#11 told River “i love you”. 11 wrote River love letters. 11 told River his name. 11 and River have domestic tea dates in their face café.
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text posts: Doctor + River version [2/?]
time to cleanse my mind, body, soul, spirit, life, etc. of the takes I've been seeing of my blorbos on a daily basis lately. and it's still wednesday.
#doctor who#river song#doctor x river#eleventh doctor#eleven x river#yowzah#alex kingston#the doctor#matt smith#i pond queue#once again gnawing my teeth over what thors did. “12 was the one who actually loved her” “11 is the boyfriend and 12 is the actual husband.#bangs my head against the wall in utter despair#idk folks maybe cause thors was a xmas special & doctorriver centric??? whereas none of the major 11river eps were them centric??#“but the minisodes exist-” YES the fucking minisodes which people don't really know of or they were just fucking deleted from their memorie#11 told River “i love you”. 11 wrote River love letters. 11 told River his name. 11 and River have domestic tea dates in their face café.#11 and River celebrated their anniversaries & real fond of getting married & the countless 'honeymoons'. 11River have domestic bliss moment#← saying all that like a mantra to calm myself#doctorriver#doctorriver text posts#11th doctor#moffat era#11 x River#moffatedit#anti 11River erasure#my text posts
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April lyric prompt list 2024
1. And all I know/Is that I want you so/Heavy on my mind/And the feelings grow/When you're dancing slow/I see your fire go/Electric indigo-Electric Indigo by The Paper Kites
2. And all my days are gone/Sitting on the floor/In my underwear/Begging you for more/'Cause I am a true romantic/Free falling love addict/I am a true romantic/Free falling love addict, yeah-Poplar St. by Glass Animals
3. Though we're tethered to the story we must tell/When I saw you, well I knew we'd tell it well/With a whisper, we will tame the vicious seas/Like a feather, bringing kingdoms to their knees-turning page by sleeping at last
4. Lose, soon have nothing to/Space, this is what I choose/A mile, could you walk in my shoes/All your, all your life/Let me face, let me face, let me face my fears/Oh, let me face, let me face, let me face my fears/Won't be long, won't be long, I'm almost here/Watch me cry all my tears-face my fears by Skrillex and Hikaru Utada
5. This is getting so complicated/It's a mess for the ages/And the feeling, feeling inside/Dancing on the edge of disaster/Makes my heart beat faster-dance you outta my head by Cat Janice
6. It's like a dream/No end and no beginning/You're here with me/It's like a dream/Let the choir sing-Like A Prayer by Madonna
7. I wrote God a simple letter/Still haven't heard from Him/I must have really messed up this time/Shit must have hit the fan-can I exist by Missio
8. Trust your heart & mind/Love yourself, be kind/Just seek & you shall find/Give it all, give it all, just try-Kings by MMXJ feat Gentle Bones
9. The lines we didn't cross when we were running towards a dream/The earthquake came/All that remained was broken up concrete/Walked through the flame/It left its name in scars on our bodies-foundations by MitiS
10. Less of the past and more of the future/Hurts looking back/But don't feel the same/I'm out of the woods/I'm out in the open/I hear the wind/See the world for a change/You never thought/That I would get better-Foundations by Mokita
11. Time to soldier up/Like never before/Rise above the flood/Time to soldier up/Get ready for war/Pay with sweat and blood/It's gonna take everything you got-vengeance by NEONI
12. Because they took our love and they filled it up/Filled it up with Novocaine and now I'm just numb/Now I'm just numb/And leave me, don't mind me, I'm just a son of a gun/So don't stop, don't stop 'till your heart goes numb-Novocaine by Fall Out Boy
13. Can't help I'm feeling like a reject/Sometimes I feel so damn derelict/You bathe me in the saltiest of tears/When I'm sad they show me how to face my fears./I'm not, not gonna lie/I think, think I could die happy/Happy, happy in his eyes-River by Oh Be Clever
14. Don't leave just yet/Dance with me love one last time, slowly/Drown me again, just like you did/One last time, lovely/Phantom you lay, across my bed one last time/If only, for a moment we could-phantom by Ørka
15. I tasted heaven, now I can't live without it/I can't forget you and your love is the loudest/Oh, I can't control it, I can't control it (Can't control it)/You keep making it harder to stay/But I still can't run away-prisoner by Miley Cyrus
16. And she lives her dreams through the magazines/And her daddy's gone and she needs someone/And she's got the looks and the boys on hooks/But she'll trade it all for a heart that's whole-Prom Queen by Molly Kate Kestner
17. Oh, the body swayed to music/Oh, the lightning glance/I would give it all and all/Maybe you would hear me/Ask for half a chance-Róisín Murphy
18. You're alone for 25/And you keep wantin' to be by yourself/I told you wickedness is contagious/Don't tell me you can dish it but you can't take it/Since you started this/I'll drive you mad, I've got incentive-Nomyn and Veela
19. Fallen angels at my feet/Whispered voices at my ear/Death before my eyes/Lying next to me I fear/She beckons me, shall I give in?/Upon my end, shall I begin/Forsaking all I've fallen for?-whisper by evanescence
20. Everything will slip away/Shattered pieces will remain/When memories fade into emptiness/Only time will tell its tale/If it all has been in vain-Frozen by Within Temptation
21. Walk the dark path/Sleep with angels/Call the past for help/Touch me with your love/And reveal to me my true name/Oh, how I wish/For soothing rain/All I wish is to dream again/My loving heart/Lost in the dark-Nemo by Nightwish
22. So one day he found her crying/Coiled up on the dirty ground/Her prince finally came to save her/And the rest you can figure out/But it was a trick and the clock struck 12-brick by boring brick by Paramore
23. In between/What I find is pleasing and I'm feeling fine/Love is so confusing there's no peace of mind/If I fear I'm losing you. it's just no good/You teasing like you do-heart of glass by blondie
24. And I don't talk shit about you on the internet/Never told anyone anything bad/'Cause that shit's embarrassing, you were my everything/And all that you did was make me fucking sad/So don't waste the time I don't have/And don't try to make me feel bad-happier than ever by Billie Eilish
25. Mama said/Burn your biographies/Rewrite your history/Light up your wildest dreams/Museum victories, every day/We wanted everything, wanted everything-high hopes by panic! At the disco
26. Hook, line & sinker- drop it down to the bottom/Butterfly float, flicker, soar to the top/Kill for the thrill- cut it, stick it where you got him/Circle rolling under, running red to the stop-pretty little head by Eliza Rickman
27. It's all gone wrong, Heaven hold us/We've lost the sun, Heaven told us/The world was strong, Heaven hold us/Where do we go when it's all over?/Come back from the future/For we didn't fall-when it’s all over by RAIGN
28. You're the moon that glows in the sky/Lighting up the world when it's blue/Stars they dance though late in the night/Don't you know they dance just for you-Aphrodite by the Ridleys
29. Do you hum a little tune all day long?/Do you hear my name in the chorus of your song?/When you sing your song/Does it make you feel brand new?/Tell me, darling, please tell me true-tell me true by Sarah Jarosz
30. I used to shut my door while my mother screamed in the kitchen/I'd turn the music up, get high and try not to listen/To every little fight, 'cause neither one was right/I swore I'd never be like them/But I was just a kid back then-older by Sasha Alex Sloan
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✸ lesbiandonnanoble fic masterpost ✸
here's this finally. i wanted all my DW fics in one place on this blog so here they are! below the cut, separated by source (new, classic, big finish, etc) for your reading pleasure 👍 the fics are listed in order of publication so oldest at the top, newest at the bottom. i'll try to keep this updated as best i can, and to anyone who may read any of my stuff, thank you!
new who
a parisian sunset - Even after a month of working with him, Mickey still felt nervous around Jake. He couldn’t quite read him; he could never say with surety where he stood. And, god, he had big shoes to fill. mickey/jake, T, 1.5k words.
take a breath & count to five - The Doctor can't actually process what happened on Midnight without seizing up. Donna tries to talk him through it. 10 & donna, T, 1.5k words.
suspended in gaffa - The day after he loses Amy and Rory, the Doctor wakes up on an unfamiliar planet. His ship is nowhere to be found, the world he's on seems to be the inside of an enormous computer, and he's the only living thing on it. He's struggling to survive the grief of living without Amy just as hard as he's struggling to figure out where he is and escape, and the computer interface - the only thing he can talk to - has elected to take the form of Jamie McCrimmon, which isn't making anything easier. Plus, there's something hiding in the planet's tunnels... 11, T, 18.4k words.
ooh, you make me live - Stuck on Earth during the slow invasion of the cubes, the Doctor tells Amy something he's never really told anyone before. 11 & amy, G, 2k words.
XOXO - The Doctor doesn't know when it changed from just work texts into this, but she finds herself texting O all day and all night. Graham calls her out on it, which prompts an unpleasant realization- could she have a crush? 13/"O", G, 1.3k words.
lethologica - Noun. The feeling of having a word or phrase you can't remember right on the tip of your tongue. Or, Jenny comes to check on Donna post-Journey's End. donna & jenny, T, 2.4k words.
second(or third) first kiss - Rose comes up with an excuse (Cassandra's possession) and the Doctor comes up with an excuse (that was his old body, this is his new one) and they share a 'first' kiss (and a few after that). 10/rose, T, 1.5k words.
a lives-long love letter - After crashing on Darillium and looking forward to their twenty-four year night - a veritable life together - the Doctor can't get over what River said on the ship. That however briefly, she'd really believed that he didn't love her back. He knows it's time to do everything it takes to change her mind. 12/river, T, 2.7k words.
self-destruction 101 - The Doctor thinks through his options while preparing to erase Donna's memories. He does it half to save her life, and half to ruin his. It's what they both deserve. 10 & donna, T, 1.1k words.
our thing - The Doctor takes Rose back to her London for New Year's. He's stuck on the families he's lost. She reminds him of the one he's got. 9/rose, G, 0.9k words.
toast & tea - The Doctor comes down with something; so used to him looking after her, Rose is grateful to return the favour, and to talk with shields down. 9/rose, G, 0.8k words.
five times Donna wrote the Doctor an email she didn't send - ...plus one time she couldn't remember enough to write one. Six emails from Donna to the Doctor, detailing her thoughts on their adventures together from the Runaway Bride through after Journey's End, and six short scenes accompanying those emails. 10 & donna, G, 10k words.
home, after the end of the world - Karvanista has just lost everyone and everything. By every thread of logic in the universe, he should be alone. He isn't. dan & karvanista, G, 0.9k words.
wind was blowing, time stood still - In the autumn of 1983, London bartender Rose Tyler meets John Smith. He's a dock worker, a union organizer, and an all around good man. But Rose starts hearing a strange voice in her head, and John's eyes, his heartbeat, his temperature, start to change. Reality begins to blur, and Rose can't hold onto herself, the life she loves, and John all at once; something has to slip. An 80s AU and a chameleon arch AU rolled into one. 9/rose, mickey/jake, T, WIP.
classic who
playing to weaknesses - The Doctor finds himself captured as a result of his investigating the Autons. As usual, he talks his way out of trouble. 3/the master, T, 1.8k words.
girls' day - A human!Susan AU sequel to this wonderful fic. After Susan moves in with them, Ian and Barbara struggle to come up with things that will help her open up to them. Barbara comes up with something that might help. susan & barbara, G, 1.7k words.
a much-needed talk - On one of their adventures, Ian and Barbara barely make an escape. It leaves them with some things to talk about. ian/barbara, G, 1.2k words.
t-minus 30 minutes - Jamie, Zoe, and the Doctor have finally gotten themselves into trouble they can't figure a way out of. With a computer predicting their every move, they have no way to escape. Basically, they have half an hour to say goodbye. 2 & jamie & zoe, T, 3.5k words.
a piece of eternity - Steven was alone in that room, a prisoner on Mechanus, for two years. Or, more precisely, seven hundred and forty-eight days. He knows, because he counted every single one of them. Basically, a 'what happened to Steven during his two years alone' fic. steven, T, 5.4k words.
