Time To Change - Tap the 'Humane' In Us?

She sat there sweating profusely, her temper matching the heat outside. Would this too turn out to be a failed attempt? The pressure from the officials had been mounting. New mouths to feed arrived at a steady pace every month, eating into her share of the allocated funds. Being the head of the orphanage was not a lucrative business any more. She was tired of pandering to the egos of higher ups and soliciting new clients for her husband's floundering real estate business at the same time. The dingy room saw less and less of her as days passed by.


 Rama Shankar* pushed his way through the wooden saloon doors, he didn't bother to knock. 
 If she hadn't been preoccupied, would have noticed the smug look that permeated his features these days. "The Pandeys called, Madamji."
"Again? Bringing her...Munni back?" Desperation reducing her voice to a hoarse croak.
"Who tells this poor man anything?" His voice always reminded her of grease scrapped from a steel plate.
 Must want to wash their hands off her. These religious, middle class ones are all the same, just empty talk. "What did you tell them?"
 "The usual, busy with inspection work." He seemed pleased with his lies. His eyes had a hazy quality to them. Had he been...? "How many times have I told you to stay off bhang during working hours?
"Do you want to lose this job too?"
With watering eyes, he quickly prostrated before her, "Have mercy on me, family man, my kids will starve to death." adding, "These kids are like my children, they need me."


He managed to convince her every time; she needed him to cover up her absence. She was about to give him another last warning when the noise outside distracted her. There was a flurry of running feet followed by steadier ones. Snippets of conversation in loud and soft voices could be heard. The rushing feet stopped at her door. Utter silence. The door swung wildly as burly policemen swooped into her space. 
 Two scared looking attendants along with a dozen children of different ages waited just outside the threshold. The Pandeys and a few other parents stood next to an important looking official. The collector and here? 
Munni? Why does she have a glum face?  Looking at the cowering ten year old who stood between her adoptive parents, a familiar sense of something amiss hit her. Something had happened, she was the one scared now. Putting on a brave face, hiding the tremor in her tone and turning to Baldev Singh, the inspector she recognised, "What is the meaning of this, Baldevji?"


Baldev turned to the collector who gave him an impatient nod.  He looked at her sadly. She was a decent woman and yet it had to be done. "Arrest warrants for you and this man here." pointing to the peon who was staring at Munni with a dazed look. 
"Arrest Warrant?" she repeated, bewildered.
"For the rape of Munni and four other minor girls adopted from the orphanage. There are also charges by some of the attendants," looking towards the door, "of being molested." 
"There must some mistake, surely, I would be aware of such happenings." 


"If you had been around and had bothered to notice the obvious signs." Pandeyji spoke for the first time. "We found blood stains on our daughter's clothes. She would't eat properly, woke up screaming every night, woudn't even let my brother hug her.
"One of my neighbours who is a child specialist felt that she had undergone recent trauma. A physical examination by an expert left us with no doubt. My daughter found the courage to tell us everything that happened to her here. So did the other girls." affectionately patting his daughter on her head. "Can we go home, daddy?" Munni asked softly.
"Come on, Baldev, take them into custody. We have to move the remaining children to a safer place, we haven't all day." The collector shook hands with the team and the parents before walking towards the other children.


* This is a work of fiction though it's based on ground reality. Names used are purely coincidental and bear no resemblance to those living or dead.

Children are our future, more so girls - the nurturers of such future...If protectors turn monsters, where do they go? Please love, protect and cherish them.

This post is written for the contest Stayfree-Time To Change on IndiBlogger

Declining, The Better Way? Disinclination - Worrying Factor? - IWSG

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day for participating blog owners who may be professional or amateur writers. (All you need is the passion and output, published or not). Started by Alex Cavanaugh the author of the sci-fi space opera CassaStar and sequel CassaFire, it is a means for writers to talk about their fears big and small. It is also an opportunity to connect to other writers who may have conquered these or are sailing in the same insecure boat as you.


