhHuDV_QTikZZM/s400/3951141957_f15c0aece7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> (Written when in grade ninth) </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> "Boom!" Every thing suddenly went quiet; there was a blast nearby the prison and the guards darted towards it. I sat gazing at the pitch-black wall thinking what to do with only a strip of light coming through the open window. I was tightly tied with ropes on the chair and suddenly I saw something gleaming in the darkness and could not make what it was but when I looked closely, I saw that it was a key, which had fallen from the guards pocket when he ran to examine the blast.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Somehow I loosened and freed myself from the taut ropes, picked up the key and went into the guard’s room to find some kind of weapon to defend myself in case there is a need. I delved thoroughly, under the table, in the closet, everywhere one could imagine them to be, but had failed to find one. Suddenly, I heard some disturbance outside the door and so, I looked around, spotted an opened window, dashed towards it, and then jumped out. The guards had started searching for me and had even alerted the police. They opened the cages of the guard dogs, which barked constantly and started to sniff for my trail. All of a sudden, I heard the policemen coming and surrounding the prison. I was wearing a white outfit of some kind that could easily be seen, so I stuck close to the wall, found a stinky drain and lowered myself in it. The mud in the drain camouflaged my dress, enabling me to escape unseen. Gradually, the morning light was trying to come through the emerging clouds. Half stumbling, I moved towards the riverbank and ahead of me loomed a forest. I could still hear behind me the noise made by the guards and the dogs that were persistently looking for me. In order to hide quickly from them, I started running towards the forest through the clearing. The winds were now wailing fiercely and the dark clouds had simultaneously engulfed the entire sky leaving the valley enveloped into its gloominess. My clothes were all torn because of the thorns in the bushes that kept getting in my way, and the legs were killing me with a pain that would not recede away, due to which I was dying with thirst. It was just the beginning of my journey as a fugitive and the desire to continue on my run was fast receding. After a long run of I don’t know how long, I slipped and crumbled down on the sandy ground. With no more energy left, I tried to slumber for a while; the sharp chilled wind that was perpetually hissing and sighing around me was now making me sick and weaker. The thirst was now, after a long wait getting intolerable, so I got to my feet and with a great struggle, started hunting for water.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> After a while I found a stream which was gently flowing by, I immediately dove into it and lay over the smooth water, lapping and sucking it like an animal. The weakness in me slowly ebbed away and I was feeling a little stronger, after that, I started walking on the path that would eventually help me to escape. I was going on and on in the torn clothes but could scarcely see any village or town nearby where I could find shelter. There was still some strength left in me and so, with that intention, I took a step forward and then suddenly the area around me became all blurred and gloomy. There was dizziness in my head and I fell to the floor lying unconscious. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The sun was almost out and as usual, looked ageless as ever. There was a tall man, half- bald, with a big moustache, standing a few steps away from him when he heard someone rustling ahead of him. He threw away his scissors, with which he was cutting the shrubs, took out a Walther from his waist at the small of his back, and slid into the darkness of the trees, waiting. After waiting for some moments, he gave up and proceeded towards the place from where the sound emanated. On observing who it was he recoiled back, his face aghast. Dropping the Walther on the ground he ran as fast as he could, never looking back. Madness began.</span></b></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-83545172361009781922013-01-11T21:21:00.000-08:002014-02-25T06:23:57.668-08:00The Last Train<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZb1Nx_dE4u8aPjFwlRU788bHU0BKWOtfUauic20Hy0XCvRMBVzOuVb2kMEYKPdzUH0D_Uss16b2uqDiM5Q8LsI3lWHKjZaHXmL2EaglcekEJeSuunkQoZEErw_IGB0uMlrWjj7BOAgQ/s1600/3918528467_6e012677d3_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZb1Nx_dE4u8aPjFwlRU788bHU0BKWOtfUauic20Hy0XCvRMBVzOuVb2kMEYKPdzUH0D_Uss16b2uqDiM5Q8LsI3lWHKjZaHXmL2EaglcekEJeSuunkQoZEErw_IGB0uMlrWjj7BOAgQ/s400/3918528467_6e012677d3_o.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Written when i was in grade eighth) </span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>'The station is ominous at midnight</b></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: normal;"><b><i style="font-size: 11px;"> </i>Hope is a dead letter</b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: normal;"><i style="font-size: 11px;"><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>No local trains now</b></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Long since departed</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: normal;"><i style="font-size: 11px;"><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>No way of getting back </b></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<span style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>To where you started'</b></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"All those people who are going in the 747 Kehkashan train to Bombay should be ready as it is arriving in three minutes, thank you", blasted the speakers with a female voice. I was in the bathroom of Chagnai National Railway station of Calcutta washing the beads of sweat on my face and..thooooknooskshtsshthshth...the train had arrived.