to the waters and the wild - During an adventure, Jamie and the Doctor finally have the “I know you’re not human. What are you??” talk while waiting for Zoe to break them out of jail. 2 & jamie, G, 1.5k words.
weighing the probability of luck versus fate - Once they're safe and settled after escaping the land of fiction, the Doctor tries to explain why he didn't recognize Jamie's face. 2/jamie, G, 1.7k words.
five steps to living - Once she leaves the Wheel, Zoe faces the challenge of unlearning her programming. Slowly, she becomes acquainted with her emotions and with how to express them, and with the help of Jamie and the Doctor, she tries to accept that she is loved instead of just useful. 2 & jamie & zoe, G, 4.5k words.
to time wasting - Necessity, as some chap had surely called it, was not the mother of invention, at least not for the Doctor, and not with this. A case could be made, however, for love. [Or, how Jamie got his wristwatch.] 2/jamie, G, 1.9k words.
in the common tongue - Jamie and the Doctor have a talk about language. Featuring the TARDIS translation circuit, the importance of one's native language, and shooting stars. 2/jamie, G, 2.1k words.
making the wrong choice (and other things that are worse in a cyclical existence) - After his trial, the Doctor is sentenced to exile and a forced regeneration. Before that sentence can be carried out, he's given a choice: go through with it, be killed and be exiled, or just go out and do one simple task for the Time Lords, and go free. It seems like an easy choice, doesn't it? And that cloying sense of familiarity, that sense that he's made this choice before, done this all before, that's nothing. Isn't it? 2, T, 4.1k words.
beginning to hope - A wlw Ben/Polly AU. 30 years after the Doctor, after their break up, after everything, Polly calls Ben about a nightmare and Ben suggests they meet up somewhere and talk it over. ben/polly, G, 3.1k words.
like a bell to a southerly wind - When Ben and Polly go missing at the resort planet the Doctor dropped them off on, he and Jamie pretend to be regular resort guests - and married - so they can look for them without getting too many questions. They pretend too well. 2/jamie, T, 12.3k words.
making right - After Telos, Jamie and the Doctor get into an argument, which, as it turns out, is a proxy for another, heavier argument. One thing leads to another and suddenly they're talking about the one thing they've pointedly not talked about since they left Earth for Skaro: what happened at Maxtible's mansion. 2 & jamie, G, 2.5k words.
under desert stars - Stranded on an alien world waiting for the Doctor to come back, Jamie and Zoe butt heads yet again, this time over a young alien child Jamie insists on looking after. Zoe thinks about parenting. zoe & jamie, G, 2.2k words.
ghost stories - Even in a different world, a world with a magic ship and a thousand different planets and the Doctor, Jamie can't fully shake what happened on Culloden. The Doctor talks him through a flashback. 2/jamie, G, 2.3k words.
bridging gaps - Jamie is back with the Doctor, but all he can notice is how much their years apart post-War Games have changed him. A 6b story about weathering cultural genocide. 2/jamie, T, 2.5k words.
and make a wish - In living memory, Zoe has never once celebrated her birthday. There is nothing special about just another day. When she turns seventeen, she tries to distract herself with the usual numbers and equations, but Jamie is set on giving her a proper birthday. zoe & jamie, G, 2.1k words.
in recovery - Zoe gets put out of commission during an attack on a base. When she wakes up, she starts to realize just how at home she feels with Jamie and the Doctor. 2 & jamie & zoe, G, 1k words.
expanded universe stuff
a reason to stay - An AU where the Master helps Alison make the choice of whether to stay and travel with them or go back home. scream of the shalka, alison & the master, G, 1.5k words.
paradoxical recollection - Once they're back safe in the TARDIS after Caerdroia, C'rizz starts remembering the cycle from the Last. charley & c'rizz, T, 2k words.
birds singing in the sycamore tree - After a mishap with a planet's native flora, Charley and the Doctor have four shared dreams, and confess their love for each other in four different ways. 8/charley, T, 8.9k words.
i know where i'm going, but i don't want to leave - Shellshocked by the loss of her brother, Charley visits C'rizz's room before she makes the Doctor drop her off. charley & c'rizz, T, 1.7k words.
opera gloves - Leela and Romana attend an upscale Earth restaurant for a meeting with Arkadian. Leela, after the loss of Andred, weighs the possibility of having Romana leave her behind on Earth. gallifrey, leela/romana, G, 3k words.
you're my saving grace - cowritten with sciencebutch. After the events of Scherzo, the Doctor and Charley have a little hearts to heart. 8/charley, G, 4.8k words.
beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth - Throughout Romana's rebellion against Pandora, Leela and Narvin grow closer somewhat by necessity. But also, necessity is a bit of an excuse. Or, 5 times Leela initiates contact with Narvin + 1 time Narvin reaches out to her first. gallifrey, leela/narvin, T, 3.9k words.
quicksilver and steel - Meeting a future Romana makes Leela think about how far she'd go for her present Romana. gallifrey, leela/romana, G, 1.9k words.
hotel talk - Charley knows that the Doctor and C'rizz have very vague relationships with the concept of binary gender. She also knows that she doesn't quite fit those molds either, only she's never told anyone before. 8 & charley & c'rizz, G, 1.9k words.
pictures at an exhibition - Brax's favourite pieces in the entire renowned Braxiatel Collection aren't ones of value or cultural importance. They're the three that depict Leela, Romana, and Narvin. gallifrey, brax/leela, brax/romana, brax/narvin, T, 1.7k words.
how to start the time war - A bit of an emotional elaboration on that 'holy shit, Narvin started the time war' scene. gallifrey, narvin & leela & romana, T, 1.6k words.
EU/new/classic crossover stuff
let's try again - After the Time War, the Doctor can't get over how utterly alone he is. He's the only one of his people left. Then it really hits him- he's the only one left. There's no one to tell him what to do, or stop him. He goes back and finds Jamie again, but there's a problem- Jamie can't remember him. 9/jamie, T, 11.9k words.
the ballad of robert frost - In seeking a moment's respite from the Time War, the Doctor finds themself going back to Jamie's much simpler, more linear war, and to Jamie, in hopes they might remember what it is they're fighting for. 8/jamie, T, 3.3k words.
we're building a house of the future together - Donna remembers everything. If anyone's strong enough to carry those memories, that knowledge, it's her. They thought she couldn't handle it, but they were wrong. And as much as she wants her best friend back, she can't ignore that he took those memories away from her. So, a lesson in trust. Donna builds herself a spacetime machine and sends herself on a tour of the Doctor's timeline, visiting each of his regenerations so she can see that he's worth trusting and worth finding again. the doctor [all] & donna, T, WIP.
#doctor who#new who#classic who#big finish#gallifrey#scream of the shalka#theres literally so many fics in here im sorry to anyone who opens this and has to scroll for 15 seconds straight#my fic#my stuff
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Thank you to @haztobegood @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed @justalarryblog @uhoh-but-yeah-alright @loulovehome and @jacaranda-bloom for tagging me in this! I loved reading all your posts!!
1. Number of stories posted to AO3: 15 (half of all the fics I've ever posted!)
2. Word count posted for the year: 178.735 !!!
3. Fandoms I wrote for: One Direction, Lewis Capaldi, But I'm a Cheerleader
4. Pairings: 1D Pairings: Harry/Louis, Lewis/Niall, Zayn/Liam, Niall/Golf But I'm a Cheerleader Pairings: Jan/Sinéad, Megan/Graham
5. Story with the most:
Kudos: Lies & Liability (280)
Bookmarks: Lies & Liability (145)
Comments: like cranberries on a winter evening (247 as of now. which. insane!!)
6. Work I’m most proud of (and why): I think I'll never be as proud of anything as I am of The Journal. I'm putting this under the cut because it's incredibly personal, but Lynda asked me to finish this fic for her when she first got ill. It was early December and I was still hopeful that the treatment would work and she would get better and be able to finish it herself. Then she got COVID and the aftermath of that really had her health declining more rapidly than any of us expected. She asked me again, to finish her story some time in January I believe, and it hurt so much to think about the fact that she herself felt that she would never be able to do it alone that I put it off again. When I finally came to terms with the fact that she was right, I put off everything else and dove head-first into this fic and made it as much of a love letter as I could.
The fic itself deals with themes of illness, eternal life, reincarnation... And it was my way of telling Lynda that she would be an eternal force in this Universe. I'm more grateful than anything for the fact that I finished it in time for her to still be able to read it. Everything I write is for her, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously.
7. Work I’m least proud of (and why): I don't have anything I wrote that I particularly dislike, but maybe A Burnt Child Loves the Fire isn't my best? It's only 100 words though so I guess there's not much about it to either love or hate.
8. Share or describe a favourite review you received: All the comments I got on like cranberries on a winter evening throughout December were absolute magic. I can't thank everyone who read that story enough.
I recently shared the comments @zanniscaramouche left on Lies & Liability and But I’m the Quarterback. They are probably the longest and most thorough comments I've ever received and I love them a lot.
9. A time when writing was really, really hard: When it felt like I was running out of time to say goodbye to one of my dearest friends, but I just wanted to do her justice and make the story she'd started the best that it could possibly be. Sus and Tabby were there for me and I'm eternally grateful for that.
10. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: The entirety of across the river is where my heart is. I wrote this for @wordplayfics after I had just painstakingly finished Lies & Liabilty for the ABO fest and I saw the prompt "divide" and sent @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed a voice note rambling about a dystopian girl!direction AU that I desperately wanted to write. Mia told me to relax and that it sounded like a huge fic to write in a week, in response to which I rationalized it down into four 2k scenes and then this happened.
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Turns out... I wrote pretty much exactly 8k that week and managed to fit the entire plot into that wordcount. Go me! It's one of my favourite fics I wrote this year!
11. A favorite excerpt of your writing: This is very hard to choose. I'll go with this from The Journal and it's one of the flashback scenes that Harry lives through to understand what's going on in his present.
“It can only work if you both are willing to give your life for it,” a man with sharp features says, a barely audible accent to his words, amber eyes scanning Harry and the man next to him. His dark hair is fashionably parted on the side of his head, but Harry feels there is something ancient about him. His suit is cut just like his own, but the fabrics seem different, somehow iridescent. His waist coat is made of finer silk than Harry has seen in these parts of the world, and embroidered in such bright colors that Harry has a hard time keeping himself from reaching out to feel the threads underneath his fingertips and see if they might come away stained.
“To reiterate,” the man next to Harry starts then with a sharp voice. “We’re both willing, but only one of us will actually give his life.” He grabs his hand and Harry’s immediate instinct is to pull away—they are in somebody else’s home after all—but a small caress on top of his thumb reminds him that it’s okay. That this strangely alluring man is here to help them.
“Even if we both have to give it now, we will do it,” Harry hears himself say. And he looks around the room, trying to see if anything about this stands out to him as fraudulent. He can barely make out anything in the faint candle light, but his eyes are drawn to an ancient looking silver brooch on their vis-á-vis’ jacket: a serpent wrapped around an egg.
“No, we will not,” the man to his left tugs on his hand and makes him turn, tries to get him to look up at him. Harry has to remind himself of what he just said. He’s willing to die for this person. He shifts his weight and feels that he’s missing his shoes, socks digging into soft carpet. Right. The stranger had asked them to remove their shoes at the door.
Harry’s breath is almost knocked out of him when he looks up at his lover, when he sees the fire in those steel blue eyes. His delicate, rounded brows are furrowed and his thin lips pressed together, agitated. Harry reaches out, touches his fingers to the side of his man’s face and caresses it gently.
“Yes, we will,” he says, while looking into those furious eyes, withstanding their fire like only he can.
“I see there will be no problem with the willingness of either of you.” There’s an audible smirk in the sorcerer’s voice as he says it. “But I can give you no guarantee that you will return soon after your death, Sir Tomlinson.”
“What we are here for is not a quick fix, Lord Malik,” Sir Tomlinson says then. He visibly has a hard time turning away from Harry, but he does. He looks at Lord Malik. “I want Harry to live a full life before returning to me.”