No cartoons this time, humour may or may not make an appearance. I started writing again 1 1/2 years ago. Happy to post my best pieces (you can beg to differ, no sweat) on my blog, being new to the chances in the publishing world, especially online. I realised albeit 5 months back, in Nov 11 that the tiny (OK, huge, colossal...I get the point) lack of knowledge meant that 75% of my work is now unfit for online publication, even if less than a dozen souls have read each of the works. 
Then I wrote some more,  submitted, followed by the rejections. Most were standard - we can't use it now, doesn't fit  in our style and so on kinds. The first one in Dec 11 made me cry for an hour...but the thick skin developed over time. 
Until two things happened, back to back.
 A poetry of mine got brutally dissected by three editors of an Ezine with comments like too general, can't understand the point, unreadable style.

Silent prayers for

success that eludes.
Journey back and forth
on an ever changing road.
Doing whatever it takes

to make time stop still,

if only for a few moments
to gather baggage and quilt.

Trudge across the finishing line,
the one, that loves playing vile tricks,

further down the road, it forever, spins.

Proclaim myself victorious,

to find, obstacles strewn across, 

newer, stronger, unexpected

Blasphemous messages to ancestors gone,

Unheard.

The mocking Gods roll over in mirth,

pointing at this "puny human" in distress.

Then a unfamiliar blogger writer added insult to injury by not just calling out to my punctuation (that's fine, I look out for genuine critique anyway) but dissed my self respect by sending me, without the courtesy of prior intimation, a 'not asked for' ebook on punctuation along with a left-handed compliment.
 I may be a struggling writer even a bad one but I can buy my own books, thank you!
Free books, good ones, I love them, who doesn't? - but that's what giveaways, contests, review forums, author approved/publisher or site sponsored  'free book' promotions are for.

Strangely, both have made me question my writing skills. As of now, I write because it's literally my lifeline in a lonely world, but publication is no longer my goal. 

 Which brings us to the title, is it better to get standard rejections? Is disinclination a death knell for my passion?


On the bright side, I am still going to create a free Smashwords chapbook of some my poetry pieces in June as a birthday gift to myself.
Much brighter, I am slowly getting out of the anaemic phase with my haemoglobin count going up. Hopefully, the clean bill of health, the magical 11.5 will come in a couple of months. Till then, my parents will have to bear the tired, irritable, forgetful Rek.
 Till then, my sensitive stomach will have to put with the iron and folate pills...sigh.
The brightest, next month's  IWSG will see a positive post, even a humourous one if I can pull it.


For the ones who still visit , a self created joke - do pamper the sick even if it isn't funny...
Why would vampires avoid the 'synthesised blood' banks?
 They prefer the organic variety to plastic.

RandomMusings For The Day #46

Is addiction really such a bad thing? Dark chocolate for weight loss, red wine in moderation for the heart, brain puzzles to stave off dementia, writing memes to keep the creative juices flowing, ezine rejections for staying humble(poor) and the A-Z for an excuse to bring the old Olympus out. ;)

p.s. I am rejoining the A-Z but only with my 'ready to post' pictures on my photo blog, well, so far have 20 of them.

The Dance - New Beginnings

 This piece is for the blogfest at Unicornbell.

"Dya*, hurry. They are coming." I panted through the half open door. My ribs ached with every short breath taken.
Had never run so fast, doing 5 miles without a pause. The silence from within caused strange sensations in my stomach. The hinges creaked in annoyance as I pushed the obstruction away. The room was in disarray, everything upturned. From the centre of the hall I could see that none of the adjoining areas had been spared. There were wet, muddy shoe and foot prints overlapping as though jostling for valuable space.Three clear sets led me to the bottom of the stairs, to the bedrooms above. I crept up slowly unsure of what lay in wait, the Swiss knife transferred from the back pocket to my trembling hands.
I wouldn't wish the scene before my eyes on even Stefanek, the village bully. I vomited my morning meal on the dirtied carpet under my feet. A low moan from the nearest figure brought to life my fleeting courage. Wiping away the hot, furious tears I stumbled forward. She was still breathing. The book was safely hidden for now. I covered the shredded remains of her dress with a blanket, lifted her in my arms as tenderly as I could and fled through the back door.