</span></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Madness began.</span></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px; margin-top: 10px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I started shuffling my clothes here and there in the rusted brown suitcase and dashed out of the dilapidated bathroom. Was there something missing? oh no! My other briefcase!<br />Startled, i started asking the people who were sitting beside where i left my briefcase, but they weren't replying me back as their headphones were glued to their ears, engrossed in their own world of music. I frantically ran here and there in the frenzy of madness but to no avail and suddenly, the train gave it's melancholy, hooting horn, its final wail and left off.<br /><br />i shook my head in dismay and lingered for the next train for which i had booked, and by that time, almost all of the people had left. i continued my search for the briefcase in every nook and corner of the station and hadn't the vaguest idea where it was.<br />i felt uneasy because of two things : firstly, my briefcase which was never to be found and the time of the train which was to come. Abruptly, the lights went out. Everything became dark and melancholy and complete silence reigned in the station. Only the hissing and sighing of the wind from the windows above were audible. i then saw, from the corner of my eye, some lights ahead and there it was, the last train.<br />BANG! BANG! There were two deafening gunshots and the people who were there screamed their lungs out and ran frantically. The boom of the gunshots rooted me to my spot and i stood where i was. Unexpectedly, the lights came back again and what i saw ahead confirmed my fears. Fears that i had dreaded. There was a many lying on the floor beside the train, drenched in his own pool of blood. It was the conductor!</span></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px; margin-top: 10px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There was an intruder here, i mused, and darted towards the train which was leaving, taking a last glance at the ill-fated scene that i had witnessed. I was deeply engrossed in my thoughts, thinking about the intruder or murderer or whoever it was, and then regrettably, i craned my head back and took a sharp glance at the people sitting on the back seats. The train was empty, i thought, except for four or five people at the back who i just saw, wearing jet-black suits and smoking cigarettes. i had a suspicious feeling about them and thought to inquire them about what happened just now but as i looked back again, they were gone. As if they had read my mind. As i stood up and turned to walk towards their seats, a heavy, blunt instrument crashed down on my skull and i fell on the floor, lying unconscious.</span></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px; margin-top: 10px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When i opened my eyes, i was lying on the floor, barely able to breath, and could hear a faint, raspy voice coming from somewhere, " thinking of outrunning the world, eh? We're alone now, time for some action, buddy". i stood up at that voice and started searching for the man. I limped here and there in the labyrinth of corridors and suddenly,"beep. beep. beep". The ticking beep of the time bomb resulted in an adrenaline of rush flowing through my veins. In the frenzy of fear i broke the glass window with my foot and plunged out. "BHOOOOM!" The train disjointed as a beast tears its prey, limb from limb, and the debris plummeted towards the earth at breath-taking speed. Smoke and fire rose to great heights and i fell on the floor with a 'thud', having both my legs fractured. The scene was strangely familiar, i mused. i groaned as excruciating pain shook my whole body and slipped into unconsciousness again.</span></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px; margin-top: 10px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When i opened my eyes, i had a blurred vision of two or three people standing beside me, holding tongs. My mind was in a kaleidoscopic whirl of thoughts and i had no idea if i even existed. Where and who was the murderer? Am i still alive? Where am i? Whats happening? These thoughts kept circulating through my brain but it was all over, it was a miracle, i thought, and smiled.</span></b></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-21075239074104846342013-01-09T05:08:00.001-08:002014-02-25T06:24:49.537-08:00Music from the dying embers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The pen danced away, writing and re-writing the same paragraph again and again until it smote his heart and rivulets of tears rolled down his cheeks and trickled down on his paper. Deeming this as an appropriate ending, he folded the paper and kept it in his breast pocket.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Wiping his eyes with his frail, wrinkled hands, he stood up from his chair and approaching the dusty, grimy window of his room, peeped out. Watching the din and tumult of the crowded street in the high tide of its occupation was a favorite past time of the old man and he loved the myriad of sounds which eventually blended themselves into a fugue of excitement. That constant pacing to and fro, that incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy --is it not a wonder how the dwellers in these narrow streets can bear to hear it! Throngs of people hurried by in opposite directions, with no indication of stopping or exhaustion, intent upon their own affairs, the roar of carts and wagons and the stamping of horses' feet upon the greasy pavement, all pointed towards the approach of dusk, which meant the shops were to be closed. Watching the faces of those who passed by was another favorite amusement of his. Some frowned, some smiled, some made slight gestures, some wore a cunning look of plotting, some were anxious and eager and some were dull and slow. Startled by the sound of the clock as it struck the hour was like a departed sound to him, and sighing explosively, he walked towards his arm chair and sank in it. Outside, the wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down carrying day elsewhere, a train of dull clouds followed it and heralded the coming of thunder and lightening. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The bright fire in the hearth cast a glow upon his face. The unkempt, fuzzy hair, wrinkled face with a prominent mole on the chin, eyes that were half closed and numerous lines scattered on his forehead completed the picture of a man who loved solitude and seldom interacted with anyone. Gazing into the fire, he started humming a half-remembered tune as if he pictured a scene from his childhood. An unexpected knock upon the door shattered his reverie into thin wisps of smoke.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Confound you! Who is it?" bellowed the old man, craning his neck.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">" Its really cold and damp outside, sir, and i have no lodgings for the night, can i stay here please? If you would be so kind." </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Spoke a tremulous, meek voice from the half opened door, trembling entirely. Straining his eyes and observing a childish figure clad in tattered, wet garments, he corrected himself and calling her to himself, gave her a few warm blankets to wrap herself in, and made her sit on a chair near the hearth.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"My apologies, ma'am. i'm not accustomed to invite strangers into my house", said the old man in a friendly tone.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Its quite alright, sir, my name is Nelly", came the reply from the girl, a faint smile spreading on her face at the old man's hospitality.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Gaining his former position on his chair, he resumed staring into the fire -- with an attention of fixed earnestness. The puzzled girl, being sufficiently warmed up by this time and yawning prodigiously at intervals, ventured to break the deafening silence which had reigned in the room and inquired about his strange manner of looking into the fire. A deep frown spread on the face of the old man at this interruption and he turned towards her in vexation, but his frown soon relaxed into a cheerful smile as he thought of the child. Bending forward, he shifted the coals in the hearth with a poker and spoke in a soft voice, " nobody likes me and leaves me to myself. They know my humor See over there -- that's <i>my</i> friend.".</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"The fire?" said the child.</span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"It has been alive as long as i have", the old man made answer, "we talk and think together all night long." </span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The child glanced at him in bewilderment but he kept looking in his former direction, musing as before.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Its like a book to me", he said, "the only book i ever learned to read; and it tells me many old stories. Its music, for i should know it's voice among a thousand, elevates my mood and makes me happy. It has it's pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes i have seen in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, the fire, shows me my whole life."</span></b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The crackle of the coals being engulfed by the fire and the glow from the dying embers brought a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled with tears. On turning towards the child and seeing that she snored peacefully in her calm repose, he chuckled discreetly and added, "oh yes, many an old story it tells me, does the fire yonder." </span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here, the old man closed his eyes and reclined in his chair, enjoying the serenity in the music from the dying embers, a faint smile still lingering on his lips.</span></b></div>
</div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-53407403662072931212012-12-12T00:23:00.000-08:002014-02-25T06:27:29.116-08:00Confessions of an aged Mannequin <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The evening sun which was slowly dipping into the horizon with a bell-tolling sequence was shining on the remote heights of snow that enclosed the valley like eternal clouds. Range upon range of craggy, steep, grey rocks, bright ice and smooth pastures were gradually blending with the enveloping snow.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Dotted here and there on the mountain side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely, wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. Among these cottages in the clustered </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">village was a small shop of an old man that sold home-made clothes. Its location in the village, and the same old stock of clothes worn by rusted, expressionless mannequins did not attract many people. But the old man was content with what he had and sat outside his shop the whole day. One of his joys was to listen to the nearby stream roaring away among the trees and tumbling over the broken rocks, but today, the profoundest of silence reigned around him. Sitting on his chair with a calm and quiet repose with his legs folded upon each other, and with a deep frown, one could not help but associate him with of the old mannequins in the glass. Not only was his hair long and ragged, but his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was grayer, the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every appearance of having wandered through all varieties of weather. A tear glistens in his eye and trickles down his cheeks. He wipes the tears off his sleeves of his shirt and sobs with great heaves of his chest. 