“Ah,” the sorcerer says knowingly. “But he may live many lives before he finds you. And each will make his task more difficult.”
12. How did you grow as a writer this year: I wrote A LOT this year, for my measures anyway. And as I did that, I realized that my dialogue and pacing improved with each new story.
This year was also the first time I ever published any kind of smut, and going into that was terrifying, but I felt that it was very rewarding in that I had breached a subject that used to be a big, terrifying wall I thought I'd never conquer. I don't think many of my fics will have smut in the future, but it's something that I can now deal with when the story happens to call for it, or if I just feel like it!
13. How do you hope to grow next year: Next year is a terrifying, but exciting prospect for me. I plan to focus more on my career and start a business, so I will definitely have to take a step back from writing, but I hope I can still go on with it despite that. I haven't signed up for any fests or challenges because I don't know if I will be able to keep any deadlines, but I have a few ideas that I want to make reality. I guess my hope for next year is to grow into a writer that doesn't stress so much about writing, but I don't know how attainable that is.
14. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc): There are many people that influenced and inspired me this year. The ever-growing and deepening friendships I developed with @lululawrence and @fallinglikethis throughout the year gave me a lot of strength and helped me a lot with the grief I went through.
@so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed was a constant, ever-encouraging and wonderful partner-in-crime. I can't explain how much I needed you this year and how thankful I am to have you.
Having mentioned Mia, I can't gloss over the wonderful, insanely talented @jacaranda-bloom, and everyone else who is a writer on my discord server who has written with me and shared their struggles and achievements.
15. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: Oof. Always. I think that Harry's struggles with his faith in But I’m the Quarterback were something that I needed to reflect on personally. Obivously, the entirety of The Journal is incredibly personal on all levels.
16. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: Write what you want, not what you think others will like. Write because you enjoy it, have fun with it, even if you think it's ridiculous and weird and nobody will want to read it. Not everything has to be literally based in experience, your characters and scenery will always contain enough of you to make anything true to yourself if you allow them to take on the many facettes you have as a writer.
17. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: I have another couple bonus chapters of my advent fic like cranberries on a winter evening that I want to write at the beginning of the year and then I have another country fic planned (based on Orville Peck's version of Fancy), even though I don't know if I'll be able to run the @1dcountryfest again next year. I also had a LOT of fun with the advent fic so I might try that again next year. And I have my Bartender WIP from a couple years ago that I haven't touched in a long time. I don't think I'll run out of ideas.
18. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read: I'm super late with this one but I'll tag everyone I've mentioned already as well as @disgruntledkittenface @hazzabeeforlou @cowboylarries @homosociallyyours @lightwoodsmagic @londonfoginacup and anybody else who feels like doing this!
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The Rise and Fall of the Shepard Family Finale Part 2: Fall 1085
Part 1& Part 2
Part 3 & Part 4
Part 5 & Part 6 & Part 7
Part 8 & Part 9 & Part 10
Part 11 & Part 12 & Part 13
Part 14 & Part 15 & Part 16
Part 17 & Part 18 & Part 19
Part 20 & Part 21 & Part 22
Part 23 & Part 24 & Part 25
Part 26 & Part 27 & Part 28
Part 29 Finale Part 1
“Llywelyn? His name is Llywelyn?” Frances was incredibly confused. “Where did you get these letters?”
“Under the bed. Morwena found them while she was cleaning. Please continue.”
Llywelyn & Algarda
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According to the seven letters stashed away in the box, they had both been very young and had met while Llywelyn had served as a mercenary soldier under Aélgarda’s father, a Saxon Ealdorman that had died by the hand of the bastard King in 1067. Both of them had been in their prime and Aélgarda was considered something of a ginger-haired beauty. There were expectations that she would make a grand marriage.
Gwendolyn had heard her father talk about his time fighting for the Saxons before. Her mother had also said that her father had been a fine soldier. He was well respected and handsome, dangerous with a sword, and had a promising career ahead of him.
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They had danced together during several feasts at her father’s estate in Chester, and eventually became clandestine lovers. They knew her father would never allow such a match to take place, as there had already been a match made for Aélgarda by the time they met. But the man in question was never mentioned again after the second letter.
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They continued their affair for a little over two years, but he was gone most of the time. He eventually got her with child.
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Shortly after, he had been sent up north to fight off Norse raiders, and he promised to come back for her and marry her as soon as he was able. Sometime after his departure she wrote that she had suffered a miscarriage, and after six months, he still had not returned. There were no more letters after that.
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After they had read them all, and then read them again, they both took some time to digest what had been written. There seemed to be more questions than answers within each letter. Had Llywelyn followed Aélgarda, even though they were both already married? Was Frédérique the daughter of Llywelyn? Had they continued their affair after Gwendolyn’s mother had died? Together, Frances and Gwendolyn tried their best to sort out the pieces of the puzzle and make them fit into a kind of timeline that might give them answers.
“My father talked about his days in Chester on more than one occasion. Is it near Wales?”
“Yes. It’s near the border of Whales, west of here.”
“So, the man in the letters must be my father. Although my father couldn’t read, so how could he have read these? A third person would have had to have been involved, and they would have needed to be very discreet. That’s quite a risk to take!”
“I agree. Yet it happens all the time, you’d be surprised at how many Nobles can’t read. And yet, I would have taken the same risk if I knew I would not see you for months at a time.”
Frances knew that in 1066 Aélgarda ran off to marry Marcelle and gave birth to Frédérique the same year, which was when Gwendolyn had also been born. They journeyed to the Humber River in 1070 from Rotherham, a small market town. Frances had only been two and Gwendolyn four. Unlike Frances, Gwendolyn remembered the journey to Grimsby, and she remembered what had come after.
“It could not have been mere coincidence that your family arrived here around the same time, and in the same location, as my family. Especially considering how long of a journey it is,” he said.
They both wondered on what grounds Llywelyn had sought her out. Was it because they wanted to be together, or had he been looking for employment? Most of the great men Llywelyn had served were already dead or had had their lands seized by the crown. So it was a real possibility that he sought her out for protection, especially since she had married a Norman man.
“He needed work. I remember we had to sell one of his beloved swords just to have enough to eat. It was a desperate time.”
The other possibility was that he knew Frédérique was his daughter and wanted to be near her. Frédérique had invited Gwendolyn to their estate several times, and each time Llywelyn had accompanied her. He could have watched her from afar, and that might have been enough for him.
“That would explain my father’s behavior. He must have thought that Frédérique was not his child, regardless of what the truth really is. Since he knew of your father’s indiscretions with Olric’s wife, he must have also questioned my brother’s parentage as well! I can’t imagine how it must have plagued his mind! The proof is in his treatment of them and their piteous inheritance.”
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“Of course! And it completely explains his treatment of me, although it does also speak to his vengeful character. Now I understand why he sent us away, we were reminders of my father. Your mother wanted to protect us, for my father’s sake! ”
He nodded, remembering everything that had happened with a tinge of shame.
He could see Gwendolyn’s mind racing now, and Frances knew he would have to tell her everything that had happened the night his father had broken off their engagement. It was something he had not gotten around to doing, mostly because he had wanted them to forget. He took a deep breath.
“I fear I have not told you everything that my father said the night he cut off our engagement. But let me tell you now. According to him, she actually wanted us to marry and had pushed it from nearly the moment you arrived here.”
“What?!”
He then relayed everything that had occurred that night in it’s entirety. How his mother long considered Llywelyn an honorable man due to his serving the Welsh king. How she had not only preferred for him a match with Gwendolyn over the Merchants, but that she had actually helped to arrange it. He told her of his anger and how he had camped out under the stars, which had been the reason why he never got a chance to say goodbye.
“For a long time I didn’t think about what he meant, because I had been too angry. But then I realized she had arranged for us to walk together, alone. Do you remember all those times she said she was too busy to come with us?” Gwendolyn nodded. “Well, she knew I already liked you, and wanted you to break off the match with Oswald and marry me instead. She must have figured that time alone together would make us fall in love.”
“That is why they sent him away! According to Frédérique, he came to visit me twice, and both times he had been sent away. Did you know that?”
“No. But it hardly surprises me. For his part, I know my father initially agreed because you had a good dowry, you were an heiress of a rather small fortune. But after he had already helped himself to it, he must have gotten ahold of the letters and used them to further justify his cause. Or, he read the letters and then spent your dowry. I’m not sure which.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes bulged at this information, and she had to sit down. It was an incredible story, and one that she would not have believed if she had not have seen it unfold with her own eyes.
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“So, I have been groomed me for the position of being your wife! Why did you not tell me of this before?!”
Frances shrugged. “It is a painful memory to speak of, and I didn’t want to stir up fresh anguish for you. You’ve suffered enough already. What good would have come of it?” Gwendolyn acknowledged there was merit in his reason, but chided him for not giving her the choice of knowing.
“You’re right. I should have told you when I first found you. I’m sorry.” But her mind was racing again and she hardly heard what he had said.
“He must have discovered the letters after Aélgarda’s death, as there can be no other explanation. She must have hidden them away somewhere and he, or someone else, discovered them. He refused our marriage and sent me away to get back at them both, even after they were dead!”
“Yes, he was petty and vengeful. What I want to know is what on earth made her keep them? That I cannot understand! Did your father return them? Or did she somehow get them back after he died? Maybe Llywelyn had them and my father got them after he sold your property. Have you ever seen this box before?”
“No, never. It’s too fine a box to have escaped my notice. If he did have them, he certainly would not have put them in that box. In fact, I do not recall her ever visiting us when my father was alive either. Only Marcelle came to collect rents and sup with us. He and my father used to talk business. He used to bring us cherries.”
Neither one of them spoke for some time, as they were busy going over the facts in their own heads. They both agreed that had Marcelle known then about the letters, he would not have been so kind. Although Frances didn’t agree with his father’s ways, he could at least understand him a bit better.
“He never was unfaithful to my Mother that any of us knew about, so it must have shattered him to read these letters. He had once loved her very much... as much as a man like my father can love anyone. I do not believe that any of my siblings were sired by Llywelyn- not even Frédérique. We look too much alike, and I see nothing of you in her face. Now that I think of it, you were born the same year as Frédérique, so Llywelyn would have had to have been a very busy man for all that to have happened in only a year! And it means my mother would have had to lie about losing her baby. Yet if she loved him, why would she do that? It’s quite clear from the letters that she loved him very much.”
“Unless she thought she would never see him again. She may have lied in order to marry your Father, whom had come from a noble family. Perhaps she figured that she would be better off with a well connected Norman than a poor Welsh solider. She could have been forced to do it for the greater good, to protect your sister.”
“I doubt it. But it is possible.....” a look of worry crossed his face, and then hint of anger.
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In the end they both agreed that no good could possibly come from keeping the letters, as it called into question the parentage of too many. It also painted three of their four parents in a very unfavorable light.
The facts were there. Aélgarda had been lovers with not one, but two men while engaged to someone else of her father’s choosing. Llywelyn had been a seducer of women and clearly had no respect for the marital status of others. Marcelle had been a miser and a thief who sought revenge on helpless children, even children that were most likely his own.
Frances lifted the parchment to the fireplace and stared at the contents. It angered him to know that such small things had caused so much anguish to him, and his wife especially.
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“Let them burn,” he sneered, as he tossed one of the letters into the fire. “I know the truth. I know what a good wife she was to him, and what she meant to us, and that’s really all that matters. She was no whore, and I won’t have anyone speak of her that way, ever!”
“Let us burn them all,” Gwendolyn said.
When the house was quiet and still, they made their way downstairs and watched as the fire flickered while hungrily devouring the remaining letters. It went unspoken, but they each understood they would tell no one of them.
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“Are you ashamed of our parents?” He asked her while he watched the bright orange light reflected in her eyes. It was one of those rare moments that he really had no idea what she was thinking. He pulled up chairs for them both so they could sit awhile without being heard.
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“Yes....and no. In some ways I am shocked, but in others, I feel relieved to know the answers now. Your father’s behavior towards myself had always weighed on me, because I blamed myself. Now I know it was because of nothing I did, but because of what I represented. He used my father’s status as an excuse, but it was really not the reason.” She pinched the corners of her mouth, then turned back to the fire.