***

I have been standing for more than an hour in the abandoned house on the hillock, watching with tired eyes and limbs the devastation below. Half glad Aishe* wasn't with me, conjured a mental image of the agonised screams of the dying. Her kind heart would have never permitted this. The other half willing to give up the world to see her awake and smiling. The swirling, blackish grey waters mirrored the stain on my soul. Large carcasses of their livestock and pieces of wood, the remnants of their mighty houses and boats floated idly along. Pity, a couple of young trees had to give way. The flood waters would take a week or more to recede, competently destroying whatever stood in their way including the fresh harvest.

This has been the most exhilarating dance I have ever attempted. The river, my companion and slave mimicked my movements as she spread over the accursed village. I played the Kristora* sparing the villages that didn't harm us. The memories gushed back, uninvited. My father's pleas of innocence falling on deaf, hateful ears. His last words before they staked him, "Make them pay."

They stole our land, our home, murdered my mother, violated the elder sister beyond human endurance. She sleeps the sleep of the living dead. 

A tiny hand tugs at my shirt sleeve, whining,  "Let's go. It's cold here."

I pull him into the warmth of my arms reluctantly, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins screaming 'Enemy'. Our clan control the elements, a gift passed from the mother to her first born. Grandma refused to let him die, so he lives to see the death of his unknown fathers with his eyes. My father had been the youngest of six, as powerless as the the ones who accused him of black magic.

I stood silently for a few minutes more before trudging back to the trees, the tall pines already casting their needles on the floor.

Harman* loves the rustling sounds around us. He turns back and forth in jerky movements causing my shoulders to ache some more.The clan believes that the winter winds are less harsh since his birth. We live deep in the forest. The ignorant folks in the valley below think it is enchanted and evil and refuse to enter. Sometimes, blind faith can be a blessing. We planted the stories for our survival.

The ancient book says that our ancestors came from the East, from the land of seven rivers. One day, we will journey back, beyond the narrow confines of our adopted homeland. Harman and me.

We live in tents now, easier to assemble and dismantle in times of danger. Grandma is waiting by ours with a scowling face. She knows, always does. 

"Where have you been wandering about at this hour?"

"Nowhere. Just attending to some unfinished business." as he jumps out of my hold and scampers off to the dinner fires.

Wc 703

*Dya - Mother, Kristora - the judges.
* The words used are Romani - the language of the Romas, the gypsies of Europe whose ancestors are said to have migrated  from northern and central India around 1000 years ago.
Linguistic and genetic studies prove with reasonable accuracy that they belong to existing Indian tribes of travelling musicians.
* I wanted to give the dancing aspect a magical touch.

A Ring Of Finality

*Used the phrase, with a necessary change in adaptation given the cultural setting*

'She wears my ring', the lingering smile on his face announced to all the attendees at the wedding reception.

His fidgety movements betrayed his impatience over her delayed appearance.

"Relax. These ladies always turn up late, must be busy with her makeover." said his cousin shrugging his shoulders casually.

His movements eased but barely so. His relatives had echoed similar sentiments, using different words at various stages of the wedding.

"Stop asking these silly questions. Brides are nervous on their wedding day."

His nosy aunt had stated, overhearing the words exchanged by him and the best mate.

"We girls are excepted to be shy and modest, at least on such days." The sister had butted in with her wise tuppence patting his arm for added effect.

Maybe they were right, they were experienced after all. Her quiet, solemn look, her rare glancing his way could be explained thus, couldn't it?

His heartache lessened and he went back to standing at the entrance to the lobby.

***

Through the final touches of make up, she twirled the diamond engagement ring.on her hand. Glancing at the mirror in front of her, the black and gold beads among other jewellery on her neck glinted back, signalling her married status.

She touched them gingerly with her finger tips eliciting a gentle admonishing from the beautician.

"Madam, please keep your hands down, the nail paint will get blotchy."

Inspecting her fingernails, the young girl sighed,

"See, I have to redo it." looking around for a bottle of remover.

She apologised with a smile and stared at the ring instead. Little joy there, rather the feel of it on her finger felt like a heavy weight on her soul. Her heart still beating for another. The charming boy with the impish grin who had wound his way into her heart, only to break it into countless pieces years later.