'The die is cast--all is over', says the old man aloud. 'Oh Sophie. How i adored her, i was not merely over head and ears in love with her, but i was saturated through and through her. The mere passing of her before me with her lovely perfume reaching my nostrils, made me blush and poisoned me with her charm. She was my guiding star in the night, the light in my darkness and the evening wind on my brow. Sometimes, i wished that a fire would burst in her room, that the assembled crowd would stand appalled, that i, dashing through them with a ladder, might put it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for something she had left behind, and perish in the flames. Or, that i would float around her like a wandering zephyr my whole life.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Life without Sophie's love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn't bear it, and i would not have bore it. But she was not mine--she was never to be mine again. She might have been mine but that was past.'</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
The incessant throbbing in his temples broke his reverie and he stood up and walked to and fro indefatigably before his shop. People eyed him suspiciously but he paid no heed to them.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">'Why am i musing over the past? Because what i reaped, i had sown. She was taken from me and revenge was not my forte.'</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
In the quiet air there was a sound of distant singing--Shepherd voices, but as the evening cloud floated along the mountain side, he could almost have believed it came from there and was some heavenly music. A tear rolled down his cheeks as he watched the sun go down in the fading twilight. </span></b></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-28609259575465297622012-11-09T04:41:00.000-08:002014-02-25T06:29:36.612-08:00Spectres in the fog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Darkness had descended on Richmond, Virginia, as i trudged along the snow carpeted path that led to the old Cemetery. All the animals were scurrying back to their homes, feeling unsafe and dangerous to be out in the gloom that was now enveloping the place. They would sometimes crawl among the bushes and eye me suspiciously, as if i had done wrong in trespassing on their territory. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Startled birds fluttered out of their black reacesses; crows awoke in the trees and cawed their alarms, and then, as if calmed by some passing thought, kept silent. The icy blasts of wind had made my body numb by now and i thrust my hands deep into the pockets of my coat and kept walking. Reaching the desired grave i stopped, sat down on one knee and procuring a flashlight from inside the coat, flashed it on the epitaph. Rivulets of tears streamed down my face as i read and re-read the inscription, memorable times, moments spent together started replaying in my mind. I now understood why the sweet, sensitive lips smiled so rarely and so restrainedly then, and why the clear blue eyes looked at me, sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes with the innocent perplexity of a child. But the change meant more than this. There was a coldness in her hand, an unnatural mobility in her face, there was in all movements the mute expression of constant fear and clinging self-reproach. "She didn't die. No, no she's..she is still alive", i kept babbling like this in my mind, oblivious to the sounds around me, when the crackle of twigs jolted me from my reverie and rooted me to the spot. With an alacrity i had acquired in my old profession, i divulged the Glock from the coat pocket and listened intently. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Its funny how one simple sound can divert your thoughts of the past from the depths of your brain to the present", said someone with a raspy voice. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The adrenaline of rush flowing through my body had almost paralyzed my limbs and I reeled around to find the owner of that voice but the dim light emanating from the old lampposts rendered it futile. Footsteps resounded behind me and the sound of a gun cocking behind me made me fire the gun in all directions in fear and anger.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"What do you want?!", i screamed on the top of my lungs but the sound of laughing and talking and sneezing behind me vexed me even more. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Deja vu. 'God, has this happened before? Damn!' </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I fell on the ground and rubbed my face with snow but to no avail. I hit the butt of the gun on my head but, noting. I could feel nothing except a faint sound of ringing, the ringing of a bell. The ringing of a bell in an office with blue carpet and caramel coloured walls. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"What? what..no. HELENA!", I shouted with all my strength but my mouth was sore and i felt like choking.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"No need to shout, Victor. Its past bedtime, come to sleep". That voice, that sweet voice, those raspberry lips. Helena? NO. I craned my head to the left and discerned in the dim light her elegant figure, holding an umbrella and smiling that beautiful smile of her's. I smiled too and wiped my eyes. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Paradox, Victor, none of this is true. Paradox is a statement that seems self-contradictory but in reality expresses a possible truth", said the nurse.