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“Yet the feeling that seems to make the biggest impression on me, is one of their love. Despite everything, I’m glad they had been lovers, and I’m happy that she still held my father in high regard even after his death. She wanted to honor him by honoring his children, and for that, I will always honor her.” Her heart felt easier now, and she almost found the situation humorous. Almost.
They treaded up the stairs to their chambers. It had been a long, exhausting evening.
Gwendolyn chuckled to herself. “What I really want to know is, who was the man she was originally engaged to? He must have been quite awful for her to have chosen a mercenary soldier and a Norman over a match her father preferred! The poor fellow. I feel a bit bad for him.”
Frances was more wistful. He didn’t like talking about his family, as there was so much he didn’t know, and so much to resent. Would they have survived if they had allied with the King or a powerful Norman family such as his father’s? What would it take for the King to stop his sheer brutality to the Saxon people? By the time his reign was over, would there be anything left of their language, or laws, or culture?
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“Perhaps he died before anything ever came of it. The Saxons paid a heavy price to the Danes with many lives, even before the King conquered these lands. And after, all of the men on her side were completely wiped away, as if they had never existed at all. Their fortunes, that had taken decades to build, were the first thing to go. Her family was one of the wealthiest and most powerful, and now there is nothing but dust. Sometimes I wonder that I was born at all. It truly seems a miracle.”
She sensed his sadness and caressed his cheek, then embraced him.
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“It is a miracle. You’re a testament to the power of love amid war. Whatever happens in the world, love always seems to have a way of burning bright, sometimes even against all odds.” He smiled at her words because they were wise beyond her years, and they were true. He thought of his mother then, and how it was love that had driven and guided her throughout most of her life.
She had gotten her wish.
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Tuesday 30 December 1834
9 10
11 ¼
No kiss very fine soft sunshiny morning now at 9 55 and F44° in my study - breakfast (upstairs) at 10 and sat talking over it till 11 – then turned out rainy till 12 50 looking over bills to be paid and tidying bills etc in my study – then a little while (a few minutes) with my aunt – better today – had had a goodnight – till 3 20 wrote 3 pages to Mrs Norcliffe – mentioned my visit to Lawton and being there 3 days Xmas day and 1 of them -‘its last anniversary had been spent with you at Langton, a circumstance which did not escape my remembrance - I spoke of it to Mariana who seemed well enough aware of the disagreeable impression made on the minds of Charlotte and Mrs. Milne - I am thankful to find from you letter, I was right in the steady belief, that your faith could not fall away so easily - the fact is, I knew and had long known of your going to London - I dined in Micklegate on Thursday the 29th of May (left York on Tuesday 3 June) when Mrs. Duffin told me, you were going to be off in a fortnight, or 3 weeks, I forgot which, but, whichever it was, my friend and I even calculated, as we drove along, that you could not possibly arrive before we should be gone - I mentioned this both to Isabella and Charlotte in Paris, and repeated it in the minster court, surprised, at this latter time, to find the truth of my assertion deemed impossible - I am sure, you can imagine my annoyance at the moment - we are none of us faultless - but, be my own faults what they may, they are not those little-minded ones of which I have too often been accustomed - Ill and hurried as I was, I should have thought it no trouble to seek you in London or anywhere - to you, there is not in my power any attention bespeaking grateful and affectionate regard, which I should not be delighted to pay - but enough of this - I have your good opinion, and I am satisfied - ........... Poor Fisher! you will for
SH:7/ML/E/17/0134
ever feel his loss - I only wish he had some years ago recommended you to try a warmer and drier air - my aunt suffers, is possible, more and more - she begs her complaints and thanks for your so kind inquires’ ....... ‘I hear Mrs. Best is at Frankfurt on the Main, an excellent town, its climate tempered by the river, and altogether a town possessing many local advantages’ - count upon bringing in Mr. James Wortley - ‘it is above a week since I heard from London, that I am not quite au couvant des affaires at this moment’ - .....’I thought Mariana looking very fairly well - my visit was hurried because of their own so limited stay at Lawton (till tomorrow) and of my own concerns at home - Mr. Lawton looks as young as he did ten years ago’ - ‘I fear my aunt is not likely to have many more gleams, and I have no thought of leaving her as she is at present - Pray can you tell me of any good architect at Leeds?......... But do not try to write - surely Isabella will do thus much for me - my love to her and you all - ever my dear Mrs. Norcliffe very truly and affectionately yours AL-‘ and sent off the letter by John at 3 50 to ‘Mrs. Norcliffe, Langton Hall, Malton’ and gave him £60 in notes to pay bills to the amount of £58.6.3 ½ all put to my own account except £9.17.4 ½ sent to A- from Walker’s. She gave me fifty pounds towards them We were just going out when Mr John Edwards called ‘on a little business’ as he said ‘ in consequence of a communication from Mr Adam’ i.e. that I would subscribe to the expense of Mr Wortley’s election – Mr J.E. said he had called last week but A- had not heard of it – only 3 names down - Christopher Rawson, Christopher Saltmarshe and John Waterhouse each for £50 and I put down ‘A. Lister £50’ - it seems from Mr. E-‘s private book that the promised votes stand as under Mr E- staid ¼ hour or 20 minutes – A- and I in spite of coming right went out at 4 20 into the walk for 50 minutes - dusky almost dark as we returned but mild, warm, fine growing evening - more like April than December - wrote the last 11 or 12 lines till 5 ¾ - dinner at 6 10 in the drawing room – A- and I sometime with my father and Marian – coffee – came upstairs about 8 – read the paper - Letter (1 half sheet full) kind letter franked by Lord Stuart de Rothesay from Lady S- de R- dated yesterday [Tittenhager] thanks for my letter - was before receiving it meaning to write to me - hopes I do what I can for Mr. Wortley writes in a hurry - not a word of public affairs - it seems from tonight’s paper Lord Cowley is to succeed Lord Granville at Paris, Lord Londonderry to go to St. Petersburg, and Sir Robert Gordon back to Constantinople - all very good - with my aunt at 9 35 till 10 - very fine sunny morning till rain from about 11 am to between 2 and 3 pm then fine soft warm evening F51 ¾° in my study now at 10 5 pm.
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Homesick (Entry #41 - Finale)
02/03/88 11:53 PM
Hey.
...Hey.
I’m… really not sure where to begin. To be perfectly honest, part of me feels strange writing this at all. Not to say that filling this notebook has always made total sense to me, but today is different. Today is, well… today. This long-winded bedtime story has finally caught up to me. For the first time since I started, all I have to write about is what happened today.
I’ve never been quite so stuck on the fence between calling these entries ‘letters’ or ‘journals.’ I don’t know where I stand in this game of pretend I’ve been playing with myself for the past couple of months. Pretending I’m writing to you, pretending you’ll ever read all this. I don’t know. I guess I want to believe I don’t need to do this anymore, at least not today. Because with any luck, you saw everything that happened today, and heard everything that was said. What’s the point of telling someone about an event they attended?
But I’ll tell you about it anyway, because I want to record and remember every detail. It was overwhelming, and it somehow went by so fast, and I’m worried that I’ll forget something. My heart’s still kind of pounding. I feel a bit light-headed. I can still smell burning paper, and it’s making me a little sick, but it’s… well, it’s complicated.
Today was, of course, your funeral.
I’m not sure what I expected your funeral to be like. I’d never been to one. I’d certainly never prepared one. I wasn’t even sure a gathering of three could be called a funeral at all. But I did my best to make sure each of us would pay respects to you that were not given at the arcade-wide memorial.
I really had only one major request for Felix and Ralph. I wanted each of us, including myself, to write a letter to you. I could tell that they weren’t thrilled by the idea, but they didn’t fight me on it. I tried to make it as easy and open-ended as possible. I told them to just say whatever they would say to you if they had one more chance to do so, to be genuine about it, no matter what that might look like, and write it in the form of a letter. I didn’t tell them why that last part was so significant, and they didn’t ask. But it just felt right to me.
Once we fully settled on a plan together, it looked like this:
One hour after the arcade closed, we would meet behind Niceland. No articles of blue clothing would be allowed, and I would provide red color edits as needed, including on the flowers that Felix was tasked to bring. I would bring the picture frame with our drawings, and your scarf and goggles, to be placed on a table with the flowers. Each of us would read out our letters, and then fold them into paper boats, light them on fire, and send them down the river while I played a song I wrote for the occasion.
I was still working on the song by the time the evening came.
I was in Felix’s apartment when the arcade closed. I had spent most of the day in my den so that I could hear my own music over the sound of Niceland being pounded to bits, but eventually snuck into the building, picture frame and your belongings in hand, so that Felix would not have to come looking for me. When I heard ‘Quittin’ time’ announced and the wrecking stopped for good, I just tried my best to ignore it and keep plucking away on my guitar.
It was not long before I heard approaching thumps rising up the side of the building and, from the corner of my eye, saw Ralph’s face appear in one of the apartment’s windows. I was startled by the sound of glass breaking, and looked to see him still holding up the finger that he had tried to gently tap the window with.
“D’oh, darn it,” he grunted, before smiling at me sheepishly. “Hey, Mavis. Sorry.”
I set my guitar aside and walked over, kind of annoyed that my heart rate had not fallen since the startle. “Hey, don’t be sorry,” I said with a bit of a sigh, “I hate that window, too.”
He laughed briefly and awkwardly before scratching the back of his head with his free hand. “So… I’ll get out of your hair in a sec, I just wanted to make sure we’re still… Y’know, that this is still--”
“Yup. Still on in an hour.”
“Okay,” he nodded, pretty clearly nervous. “Okay, I’ll go get ready, then.”
He almost dropped, but I called him back with a short whistle. “Hold on,” I told him, pulling out my brush. He watched me quizzically, but held still long enough for me to reach through the window and touch the color red into the otherwise aqua undershirt peeking up under his collar. “There. Now you’re set.”
“Oh,” he tugged his clothes away from his chest to inspect the change. “Right, right. Okay. At least the rest of me is pretty red already, huh?”
“Well, you’re better off than Felix,” I said, cracking a small smile.
We said a couple strained, awkward goodbyes, and he disappeared back down the side of the building almost the second Felix walked in the front door.
At first, he said “Oh, Mavy,” in pleasant surprise, but when he saw the broken window, he repeated in a less happy tone, “Oh, Mavy.”
“Hey, for once it wasn’t me,” I shrugged. “Take it up with the Bad Guy.”
Felix mended the broken window as quickly as ever, and from there, we more or less carried on like we would have any other evening. Felix brewed some tea, we sat at the table, and he told me about his day, as usual. I pretended to listen just enough to seem like I wasn’t snubbing him while I continued to work on the song. I just kept my notepad in my lap and darted my eyes down to it whenever he broke eye contact. Eventually, he couldn’t carry the conversation on his own anymore.
“You haven’t touched your tea,” he pointed out gently. “Can I get you more sugar?”
“No, thanks,” I mumbled absent-mindedly, eyes down, and reached to take a sip of the tea to placate him. Once the cold, minty drink was in my mouth, however, I found it hard to swallow. It tasted fine, but my throat felt almost too tense to allow it. I tried to subtly spit it back into the cup, but I know he saw.
“Are you… alright?” he asked gingerly, like he knew how stupid the question was, today of all days.
“I’m fine,” I sighed, drumming my pen against the paper, still not looking up. “I’m just working on the song I said I’d write. I’ve got the melody, but the words just aren’t coming together.”
“Oh,” I heard him take a slow, thoughtful sip. “Maybe it doesn’t need words. I’m sure it’s lovely anyway.”
I paused to consider that, accepted it, scratched out all my attempts at lyrics and tossed the notepad and pen over my shoulder. “Yeah,” I sighed sharply, planting my elbows on the table and rubbing my brow. “Screw it.”
Felix was quiet for a while. I just kept my eyes closed, trying to escape the headache I’d been fighting all day.