Her husband was a good man deserving more than she could offer. They were family friends, her parents adored him as his loved her. He had always encouraged her, made her laugh.

*** 

Her transfer would take time. This year of separation would turn out to be a blessing. Looking into his adoring eyes as he took her hand in his, she promised herself, he would never know that their marriage had begun as a compromise for her.

wc 388 .

 For Romantic Friday writers

A Race To Live Or Ruin - A Book Review

The Curse Of Gremdon - Ciara Knight

Crescent Moon Press  

Genre - Speculative Fiction - Fantasy/ Adult Fiction
Novel - 282 pages, Price $ 7.99
Available at Amazon Kindle Store

Blurb:

In a world where marriage is forbidden, sex is only granted to male warriors, and the outer realm is full of murderous creatures, Arianna fights to protect the life of her only living relative, her brother.Tardon, an elite warrior, is granted anything he desires by the Elders, but finds little joy in the voluptuous women presented to him. Born for the bloodlust found only in battle, complicated emotions emerge when he discovers his equal in the alluring warrior, Arianna. Charged by the Elders with saving the castle from  attack, Tardon and Arianna risk the curse when they traverse the vast outer realm to retrieve serum from the Tree of Life. If successful, the Elders have promised Tardon the right to marry and Arianna the cure for her brother’s death fever. Will their love carry them through or will the discovery of a great deception be their ultimate demise

This is a fantasy set in the kingdom of Gremdon, basically a sword and sorcery style of story telling. The magic is not visible in daily life and yet is very much there in the background, playing a crucial part.

I liked the author's focus on the two main characters, elite warriors Arianna and Tardon allowing the readers to explore their interaction, romantic and otherwise. The world around them is created with painstaking detail and clarity that one feels a part of the narrative.

 The secondary characters are well developed and some of them linger on after the ending. Ex Warrior Saldor's feelings for Arianna vacillating between friendship and love, her brother's natural affinity towards the deprived and troubled, the enforcers and the apprentice's penchant for using their powers to control and subjugate enhance the progression of the story.
Despite the romantic tension, its not all rosy and their task to retrieve the sap from the tree of life is beset with obstacles and live threatening dangers.
 Though it does drag a bit in the beginning, it picks up pace fast enough. The twist and turns keeps one engrossed and at the edge of the seat unable to predict what comes next.
The superb twist in the end really catches the reader unawares, though the author leaves subtle hints throughout the book.
Some may find the dark, shadowy world a bit sexist with the male warriors being pampered by the Elders. Arianna is the only female warrior  where most of the women are engaged in other activities. But  this only makes the Elders ruled world that much more realistic.
There are strong romantic scenes which fall in the spicy category of romance rating - Sweet -> Hot -> Spicy.
I give this a 4.5/5 rating.
I recommend this enjoyable read to all fantasy lovers looking for a tale well told and surprisingly different.


I received a copy for review through the group Knights of the Round Table on Goodreads. 


Personal Disclaimer: Though this book was a free copy received for the purpose of review, the post in entirety is my basic impression after reading the book twice. It is not based on intervention by the author, publishing house or the book forum. 

Wee Story About Wee Creatures? - Got Green?" Blog O'Hop

For the get green bloghop at Mark's blog... I emailed him; about having nothing remotely Irish in me, though some 19th century Irish thinkers loved to postulate their theories of racial ties of Druids with Indian Aryans based on language similarities. He baited me in with the hook of a flash fiction on Wee men and their pot of gold. Well Mark, a belated St. Patrick's day.

Courtesy Karenswhimsy- public domain images

She came gliding in her emerald studded, golden glass slippers. The swishing of the grass gown, distracting.

 "Very green" grumbled one the members seated on the semi circular rainbow table, secretly wishing he was single.

"Energetic, not our trait." the wee woman's nasal snarl.

The hatted man chuckled happily, gathering ominous stares from the others. He ignored them, thrilled at the prospect of a female assistant. Bushy eyebrows and matching beards tortured his daily vision.