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>A bell rang three times and then stopped. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Mr. Victor, please step forward and enter the room to be passed for examination in the transorbital lobotomy", said someone with a sweet voice.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>My stomach was hurting from laughing so much, i wiped the tears off my eyes and opened them. The guys sitting beside me started laughing too. I stood up from my seat and walked haughtily towards the nurse sitting on a chair, smiling from ear to ear. Sitting down on a chair facing her, i smoothed my shirt and bent forward, eager to listen to her and still smiling.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"You are a patient, okay? Paradox, Victor, none of this is true. Paradox is a statement that seems self contradictory but in reality expresses a possible truth. Paradox is rubbish. Memories help no one, they only furthar derange a person. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Deja Vu. Memories are mere spectres in the fog. The more you visit them, the more they exceed your grasp. An unfinished puzzle with its pieces scattered about. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>My smile now turend into a deep frown, and i closed my eyes.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-22181380590572330782012-10-23T12:05:00.002-07:002014-02-25T06:30:45.064-08:00Reign of Dilemma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
A beaten up phone in the entrance hall was ringing. It could have been just a junkie in need of a fix, but it turned out to be something more sinister than that. Its incessant ringing created painful vibrations in the depths of my brain and what happened next was a blur. Flames and violent shapes appeared from every direction of the hall and slowly engulfed the whole restaurant the laughter of Hades becoming prominent one moment and then fading away in the next. The sequence never changed, and the scenes kept repeating themselves like a reel stuck in the cassette player.</span></b><br />
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The nightmare was always the same. Violent shapes moving in darkness, old and ugly. The killer's mad laughter was a riddle filled with wicked innuendo. Somewhere the baby was crying.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Hades's restaurant" had seen better days. The night groaned with cold, the garden lights flickering nervously. In their light the falling snow was dead white before the darkness ate it up. The numbing cold of the broken night followed me in, the pistol was now a frozen lump in my hand, piercing the skin, gnawing at my hand. The door slammed shut behind me like a prison gate rattling on it's rusted hinges, shutting me inside. The air inside had a sickly, sweet smell, like that of incense. Silence reigned in the room and amidst my confusion, i saw some tarot cards strewn on the floor. Perhaps i had come to the wrong place, this wasn't the place where Alex wanted to disclose the details of the case. Definitely not. I gripped the pistol firmly and coughed loudly to announce the inmates of my presence...if there were any inmates there. Something really <i>is</i> demented here, i thought, and took a step forward but the muffled ringing of a phone in the hall rooted me to my spot. The incessant ringing of the phone slowly increased in its volume and broke the silence. The lights grew dim and i recoiled in horror. "Oh God, not again", i thought, and tried at the door handle. Beads of sweat accumulated on my forehead, my arms and legs became powerless in the frenzy of fear and with no other alternative, i raised the gun to my temple and pressed the trigger. The gun coughed once and i sank to the floor, eyes staring into oblivion.</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The orange ball of fire slowly rose in a bell-tolling sequence and heralded its advent by shooting its rays in multiple directions. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"All's well that ends well, my friend. Ha-ha-ha". </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was the only sentence he heard before being dragged into the abyss..again.</span></b></div>
</div>
Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-23887107368708242882012-10-22T09:28:00.001-07:002014-02-25T06:32:45.437-08:00Tears of green-eyed angels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>They were all dead. Love kills. Did i love her? Was there a choice? The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br />
Entrails of burnt omelets and fried eggs in the fry pan, broken crockery and bottles of beer and cigarette butts strewn on the floor, altogether completed the picture of a house without a woman. Her laughter and inaudible mutterings came, like a distant hoot of a train, then died away and ceased. Like a cricket's trumpet dwindling swiftly into silence. He sighed explosively and stared into his beer as he sulked in his sofa with his shoulders hunched, his eyes inward. It is time, he thought with a smirk, and drained his beer in one big gulp. The cops arrived, sirens singing in the off-key harmony of a manic-depressive choir. The rain was still drumming on his roof with a mob-like ferocity and the growling of clouds and thunder heralded the coming of another storm. Zeus <i>wa</i><u style="font-style: italic;">s</u> angry on him alright. Taking all the necessary stuff he needed, he plunged into the darkness of the night. Freezing wind and rain was tearing at his face, like sandpaper and razors, he thrust his hands deep into his coat and kept walking, every sense of his alert and vigilant. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, a frown that now became a part of his normal expression, and a scar that ran from the corner of his eye to the bridge of this nose completed the picture of a man on the run. Running from his life. Was it past midnight? He had been walking for almost 3 hours...or so he thought. Footfalls in the darkness, a glint of a knife, echoes, screams of pain. Schizoprehnia almost became his next sense. A cold, hard, stabbing pain at the small of his back roused him from his stupor, he reeled around and found himself in a dead-end street. His temple throbbed, his heart hammered like wild beast in a cage, and staggering a few steps he hit a wall and fell on the floor, lying unconcious.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Why are vampire movies always set in L.A or New Mexico? They cant even get a tan! If i were a blood sucker, i'd move to the North pole. Winter's one looong night"</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"What would you do for food? Suck blood from penguins?"</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Naw. Eskimos, man. Eskimos."</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The cold, frosty air whispering in his ears woke him up with a start. He felt the earth vibrating beneath him and saw to his surprise, places flashing by him in a second. He was on a train. Craning his head back he discerned two people clad in an overcoat and jacket, holiding a .32 Smith and Wesson revolver. His blood ran cold and a rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins. Regaining his former position he listened intently. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"God, you're sick, man. I'd rather go for the flesh of fallen angels, ha-ha-ha. That would be more fun."</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>'The flesh of fallen angels'. Something clicked in his brain and disordered images of people, places and talks started revolving in his head without any bearing. Unclenching his fist he saw in his hand a long, shiny, syringe with a green liquid in it and a picture of a green letter 'V' with a syringe in it's between. He dropped the syringe which fell down with a loud thud. He kept replaying the sound of that thud in his mind. A sound he had heard many times.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He wasn't out in the wilderness, no freezing wind tearing at his face, like sandpaper and razors, no wail of sirens or the city howling after him anymore. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>He was safe.</b></span><br />
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A menacing smirk danced on his lips and lifting his head, he laughed loudly, oblivious to the clicking sound of boots and shoutings behind his back. Rivulets of tears streamed down his face. Tears of mirth. The Tears of green-eyed angels.</b></span><br />
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204313629909006954.post-2256366961579827492012-10-21T00:42:00.001-07:002014-02-25T06:34:16.888-08:00Routing my Synapses <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2k9o-T1awRS9Fage1W3LVIQIP7gellYkw_mNZQ4ms73Ap0Vs_JdHuhaZTQOBsRMNvOXMMnQIxJwtv9IeWPO8iIq77KbwIifgQ2h6Y5gLwmiVivftRpWmI9AqVaVphU0azU9uCT4Oi7VY/s1600/photo5-259x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2k9o-T1awRS9Fage1W3LVIQIP7gellYkw_mNZQ4ms73Ap0Vs_JdHuhaZTQOBsRMNvOXMMnQIxJwtv9IeWPO8iIq77KbwIifgQ2h6Y5gLwmiVivftRpWmI9AqVaVphU0azU9uCT4Oi7VY/s400/photo5-259x300.jpg" height="400" width="345" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><b>The storm was a screeching duet with the approaching prowl car sirens. I leaned over the parapet of the rooftop and discerned in the blinding snow the sea of revolving red and blue lights. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point, i released my hand from the trigger, and then it was over.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Every story has a turning point, the climax before the credits roll. And that's where the fun starts. Pulling the trigger is a binary choice, you either pull it or you die. The light, when it came, was blinding. Blinding as snow. I leaped at the crouched figure and felt myself falling down. Down into the shadows of my past. Echoes, memories, time, all flashed by. To wake up was to die...indefinitely.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">THREE YEARS AGO,</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the backseat of the moving car, i am cut loose from the city, as it watches me pass with neon eyes. The night has turned the skyscrapers into silver hands groping into the sky, and every brick-wall covered with graffiti are like a thousand menacing eyes watching my every move. Its funny how everything, living and non- living, seems to cower in its shell when you are forced to step into the darkness of your own pain. The life outside seems to be dead-still. The trees stand lifeless with their arms folded, the myriad of eyes cast a furtive glance at you and then crawl back into their homes. Life is cruel, i thought, but then every rose has its thorns.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The car stops in the traffic lights. Outside, the light paints snow red, like the whole city was in flames. But inside, the shadows of the car, its all done in blues. I know i'm lying to myself, no amount of medicine can keep this ache away. No lie can hide it. I'm not really in the backseat of this car, and i haven't left my room since. The killer dead at my feet on the ground.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Especially now as the city presses close the windows the car, it's monstrous heartbeat under the tires. My squinted eyes in the rear-view mirror. My hands numb and held awkwardly behind my back, everything that happened next was a kaleidoscopic, chaotic swirl, rising nausea that tastes like rust in my mouth.</span></b></div>
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Sounds of Silencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467267445598024399noreply@blogger.com0