“You know, Mavy,” he said slowly, “we don’t have to do this today. If you need more time, that’s alright.”
“No, no,” I sighed again, folding my arms and staring down at my tea. “I want to do it today.”
“That’s fine, too,” he said. “Just… you know, there’s no rush.”
“Yeah, there is,” I muttered. “For me, there is. I know that a couple of days is not a long time to plan anything, but… I’ve wanted this for way more than a couple of days. I just… I’ve had a lot going on. I haven’t exactly had the mental space to realize just how… how mad I’ve been this whole time. Mad about…” I lifted my fingers, “everything. And I know I’ve been pissy as hell in general, but there’s just been this shade of it that I… I haven’t been able to see.”
I finally glanced up at Felix. He was just listening, cupping his empty mug on the table. There was no pain in his eyes, only a desire to understand. So I continued.
“In counselling, I learned about the stages of grief. Anger is the first. It had been long enough, and I had done enough work on myself, I thought I had moved past it. But there’s been this… underlying resentment that’s gone unaddressed. I know what it is now. It clicked when Ralph gave me that picture frame. I was hit by the fact that it was the first real gesture of respect for Turbo’s memory that I had seen since he died. Yeah, I’m not angry at Turbo anymore. But Devs, I’m angry for him.
“Angry that the arcade-wide memorial only served to vilify him. Angry that I was assaulted before even getting the chance to start mourning, and I’ve spent all this time dealing with what’s happened to me and ignoring what happened to him. Angry that other sprites in counselling get to talk about their grief and loss without a single judging look. Angry that I feel like I have to apologize any time I bring up Turbo in counselling. Angry that sprites out there are literally changing the meaning of his name to mean the act that killed him.”
I took a second to breathe. Felix waited patiently, and I continued once I found a calmer tone to speak in.
“I remember the night before he died. I remember the shape he was in. If anyone else had seen what I did, they wouldn’t be talking like they are. They would know he didn’t deserve to die. I can’t stand being the only sprite in the arcade who seems to understand that. And now I finally have time and energy to do something about it. Even if it’s just me, you, and Ralph. Ideally, Tapper would be there, too. Ideally, the whole arcade would care enough to be there. But I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.”
I shook my head. “I just can’t carry this anger a single step further. It has to be today.”
Felix smiled in a sad sort of way and nodded just a bit. “Okay,” he breathed. “Then we’ll do it today.”
The conversation ended after that, and shortly after, Felix excused himself to go gather the flowers he was tasked to bring, leaving me alone in the apartment for a while. It was enough time for me to practice the song a couple more times and try not to obsess over it. I felt like you deserved something better. Something grand. Something you would be happy to assign your name to while you were here. But I couldn’t manage it. I couldn’t even manage to write lyrics for the short, simple melody I came up with.
I guess missing you just doesn’t make me feel very musical.
After I was as satisfied as I was going to get with the song, I set to work coloring my clothes red, leaving only the already white parts unpainted. I was staring into the bathroom mirror, debating coloring the blue out of my eyes when Felix returned, arms full of flowers. I gave the flowers the same red-and-white treatment I gave myself, and eliminated every shade of blue from Felix’s outfit. He looks a bit weird in red, but I just couldn’t allow anything resembling Devout attire at your funeral. Nevermind blue being your least favorite color.
Once about an hour had passed since the arcade closed, we were all ready to go. There wasn’t a shade of blue on us. Felix held the color-coded flowers, and I held the picture frame and your belongings under an arm. Both of us had our respective letters we wrote to you in our pockets. I had my guitar slung over my back, tuned to perfection. Everything on the proverbial checklist was ticked.
But still, I stood there at the front door, one hand on the knob, finding it hard to make myself turn it.
“It’s okay, Mavy,” Felix said softly from behind me. “Take your time.”
I sighed through my nose, closing my eyes and trying to fight the quivering in my stomach. The gravity of what I was about to do had been squeezing me tighter and tighter as the evening went on.
“Hun,” Felix prompted gently, “I know you’re angry. But are you sure you want to do this in anger?”
I considered that, took a deep breath, and stood a bit straighter. “Yes, actually,” I looked back over my shoulder at him, speaking calmly despite my nerves. “I do. Waiting won’t help. I think I can safely say that delaying this is what made me angry in the first place. And... for once, I’d like to use my anger for something good,” I gave half a smile. “I won’t blow anything up this time. Don’t worry.”
Felix gave a quiet huff of a laugh, paused, and shook his head with a warm smile. “I’m not worried.”
I raised a brow.
He put one hand up a bit. “I know, I know how ridiculous that sounds. I know I’m the king of all worrywarts. But I mean it. I’m not worried.”
“Explain.”
Felix shrugged contentedly. “I trust you.”
I just stared at him, unsure if he had ever uttered those words to me before. I didn’t know what to say, so he continued.
“I trust you to do what’s best for you… and for Turbo. You’re the only one in the arcade who could,” he sighed, a bit of glassiness showing in his eyes. “And I’m proud of you. I know he would be, too.”
A bit blindsided in my already emotionally vulnerable state, I swallowed hard. Suddenly, my face felt much too hot. I nodded a bit, letting my eyes wander as the words sank in. I hoped he was right, but I tried not to think too deeply about that lest I turn into an emotional wreck before even making it downstairs.
So I just glanced at him and muttered, “Thanks, cuz.”
“Of course,” he smiled wider. “I know you’ll be alright. I’ve never been so sure of that.”
I allowed my own smile to show. “Yeah. I’ll make it.”
He chuckled. “It’s what you do.”
At that point, I finally found the resolve to open the door and walk down the hall to the elevator. We rode down in silence, and I managed to steady my breathing enough to gain confidence that I could keep it together through our modest little service. Once we reached the ground floor and stepped out into the hallway, however, Felix stopped me before the back doors of Niceland.
“Mavy,” he said, “a word before we go out.”
“What?”
“Well… I hope you don’t mind, but I took a couple... liberties with the service.”
I blinked. “Okay. What’d you do?”
“Just…” he stepped back, pushing open one of the double doors and nodding towards the outside, “...have a look.”
I had no idea what to expect -- Felix’s ideas of surprises are usually extremely underwhelming. But when I obliged him, and took a single step out of the building, what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
There was a crowd.
I saw the Nicelanders first. Behind them, I saw Tapper. And Peter Pepper. And Paperboy, two Joust knights, Mario, and Clyde. And Ralph, towering above them in the back. They were arranged in rows in front of one of the prepared tables, watching me, waiting for me in a reverent hush.
I felt, for just a moment, that I could pass out.
“Mavy… you okay?” Felix whispered.
I looked at him. Then back to the crowd. Then to him. I hadn’t the slightest clue what to say. My thoughts were struggling to keep up with my feelings. I was overwhelmed, equally on the verge of crying, yelling, and running away. But, somehow, all the same… my heart was swelling with gratitude.
“You did this?” I mouthed to Felix.
“I may have spread the word a little bit,” he replied, looking almost smug, in a very nervous way. “I just… I knew you wished he could have a bigger send off, and I knew you thought no one would even come, but… I wanted to prove you wrong. It’s not the whole arcade, but it’s something.”
I stared at him.
“Oh, Mavy,” he frowned, “I’m sorry. Did I do wrong?”
“No,” I whispered, looking back at the crowd. “Absolutely not.”
Finally, we both stepped fully out of Niceland. We crossed to the table in front of the crowd and found that a couple rows of bricks had been placed on it, almost like an altar to put the frame on. I did so, along with your scarf and goggles, and Felix laid out the flowers. After that, he clarified whether I was okay one more time, before stepping in line along the front row of the crowd, leaving me in the spotlight.
I looked at everyone. They looked at me. I silently thanked counselling for getting me accustomed to a certain level of vulnerability in a group setting, and I spoke.
“Wow… I’m almost speechless,” I told them, my voice faltering a bit. “I don’t know what to say, other than…”
At that point, my eyes landed on Gene.
I immediately snapped, “Gene, what the hell are you doing here? Get out.”
He threw his hands up, exclaimed, “THANK YOU,” and broke away from the crowd to return to Niceland. I watched him go, and waited until the door shut behind him to continue.
“Anyway,” I addressed the crowd with a bit more confidence, as Ralph struggled to stifle a laugh in the back, “it means a lot that the rest of you are here. Thank you for…” I sighed, “joining me in remembering Turbo properly. I… obviously have a few things to say, but I’ll hold off for now. Felix and Ralph have prepared remarks, and, uh… after that, if anyone else has something they’d like to say, you’re welcome to do so. I’ll take it from there after that. So…”
I met Felix’s gaze expectantly, and he gasped a little bit before nodding and switching places with me. I set my guitar down on a separate table, and then I stood by the crowd and watched him pull a folded piece of paper out of his chest pocket, clear his throat, and take a moment. The reverent silence from before settled over everyone once more as Felix found his voice.
“Turbo…” he began, “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me. This letter isn’t exactly the poetry you’d expect to be read aloud at a… gathering of this nature. Truthfully, writing this at all has been, well… a lot harder than I thought. I’ve written my fair share of letters on my own time. Boy, I even sent you one or two before, when you were still here to receive them. Whether you read them or just turned them into paper airplanes, I never really knew. But this one… I hope, wherever you are, you’re listening. Even if you don’t want to hear from me, there are things I need to say to you. More things than I realized.”
Felix paused to take a steadying breath before attempting the rest. “Turbo, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it took me this long to truly think about you and how I feel. How I feel about losing you. I’ve been so preoccupied looking after the sprites who depend on me, I just… somehow, forgot to mourn. And once I did, once I started writing, I… Well, I cried. I know I’m a big crier, but even for me… I cried so much. Because golly, I… I didn’t realize just how much I’m going to miss you.
“It feels so strange to say it, because, well, you did drive me up the wall most days. You’d burst into my apartment in the wee hours of the morning, tracking in dirt on my carpet, raiding my fridge without so much as a ‘Hello.’ You’d show up uninvited to parties and be rude to the guests. On more than one occasion, you drove your car into our game and left tire tracks that tore up our lovely grass and flowers. But I miss it all, just the same. I miss feeling guilty for laughing at your... crass jokes. I miss being angry at you, angry enough that all my other problems felt like a breeze, comparatively. I miss seeing you in passing in Game Central and hearing every new, mean... frankly annoyingly clever nickname you chose to greet me with. I miss your laugh, your smile, your face… I miss seeing you at all. It’s strange, but I miss all the complicated emotions you brought into my life. You did drive me crazy. But I loved it. I’m just sorry it took losing you to make me realize that.”
At this point, he was pausing at the end of every sentence to wipe away tears from under his eyes, and as he went on, I could feel my own starting to sting a bit. “I wish you could have understood how loved you were. In the way that matters. I wish that you could have seen that you had nothing to be jealous of. You were one in a million, Turbo. No one will ever replace you. No one will ever forget you.”
Just for a moment, he glanced at me. “And I’ll never forget the happiness you brought to my family.” Then, sniffling, he closed out with, “Goodbye, Turbo. Goodbye, my friend.”
After that, he wandered over to join me next to the crowd and pulled out a handkerchief to blow his nose into. I watched him, eventually deciding to rub his back. Touching him is still a challenge, but… I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if I could even say it right.
I had expected his letter to be almost entirely about your relationship with me and how it made him feel. I expected to be the bridge between the two of you, like I always seemed to be before you died. But, seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled out these deeply personal feelings about you. He himself felt guilt over not mourning you properly, just as I did. It made me think about the conversation we had shared about an hour beforehand, and how he must have been angry, too. In his own Felix sort of way. And how that might have inspired him, in part, to invite all the extra guests.
It just meant a lot to me, knowing you meant something to him.
After a couple moments of clumsily comforting Felix, I saw no movement, so I looked back over the crowd at Ralph. He seemed to be doing his best to disappear all nine feet of himself, but once we locked eyes, he surrendered and trudged to the front of the crowd. He seemed kind of nervous, fumbling as he pulled out his letter and unfolded it.