"Oh my! Exquisite shoes!"  the secretary with her hand on her heart.

" Boyfriend’s gift for St.George's day." Leaned closer and mouthed in her ear.

"English!! Ya codding me? Wind your neck in, Colleen," the older woman cautioned.

She laughed happily, showing off her perfect, square teeth made of gold.

She moved to where the impatient trio waited, pulled out a chair, and passed her green leather folder.

Pale hands went through the embellished cards neatly stacked in chronological order. Accompanied by sighs and eyebrows lifted in disbelief, it passed at last to the older man .

He winked at her; she winked back conspiratorially.

"Impressive accomplishments. A talented family indeed." He added with a smug look.

"King Midas?" barely withholding a snuffle.

"That would be my great-great-great grandfather. Tricked into touching his favourite daughter was so devious." 

The snarl turned into a smirk.

 The soon to be single man, "Explain Julius Caesar."

"His sister. Smart duo. As Cleopatra's bosom friend, she taught her the womanly viles."

"Who is Silas Marner?" 

"Oh...that would be Móraí...can I tell a secret?"

Wizened eyes sparkled. "She never..."

She looked at her uncle warningly. "She loved him. Espie foiled her plans."

"Dubai shopping festival?”

"Brother Patrick. They love gold even black ones ."

"What do you bring on board?"

"Federal Reserve vaults. Three bars for three plus three given."

Few minutes of hushed conversation,

"Welcome, our newest portfolio manag..."

The secretary interrupted, “ Lucifer on the line, again..."

“ Tell him, 'Leprechaun Gold Inc' are greed investors not soul collectors.”

WC 333
Not Irish, not Leprechaun but can I spin a tale? Tell me pleash...


For those unfamiliar with:
St.George's day - Holiday of patron saint of England
St.Patrick's day  - Holiday of patron saint of Ireland
Irish Slang - 
Codding me - kidding me 
Wind your neck in - be careful, think about it
Colleen - young Irish woman.
Móraí - Grandma in Irish Gaelic

The Tryst - Second Campaign Challenge

Using four of the prompts, doing a flash fiction, a pitch or logline,  an inspired poem.

Additionally, 
attempting three of the  activities tied by a common theme,
in a genre never before attempted,
and requesting a critique.


Flash Fiction

All that was left was to wait it out.

He stared at her, elegant looking despite the wet hair from the drizzle that caught them unprepared. Shooing away the starving kids at the garbage dumps hadn’t been easy, grim remainders of his past. He shifted his leg stump away from the jetting rails of what had once been the bridge of Bridgewater town. The pain would resurface soon making travel a nightmare.

The message had been delivered, the bird in his trap, dawn bringing the well earned reward. He day dreamed of the golden patterns, enjoyable side effects of the pain killing serum.

In a happier time reflected in her grandfather’s picture in the burlap, the sneak would have a name not just a number. The one who had foreseen the rise of Stonia, now something evoking fear and despondency was long dead but the movement he co-founded was alive in the hidden depths. She often wondered what had turned the still beautiful woman into the epitome of sadism.

Eric, she felt an ache at the very sound... this pathetic human staring at her brought her closer to the goal, the mission’s success hanging on his ignorance.

wc 198

Pitch/Logline

 In a world bereft of most natural resources, the International Council rules with an iron fist. The  self labelled high priestess and sadist Stonia, the true wielder of power ruthlessly mows any opposition. But the MOB, an underground resistance plots her demise, their reluctant assassin, the unassuming Charlotte, granddaughter of one of the founders,

A simple plan that needs only an image and the medical skills of the widow of the previous leader, finds her embroiled in a moral conflict that could sabotage the mission and destroy the movement...

Wc 89

Poem - Form 'Ode'

Grey cloaks the land,

Where once walked the green maiden

Lovely and captivating visions she spun.

The birds sang, the river hummed

the mad wind whistled in passing.

Happy faces, laughing eyes, scampering feet

were not yet yellowing postcard smiles.

She stood there, straight backed yet unsure,

taking in the detail,

stilling the mind and heart

with the skilled hands of years past.

The expectations weighed

heavy on her chest.