“Turbo, uh…” he began, pausing to stare out at his audience one last time before shifting his feet and clearing his throat. “Okay. Look. I'll be honest with you. When Mavis asked me to write you a letter, I was kind of confused. The letters are a nice idea, but… me? I was never your friend. We never got along. In fact, the very first time I met you, I very clearly remember you saying--” and at this point, he poorly mimicked your accent, “--’Don't tell me. You're a Bad Guy. I can smell a professional loser from across the arcade, even without the help a’ your severe body odor. Take a shower, ya might like it.’”
I didn’t hide my chuckle. I even heard one or two behind me. Ralph noticed, and seemed unsure if he was being laughed at or with. Either way, he took on a bit more of a solid tone.
“Yeah, you were a jerk. You didn't like me, and I didn't like you. But I'm still… I don’t know. Somehow, part of me is still sad you're gone. And not just because things have been so messed up since you left. I think there was just one thing about you that I might have, possibly, maybe, sort of liked.
“You were a Good Guy, but… you didn’t really act like one. A lot of Good Guys are jerks who pretend to be nice, but you never pretended. You never hid how mean you were. It’s weird to think of that as a good thing. I don't know. I'm not sure I get why that sticks out to me in my memories of you, but it does, so... I guess I will miss you, Turbo. Even though you were basically a second Mavis most of the time.”
That one got a bigger laugh, especially from me. Ralph seemed very pleased with himself. He had to clear his throat to snap himself out of a poorly timed smile. Frowning appropriately, he said, “Goodbye, Turbo. Rest in peace.”
He then walked back to his spot in the rear of the crowd, and a blanket of silence settled softly over us all once again.
By this point, I was feeling pretty sick. Somehow, I wasn’t crying yet, but I was incredibly anxious. The longer the service went on, the more I began to wonder if I was making a mistake, after all. Hearing the other two talk about you the way they did… It scared me for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which being I was probably going to have to read my letter in a moment, and it was a lot longer and a lot more personal than what they wrote. I knew that would be the case from the beginning, but when the moment finally came, I was not prepared for it.
And as the silence carried on, I only felt sicker. If no one else wanted to speak, then it would have to be my turn. I just stood there, fighting myself on whether I should wait longer or get it over with, until I heard the blessed sound of footsteps.
Tapper stepped out in front of the crowd.
Seeing him standing there alone, rescuing me from my anxiety for just a couple more minutes, I was finally able to process how happy I was to see him. Knowing that he must have closed the bar down to come support you and me, even after I nearly got his game unplugged… I mean, I could hardly believe it. A week ago, I thought he would never want to see me again. But he was there. He left his blue vest at home, out of respect for the dress code. He was responsible for the precious frame propped up on the table behind him.
And he had something to say to you.
“Turbo…” he began, sighing, “first, let me piss you off by talking about myself at your funeral. It won't take long. After all, I'm a pretty simple guy. I sell root beer, and that's about it. I barely ever even leave my game. But the truth is, I don't have to. I can go anywhere I want without ever stepping outside. I open my doors… and the arcade is brought to me. Everyone brings in little bits of their lives, whether they know it or not, and I get all the travel I need just from good conversation. But lately, well… I ain't been traveling so far. For the first time ever, my game isn't big enough for me. Not since my road to Turbo Time disappeared.”
He paused thoughtfully, eyes down for a moment. “I may not have ever physically set foot in there. Most of us didn't. But I know we all miss it. Some more than others, sure. And yeah, maybe it wasn't the center of the universe like someone would have liked us to believe. But Turbo Time was more than just a game. Turbo Time was a fact. Constant, stable, since the opening of the very arcade itself. I don't think any of us realized just how comforting it was, the idea that at least one thing in this strange, unpredictable world could remain unchanged -- Turbo Time's place in the spotlight.
“Now... it's gone. And I'm sure there's not a sprite in the arcade who doesn't miss it. Who doesn't miss that stability. Doesn't miss the things we could still believe when Turbo Time was here. So I speak for everyone, and I mean everyone, when I say: Turbo, you will be missed. And thank you for the years you gave us. Goodbye, old friend.”
Tapper gave me one short, meaningful glance, and the corner of his moustache tipped up just a bit in the hint of a smile. He walked away, but not before flashing just a flicker of a wink at me. It took a couple of minutes to understand what he meant to convey with that, but knowing Tapper, I figured it out. And it just made me even more grateful that he came.
I think that everyone else’s refusal to speak did not sit right with him. He knew everyone had something to say, so he said it for them. Because it was your freakin’ funeral, and it would be damn disrespectful to snub you like that.
Tapper’s the best.
Once he rejoined the crowd, I went back to waiting for a while. Deep down, I knew no one else would step up. I knew I was just prolonging my own suffering, but I felt rooted to the spot. I just stood there, staring at the point on the ground where I would have to stand. It was only a few steps away. It should have been easy. But everyone was waiting for me. I could feel more than one pair of eyes watching me expectantly. And in a moment, I would have to broadcast some very, very personal feelings to them. For a few moments, I wondered if I should have been mad at Felix for inviting everyone without permission, after all.
But then I thought back again to the conversation we had earlier. How I said, in a perfect world, the whole arcade would come to pay respects to you. In a perfect world, the arcade-wide memorial would have a complete do-over. The handful of sprites I stood next to was the best you were going to get. At that thought, I felt the same anger that inspired me to host the funeral in the first place.
I pulled the letter I wrote to you out of my pocket and looked it over for just a moment, contemplating. It was everything I would say to you, if I could turn back time. But I asked myself whether, given this opportunity, I wanted to speak to you or to them.
I folded up the letter and put it back in my pocket. I told Felix earlier that anger could be used for good, and I figured it was time to practice what I preached.
I stepped out in front of everyone. I deliberately made them wait just a minute longer while I counted every gaze pointed my way. Every single sprite was watching me, listening, which was no longer off-putting.
It was perfect.
“Let me start by thanking you all for coming, once again, and thank Felix for inviting everyone,” I said clearly and calmly. “This… event is long overdue, and undersized. So, what few guests you may be, know that your appearance here means a lot. A special thank you in particular to the Devout here who skipped the blue clothing, as requested. You see, Turbo was not Devout. He never was. Yet, somehow, a Devout preacher was the only sprite given the authority to speak about him at the memorial after his death. That’s why we’re here today.”
I paused, letting that point sink in, and picking my next words carefully. I was angry, but I had to stay level-headed. I had to use that anger effectively, or the very important message I was about to deliver would not land. Once I felt confident in my emotional balance, I continued.
“The preacher never knew him. No one who spoke that day knew him. Admittedly, he was a tough sprite to know. I could easily count on one hand how many sprites actually did. But no one knew him like I did. By rights, it should have been me who spoke that day. It’s a bit late for that now, but I can tell you what I would have said.
“I’d have told you what most people knew Turbo as. Arrogant, narcissistic, loud, belligerent, relentlessly competitive. You could get him to do pretty much anything just by suggesting he couldn’t. And no matter how badly he failed, he would always challenge you to do better.”
I heard a quiet chuckle or two from that, and smiled as I went on.
“Yeah, nothing, not even his game’s lofty track record, was ever so famous about Turbo as his ego. But he was also clever. And witty, and resourceful, and inventive. His garage was always cluttered with work-in-progress gizmos and sheets of... wildly intricate blueprints I never learned how to read. Framed on the table behind me is proof that we would draw together sometimes, and I always thought his art style was cooler than I let on. Sometimes we would sing, or even write music together, and it’ll likely surprise you to hear, but his voice and his poetry weren’t half-bad. Yeah. That guy was full of surprises, way more than anyone would have believed. And probably the hardest to believe of them all, was… he was afraid.”
I took another pause, figuring out how to continue without betraying your privacy too much. I needed to make everyone understand, but I still wanted to be respectful to you. Eventually, I continued carefully, a light tremor of emotion in my voice.
“He had the fame, the fortune, the status, the gamers’ full attention… but like anyone else in this arcade, he was… scared. He wanted to be loved. To be remembered. He wanted something real to hold onto. Some meaning that could hold its own against the universal fear of this life, the fear that someday our games will be unplugged and wheeled out that door to nowhere. Now, I know how I’ll remember him. I’ll remember him as the greatest racer this arcade’s ever seen. I’ll remember him as an artist, an inventor, a singer, a comedian. I’ll remember him as a person. Because that’s what he was. No matter how hard that preacher tried to twist his life into nothing but a cautionary tale, he was just as much a person as she is. As any of us are. Ignoring that goes far beyond disrespect. Ignoring that is outright dangerous. Because Turbo, no matter what connotations his name carries now, was not a monster. He was only ever one of us. We lost one of our own, and until we stop hiding and face the truth of his death, we will lose more the same way. What can kill one of us can kill more of us.”
I could see a few frowns in the audience. I knew my words were getting a bit scary, but that was good. It said to me that they were starting to get it. So I didn’t let up. I let my tone sharpen.
“Disobeying the program is not what killed him. Seeing no meaning outside of the program killed him. And yet, there was the preacher saying we ought to do the exact same thing. Place all our meaning on our code. She said that Turbo had a virus, that he was corrupted, that following the program will protect us from his fate. The program keeps your game alive, this much we can’t change. But it can’t protect us from everything. You can do everything right and still end up quarterless. New games are plugged in, gamers move on, for reasons we will probably never understand. That’s just life here. Life here is hard, and it’s confusing, and for the most part, our roles are the only things we can actually make sense of. But there has to be more. You have to find more. Your role is what you do, but it can’t be who you are. Because if that’s taken away, who are you? Why are you?”
I stopped. The silence that was once reverent had turned tense. I let my breathing slow as I took a good, long look at the crowd. I felt very little sympathy for the uncomfortable faces at first. Felix was just holding his hat in front of his belly, eyes wide, lips parted. Tapper’s gaze was steady on me, but his brow was furrowed in an almost pained sort of way. Ralph wasn’t looking at me at all. His eyes were low, staring at nothing in particular, squeezing his fingers anxiously.
I took in a deep breath, held it, and let a long sigh wash the anger and adrenaline out of me. That was enough. I could let them off the hook.
“Anyway,” I said lowly, sadly, “that’s my sermon for the day. Moving on... Well, speaking of roles... my role doesn't offer a whole lot in the first place. Some say Easter Eggs are good luck, but being one sure isn’t. You can go weeks without a second of gameplay. It’s hard to feel like you really belong anywhere, sometimes. You live in your game, sure, but… it’s hard to call it ‘home’ when you’re barely needed. It’s easy to feel like the least important sprite in the whole arcade. So, imagine my surprise when, four years ago, I found myself goofing off with the king of the arcade,” I smiled a bit at the memory. “It was so weird to me, hanging out with a guy so obsessed with status when I had basically none of my own. I thought it would have bothered him. But… that was one of the instances where his narcissism sort of… canceled itself out and made him a better person, I think. He was too concerned with himself to care. I asked him what he thought about me being an Easter Egg once, and he just shrugged and said, ‘The hell should I care?’ Like I’d asked him what I should have for dinner, or something. Not saying there weren’t things about me he didn’t like, and hey, he wasn’t perfect either. But there was trust there, I guess. Weird, snarky trust.
“So, I ended up spending a whole lot of time with him, and that was great, because being an Easter Egg frankly gives me more free time than I always know what to do with. Eventually, goofing off with him was one of the few things that made sense in my life. Even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else. I mean, not that everyone didn’t see why we got along so well. We were often told how similar we were, usually not in a good way. But why we did the things we did, I don't think many understood. And I wouldn't expect them to, because our fun usually came at everyone else's expense. Like the time we poured puddles of oil around game central just to watch everyone slip. Or when we'd play music in Ghosts n' Goblins so loud it literally woke the dead. Everyone here probably has their own story to tell…”
I made eye contact and managed a smile for each sprite I mentioned, “Like Mary, whose cake we ruined by switching her sugar and salt. Deanna, we were the reason the whole arcade started calling you ‘Dana’. Tapper could keep us up all night with his own tales of our misdeeds, and so could Gene for that matter, if he were allowed to speak. And Don, yes, any time one of your model boats went missing, it was nicked by us. We used to take them into Frogger and set them on fire, and watch them drift away down the river.”
Don in particular looked shocked, confused, and a bit scandalized, but resigned quickly with a small sigh.
“It all sounds… petty,” I continued, nodding. “Meaningless, shallow, self-indulgent wastes of time by two arrogant sprites who didn't give a damn about anything or anyone. And that's how I preferred to think of it too, most of the time. But I tell you… once, while we were watching one of Don's boats burn away as it floated along, Turbo asked me, ‘Where do you think it goes… after it's deleted for good? After the fire eats it all away?’ He wasn't looking at me, but I could tell… he wasn't smiling. I told him the only thing that made sense to me… ‘Anywhere but here.’ And… honestly, I think the idea of that was some kind of comfort. The idea that there was anything outside of what we knew. Many would say he only ever knew a perfect, privileged life. That he had everything he could have wanted. But, still… all we ever did was look for a way out.”
My eyes fell for a moment. I stared at the ground as I clenched my jaw, struggling to string together the heartache I felt into words. My emotions were finally starting to bubble over, and as much as I tried to fight it, my vision started to blur with tears. Almost at a loss, I just forced myself to start talking, my voice weak and quivering as I looked out at the crowd again.
“...Sprites said a lot of things about us. About… us. Some would call him my partner in crime, which wasn't the whole truth. Some called him my best friend, which... wasn’t the whole truth, either. A whole lot more called him my boyfriend, which, despite evidence to the contrary, he was not. Even I was never sure what to call him, or what he really was to me. But I think I understand, now that he's gone. Because I didn't just lose a friend... or a partner. I lost a place at his side… the first place I ever felt like I belonged. Turbo… he was my home. I... don’t know where the fire leads. I don’t know if it leads anywhere. I don’t know if he’s listening. I don’t know if he exists at all anymore. Out of all those, I don’t even know what I want to believe. Right now, all I know is… no matter how many games I see, no matter how many sprites I meet, no matter how many years I live… I’ll always be homesick. Always.”
I closed my eyes, unable to keep a few tears from falling. Trembling from the awful heat deep in my chest, I knew I was done. I couldn’t say another word on the matter. So, after a long, hushed moment, I turned my eyes to Felix and tipped my head in request for him to take my place. He obliged without question, wiping away the wetness on his own red cheeks. I wandered over to sling my guitar over my shoulder once again as he informed the crowd that it was time to take their paper boats over to the river.
Almost everyone started making their way over to the water, but a few stayed behind to exchange passing words with me or Felix, even though I was mostly staying quiet in an attempt to keep the tears reined in.
Mary approached me first, making an awkward, but genuine offer to bake me a cake when I was finished with my counselling. Even suggested that a small party be arranged. I wasn’t opposed to the idea, but I just thanked her and told her I would think about it. I wasn’t in any shape to be making decisions, and she seemed to get that.
Clyde didn’t get too close. He just put himself in my line of vision and offered a supportive, almost proud smile. I just smiled back and nodded, and that was enough for him. He floated away. I’m glad he was there -- I’m sure my grand display of vulnerability earned me some counselling points.
Peter Pepper, Mario, Paperboy, and the Joust knights came one after the other, all saying more or less the same thing. They had some fond memories of you and me, they wanted to show their support, and they were sorry for my loss. I didn’t know how to respond to most of it beyond muttered thanks.
Then Tapper approached me. There was a whole lot of pride in his eyes, too, as he smiled at me. He reached out to do our patented air-handshake, but I fully clasped his hand and shook it gratefully. He seemed shocked for a second, but laughed a little in pleasant surprise. At that point, I began falling over myself a bit in some attempt to come up with an apology even a fraction as big as he deserved, but was quickly stopped short. He told me that me getting help was the best apology I could give him, and that when I’m done, I should come find him to continue our drawing business, since his walls are still pretty bare.
Again, Tapper is the best.
Once all the conversations ended, Felix and I proceeded to fold our letters into boats, and I helped Ralph with his, since his fingers are so huge and clumsy. He thanked me, but he also seemed sadder and quieter than I expected him to be. Maybe someday I’ll talk to him about it, but I didn’t today. I just grabbed the picture frame, your scarf and goggles, and we all walked over to the river in silence.
I stepped up to the edge of the water, brush in hand. One by one, every guest approached me and gave me their boat, which I touched a shade of fire to with my paint, and gently placed them into the stream. As the process went along, I wondered what all of the letters might have said. I expected most of them to be blank, but a good portion of them had handwriting poking out under the folds. The thought of it put a terribly painful gratitude in my chest.
I sent Ralph’s down the water, and then Felix’s. And last of all came mine.
I held it and stared at it for a minute. It contained everything I wish I could say to you. Everything you should have known before leaving this world. Somehow, it seemed hard to let it go, to do any harm to it. But with all the faith I could possibly muster, I blessed it with a prayer, and sent it floating away in flames, like all the others.
I sat, set my guitar in my lap, and with the heaviest heart I carried in my life, I played your song.
Felix sat beside me, and Ralph followed a moment after, but everyone else remained standing for the soft, mournful serenade. I may not have found the right words to sing, but I hummed along gently anyway, quiet tears falling from my cheeks. I watched the little lights sail away, watched the paper blacken and curl, and the little embers escape into the air. I don’t need to tell you what it reminded me of. But, as painful as it was to relive even a moment of your passing, I knew that this was, maybe, the only way my prayer would be answered.
‘Wherever the fire took him, let it take these, too.’
My song ended before long, and I could barely see through the tears in my eyes, but we all watched until the very last flame burnt out, and only flecks of charred paper remained, carried away by the current. I sat there for a while, sniffing, wiping my eyes, keeping as tight a grip on my composure as possible. Felix pat my back very lightly until I was ready to stand up.
Once I did… it was over.
Everyone said their goodbyes, gave their thanks, gave their sympathies, but ultimately, had to go. Tapper and Peter Pepper had to reopen their games, after all. As the visitors made their way across the bridge and to the cord train to leave, Felix checked in on me. He asked if I wanted to come have dinner with what was left of the group, and just spend the rest of the night in each other’s company.
I declined. I told him that I needed some time alone, and that I was very tired. I haven’t slept much, the past couple days, and I told him so.
He understood, of course, and like a good friend, told me that he’ll be there whenever I need him. Ralph, finally speaking up, seconded the notion, saying that his ‘door’ was always open.
Felix almost went for a hug, but stopped himself, still unsure of my boundaries. On another night, I might have obliged him. Instead, I just clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Eyes glassy, with a loving smile, he did the same to me.
Then we went our separate ways. Felix, to Niceland. Ralph, to the dump. Me, to my den.
Where I fell to pieces and cried my heart out.
All the tears I had been holding back all night just… erupted out of me. I know I could have cried sooner. I know I would have been met with support. Felix and Ralph have been there for me in meaningful ways I won’t soon forget. But, today, I just… I need you. It’s physically painful how badly I need you. No one else will give me what I need tonight, and I can’t expect them to.
So, I guess that’s why I’m here, writing to you again. I can’t visit you any other way, now. I can’t believe how important this notebook has become. I started this ‘story’ in such a terrible, anxious, spiteful place. I was so angry at you for leaving me, and I wanted to tell you just how badly you’ve hurt me. But I’m not angry at you anymore. I almost wish that I was. Because now that it comes down to it, this notebook just feels like the only line to you I have left. There will be no more buff-fueled journeys into my memories, no more hallucinations taking the shape of you. And that’s all well and good, because buffs never filled the space you left behind like I hoped they would. Booze and buffs never kept me warm. Never listened. Never held me.
I don’t want them anymore.
All I want is you.
Once upon a time, this would be too sappy to say, but… Devs, I just want to fall into your arms. I want to vent out everything I kept inside today. Everything I’ve kept inside since starting counselling. Everything I’ve been fighting to keep contained so I can stay strong.
I am strong. Staying strong is going to be worth it. But sometimes, I need to be weak. I’m sure ‘weak’ isn’t what the sprites at counselling would want me to use, but… tonight, I want to be weak. I don’t want to need to be strong. For a while, I want you to be strong for me, and just… let me feel the hurt without endangering myself or anyone else, for once.
Let me play pretend for a little while longer, and tell you everything that’s on my mind.
Maybe some of it will make sense once it’s on paper.
You know… I’m just remembering a moment in counselling, when a sprite talked about how his worst fear came true, but knowing he had lived through it was freeing. I think I mentioned it to Felix last week, but as time goes on, I just… I’m realizing how true it is.
So many horrible things have happened. So much has changed. Sometimes, I still have trouble recognizing my life, and the anxiety surrounding that is suffocating. But every time I come out the other side and calm down, I find that reality is as steady as ever. Slowly, I’m getting used to the new normal. Even the painful parts. I feel… safe. Which, given everything I’ve written here, is kind of amazing.
And, with that safety, I’m given a bit of room to actually look at the good changes that are underway.
One of the biggest sources of pain in my life, and indeed, one of the biggest fuels for my addictive habits, has been the idea that I’m trapped. Trapped in my role by the Devs. Trapped in the grief of losing you. Trapped in my addictions themselves, even. All I’ve ever wanted was a way to escape. Yet, somehow, being locked up in cabinet arrest, being forced to attend stupid, boring counselling… I don’t feel so confined anymore. The arcade feels like it’s getting bigger.
I’m still too big for the life I was made for. That much hasn’t changed. But I’m beginning to think that I don’t need to cut off pieces of myself to fit into it. I think I can just… make my life bigger. I’m not entirely sure how, but I have to believe it’s possible. I mean, I did just preach the idea at your funeral. I have to find more. I have to make more. You managed to show me that. Somehow, through all the loss, suffering, and mistakes, you’ve left me with the knowledge of how important it is to look for more than you’re given.
It’s hard to feel grateful for that.
Truthfully, letting anything good come of this whole nightmare has been incredibly difficult. It still is. There’s some horrible guilt to it. Why do I get to be the one to survive? Why am I the one with a chance to turn my life around? Why couldn’t I have learned all this without having to lose you first?
But, you know… falling apart didn’t bring you back. It was no honor to your memory. It just caused needless pain, almost to the point of total disaster.
I learn from all this because I have to. I joined counselling because I had to make a change. I have to believe you’d be happy for me. Especially because… I can feel big changes happening, deep down.
I feel like I’m on my way to finding what ‘good’ feels like again.
I once told Felix that the search for ‘good’ had never felt so daunting before. I had so many fears holding me back. I was afraid to feel much of anything at all. Afraid to put down roots of any kind. Afraid to have anything real out of belief that I would break it. Afraid to be loved because I didn’t know how to accept it.
Accepting love is still hard, but I’m starting to see that it’s not a decision you can make for anyone else.
Even things about yourself you’ve deemed completely unforgivable will, somehow, still be forgiven. It’s a tough thing to wrap your head around, but hating yourself will not make others hate you, too. I mean… I still can’t manage to hate you, even after all the pain you put me through. Devs know I’ve caused a lot of pain to sprites who care about me, even before all this happened.
But, somehow… I’m not alone. I was never doomed to be alone. It’s taken me five years to realize that.
Along with it, I’ve realized that your mind can really become a world you’ve created around yourself. It feels like absolute truth and reality. But when you manage to look outside of that world, you realize how small your mind really is. The real world is a whole lot bigger than how you perceive it. Everyone has their own perception, too, probably very different from yours.
Everyone’s got their own colors. I have to remember that I can choose mine.
I choose to heal. I’m already on my way.
Even the funeral, scary as it was, felt like a big step.
I was afraid of how I would feel after. I was scared of the finality of it. I once believed all this to be a prank or a dream, and while I wanted to believe I'd abandoned those delusions… I think, even today, some small part of me still wanted to believe that you would spring out of hiding and relieve me of this cruel joke. Or that I could still wake up next to you and forget this whole nightmare by the end of breakfast. I was afraid that the funeral would feel like giving up hope, and in the process, I'd lose you even more than I already have.