The spirit never truly waned nor wavered

until she met her,

The mother who could have been hers.

For the Rach Writes' Second Campaigner Challenge

Prompt 1: 
Two people are sitting together under the remains of a concrete bridge. Their backs are against a rusted bridge support. One person’s leg is cut. The other person has wet hair. 

Four picture prompts.

Do one or more of the following:

1. Write a pitch/logline for a book based on the prompts (less than 100 words)
2. Write a short story/flash fiction piece of less than 200 words based on the prompts
3. Write a poem with a twist using the prompts as inspiration (in less than 200 words)
4. Write a story/poem in five sentences, each sentence based on one of the prompts
5. Write a poem/flash fiction piece (in less than 200 words) about the water pear *without* using the words “pear”, “spoon”, or “droplet”.

For added difficulty/challenge:

• Complete at least three of the above activities and tie them all together with a common theme (feel free to either state the theme in your post or leave us to guess what it might be)
• Write in a genre that is not your own
• Ask Challenge entrants to critique your writing.

Keeping Up On Writing Track Woes! - IWSG

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day for participating blog owners who may be professional or amateur writers. (All you need is the passion and output, published or not). Started by Alex Cavanaugh the author of the sci-fi space opera CassaStar and just released CassaFire, it is a means for writers to talk about their fears big and small. It is also an opportunity to connect to other writers who may have conquered these or are sailing in the same insecure boat as you.

By songsnwords | View this Toon at ToonDoo | Create your own Toon

Last week, at around 4 p.m  as I was dozing (almost) next to my desktop, when I was supposed to be fleshing out my characters, I was mauled...
They came with their gamma ray projectiles, their mind curses, their wails and tears, swords and bombs, acid dripping words, threatening to freeze my bank account (word bank).


I am a Ninja only in name, I could fend off a lean guy with a stout stick at the most, but them with an armoury that would make not just the Indian Army but the Western ones hang their heads in shame...not a chance in the universe.


Have you ever faced a 'characters assault'? Found yourself with fingers in too many pies unable to do justice to all?
Do you start a new story just to abandon it half way through, promising to come back when better plot lines and scenes surface?
Wake up one day; to realise your collections are only 3/4 complete and need to move your butt to have them ready, edited, embellished in a few months time?


Is it just a Gemini thing...here, there, everywhere, not a moment to spare...worse still, unfinished tales to sell?

A to Z Video And A Parting Shot

This is my entry for the video contest that serves as an appetiser before the main course of the A-Z challenge.
The blogfest, third year in running demands just two things:

A Prepare 26 posts for 26 consecutive days (except Sundays) based on the 26 alphabets in the English language.
Can be any topic in line with your usual posts or a particular area of interest like music, book, movies, sports, art, science, religion even your photographs, artwork, poetry and flash fiction (anything P.G rated, non racial and inoffensive).

B Comment on as many fellow A-Zers as you can or wish to, at least a dozen a day since there were over 1500 participants last time and may be more this time.

A great way to have fun, get out of the writing rut and make new friends, some of last year's A-Z friends still visit my blog. To join click on this Link on or before 31 March - A-Z Challenge

Now for Jenny Matlock's Saturday Centus...I missed it for almost a month.
Fellow Centusians have tolerated my crazy love for mixing challenges/memes...so do bear with me as my centus is based on this first uploaded YouTube video of mine.

For Saturday Centus at Jenny Matlock's blog...any genre, P.G as far as possible, not to exceed 100 words excluding the prompt in bold. Based on the given picture, this time permission to add as many pictures granted.
Check the other adieus there.


She sifted through the growing collection, the idea slowing taking shape.

As she glanced at them, some evoked forgotten memories, some an unplanned smile, some leaving her feeling nostalgic and sad. Their expressions, bright colours, careful outlines were indeed deserving of more curious eyes, inquisitive minds.

It took her all day to choose the final pieces, yet some would not make it to the board. They would be discarded, often without a second thought.

After much chopping and crafting, were ready, each one decked in complimentary accessories.

It was time to create a video out of them and yet…saying goodbye was harder than she thought...