It didn't feel like that, exactly. At least, not yet. For now, I feel… relieved. But exhausted. Like a huge weight has been lifted off my back, and after carrying it for so long, all I want to do is collapse into bed and rest. I am in bed as I write this, and I'm admittedly having trouble keeping my eyes open.
But I can’t seem to stop writing.
I know I should. I know I’m just pretending. I know I should get some sleep, because there is still so much more work ahead of me. Work that’s far more real and important than writing letters to a ghost. I’ve had an ache in my wrist for about a week, I keep having to shake this pen to get any ink out of it, and there are only a couple pages left in this notebook.
I’m just… afraid to stop. I’m afraid that it will mean this bedtime story is over. I’m afraid it will mean that it’s time to move on, and I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I’m glad I was able to give you some manner of send-off. I’m glad I was able to defend your memory. I feel relief from dealing with the anger I had been carrying on your behalf, and from the knowledge that I don’t have to mourn you alone anymore. I do not regret the funeral, not in the slightest. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t terrify me. You see, as the service went on, I noticed a pattern that just kept stabbing pins into my heart. Felix, Ralph, and Tapper’s letters all had a certain word in common, one that I neither wrote nor spoke.
‘Goodbye.’
As I wrote your letter, as I attempted to write lyrics for your song, as I improvised that speech about you, that word never crossed my mind. I did not arrange a funeral for the purpose of letting you go. I’m starting to see that I arranged it for the purpose of holding you tighter.
Through the whole service, I just couldn’t stop thinking about that moment in Felix’s apartment, when I was helping him clean up the ashes after my… explosive incident. When I was scrubbing the black off of his wall, and it struck me how time was moving forward without you. That feeling managed to be so healing and so devastating all at once. I accepted that I could never go back to our days together, but I refused to accept that I had to leave you behind entirely.
I can’t say goodbye. I knew you for four years, and I barely feel like I said hello. It feels like our story didn’t even end, it just trailed off into nothing. We began a new chapter the last night we were together, and then we just… stopped.
I just want to go back to that night. That moment when I realized how I really felt about you, and the few precious hours I was able to spend with you after. If I could do it all over again, I would have stayed up all night telling you everything I was too cowardly to say at the time. And the morning would never come to steal you away from me.
That must be part of why it’s so hard to move on. You were stolen. We promised to stay together forever. We had a future. For me, that’s everything. I came into this world already lost, with barely a role, barely any context. I could only ever see the day to day. The future was just this dark fog I ran into blindly. But then you came along. And you told me that no matter my future, you would be in it. You didn’t blow the fog away. You weren’t my destination. But you were a light. You were my star.
Then the sun came up, and took you away.
It’s so hard to accept that I can’t win you back. I can’t accept that my promise to you is out of my hands. I have to find a way to move on, and I will. But I can’t let you go. I won’t.
Listen, T… I said I was afraid the funeral would feel like giving up hope. It didn’t. I’m scared, but I’m more hopeful now than I’ve been since you left. I may have lost your light, but I have a clear direction to move in. I’m going to finish counselling and stay sober. I’m going to be free to roam the arcade again. I’m going to repair the relationships I nearly broke. I’m going to regain full color in my brush and take to the skies again very soon. It’s going to be hard. I know that. But I also know that I’ll be okay. I hope Felix is right, and you’re proud of me. I’m getting there myself.
But I swear… I can, and will, do it all without letting you go.
Forever. That’s what we promised. You being out of reach makes it harder, but I’ll find a way.
And… this is my most wishful thinking of all, but… I hope you’re keeping your promise, too.
Maybe it’s just the lack of sleep, but… I swear I can feel your eyes on me. I swear you’re curled up behind me, right now. My bed is never this warm when I’m alone. I know the illusion will be broken if I roll over, so for now…
If you really are reading over my shoulder… if the act of writing this feels like holding your hand for a reason… if I’m not just a lonely, heartbroken fool with an overactive imagination…
Keep your promise. Don’t let me go.
Rest here with me.
If there’s anything at all you can do for me, have it be this. Just stay by my side when I lie down at night. I’m so tired, Turbo. I am. I’ve dodged death more than once since you left. I’ve fought so hard to keep my head above water. I haven’t had a minute to just lay down my burdens and feel safe. But feeling you here, even in the small way I do now… I feel like I can breathe. I feel like our last night together never ended.
And it never will, because in Fix-it Felix Jr., the sun never rises. I’ve had many complicated emotions regarding the stars that glitter in the endless sky of my game, but tonight, I’m giving them a meaning better than any they’ve had before.
As long as I can see the stars, I’ll know you haven’t left me.
There’s never going to be a goodbye between us, Turbo. I promise you that. I’ll just say ‘goodnight.’ And I’ll say it again tomorrow.
And a thousand times more.
Forever isn’t over yet.
#fanfiction#fanfic#wreck it ralph#make it mavis#fix it felix#turbo#tapper#original character#homesick#epilogue coming tomorrow!!
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first line meme
Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!
tagged by @runawaymarbles - thank you! this was interesting lol
skipping over anthologies:
1. "Martin still smells the sea on his skin." - sense of home, The Magnus Archives
2. "The thing about comedy is — it’s about timing." - first love / late spring, IT ch2
3. "They don’t ever actually fuck, is the thing." - afternoon delight, Good Omens
4. "The knock on his door is a firm, confident two tap — quick, sharp, but demanding to be answered." - almost (sweet music), The Magicians
5. "Flint steps out onto the back deck of the boat, squinting at the pink sky." - ya filthy animals, Black Sails
6. "Flint remembers the first lie Silver ever told him." - trouble is my business, Black Sails
7. "Steve has never seen Wakanda in the rain." - tezeta (nostalgia), MCU
8. "Three days after they first meet, Silver rolls out from under him and asks, “Hey, don’t you want me to make you any liquor at some point?”" - pick up on noon-street, Black Sails
9. "Flint lights a cigarette." - farewell, my lovely, Black Sails
10. "Silver had only been running the Three Swallows Inn for a fortnight before he was able to corral Flint and Thomas into working their nights as unpaid labor." - like a river flows, Black Sails
11. "Silver doesn’t get the luxury of avoiding the cargo hold." - the play's the thing, Black Sails
12. "Silver wakes up remembering everything that had happened to him, but for some reason, it’s the excruciating pain in his arms he feels first." - god wrote that, too, Black Sails
13. "Flint understands the Maroon Queen." - you can have half, Black Sails
14. "It begins with a letter." - ladies and gentleman we're floating in space, Black Sails
15. "Dobbs is the first to take the vow of silence, after Silver had publicly beat him within an inch of his life." - them, Black Sails
16. "Flint stands knee-deep in the water, sharp, broken shells digging into his bare feet, but his eyes are just on the warship on the horizon." - being worshipped is a breeze, Black Sails
17. "A couple months after Charles Town, Flint walks into his cabin to find Silver staring out the window." - i, Black Sails
18. "Silver is dragged back to consciousness by a persistent murmur around him." - no one actually gets smallpox, Black Sails
19. "“See? I told you I didn’t kill him.”" - running home to you, Black Sails
20. "The first day, Silver isn’t able to get more than a few strikes against Flint’s blade before steel taps his shoulder." - two dead boys stood up to fight, Black Sails
patterns I noticed: I keep it brief, which is ironic considering the eventual length of my shit. i generally start with character over setting.
favorite opening line: i'm partial to the start of "them." i'm really proud of how i adapted that storyline to the mute!silver au
tagging: @iron--spider, @jadedbirch, @reluming, @marsza, @lennythepope, @hotniatheron, @storiesabouthestars @ anyone who is also not doing work like yours truly
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My favourite Doctor Who writers
10. Neil Gaiman
Neil Gaiman is one of the most talented people to ever write for Doctor Who. Of course, talent alone is not enough - Douglas Adams, Alan Moore, and Naomi Alderman all miss out on this list. What makes Gaiman special is his fairytale, fantasy approach to the show. He has big ideas, full of heart, and I am always delighted by them.
Why isn’t Mr Gaiman higher up on the list? Simply because he has only done four stories. One of them, “The Doctor’s Wife”, is an all-time classic, while the others are at least good. With a couple more stories, Mr Gaiman would surely be higher.
9. Paul Magrs
Coming in at #9 is one of the most important writers of non-televised Who. Paul Magrs has written nine Big Finish Main Range stories (most notably “The Peterloo Massacre”), three Companion Chronicles, and two Eighth Doctor Adventures, including the exceptional “The Zygon Who Fell To Earth”, as well as a huge number of spin-off adventures.
It’s in print where Magrs really flourishes, though. It’s quite hard to get across just how influential Paul Magrs has been. Firstly, his three books in the Eighth Doctor Adventures range - The Scarlet Empress, The Blue Angel, and Mad Dogs and Englishmen - are hugely ambitious metatextual delights. These stories introduce Iris Wildthyme and the Smudgelings to the Whoniverse, and have each inspired their own spin-off series, collectively called the “Magrsverse”. Iris’s parody of the Doctor is a rip-roaring delight whenever she appears - and as you know, she’s famous for it - and will prove a lasting legacy for Mr Magrs.
I suppose, at this junction, I should mention Lawrence Miles, who has had a similar influence, but I just don’t find to be quite as good a storyteller as Magrs.
8. Rob Shearman
You probably know Rob Shearman for “Dalek”, the first good New Who story. What if I told you that “Dalek” is Shearman’s worst DW story?
The titles of Shearman’s audio plays are enough to send shivers up the spines of those who have heard them. There’s “Jubilee”, the loose inspiration for “Dalek”, which explores the Daleks as fascist iconography. There’s “The Holy Terror”, where the Doctor and Frobisher the Penguin Shape-Shifter have a similarly horrifying experience with a religious cult. There’s “The Chimes of Midnight”, possibly the definitive Eighth Doctor story, and “Scherzo”, itself perhaps the most experimental story in Doctor Who history, and “Deadline”, in which the villain is Doctor Who itself.
Like many of the writers on this list, Shearman has an eclectic back catalogue full of obscure oddities. But few people have quite his capacity for knocking it out of the park.
7. Chris Chibnall
It’s true that Chris Chibnall’s work before becoming showrunner is inconsistent at best. “42″ is bad and “The Hungry Earth” is uninspired. “Dinosaurs on a Spaceship” is a fun romp, while “The Power of Three” is a great story that is let down by the ending which had to be re-written hastily due to unforeseen production issues. And Chibnall’s contributions to Series 11 range from “fine” (”The Woman Who Fell To Earth”) to “bad” (”The Battle of Ranskor Av Kolos”). But in “Pond Life” and “P.S.”, Chibnall shows that he knows how to write affecting character beats.
It’s in Series 12 that Chibnall really takes things up a step. His stories become sprawling and ambitious: globe-trotting thrillers crammed full of ideas. He’s still occasionally guilty of trying to throw too many ideas in, but his love for the story really shines through. There’s barely a weak moment in Series 12, and that’s largely because Chibnall himself steps up to write or co-write hit after hit after hit. It all culminates in the epic three-part finale, “The Haunting of Villa Diodati”/”Ascension of the Cybermen”/”The Timeless Children”, a hugely ambitious story that crosses space and time and pulls together disparate elements from the history of Who. It’s a million miles from “The Battle of Ranskor Av Kolos”: a fan-pleasing story that is truly epic.
6. Vinay Patel
Why is Vinay so high? Good question. Thinking about it, I can’t really justify this placement. Patel reliably produces great stories - “Demons of the Punjab” alone marks Patel out as a great, and to follow it up with “Fugitive of the Judoon” shows that it wasn’t a fluke. But Mr Patel has only got four stories to his name - the aforementioned TV stories plus “Letters from the Front” and “The Tourist” - so for similar reasons to Mr Gaiman, a high position is difficult to justify.
So instead, let’s give this position to Terrance Dicks. Mr Dicks has a bit of a reputation as more of a “jobbing” writer than someone like Chibnall or Shearman, Terrance Dicks was, first and foremost, a script editor. Yes, he co-wrote “The War Games” and was the sole writer for “Horror of Fang Rock”, but he’s best remembered for script editing the Third Doctor era (and part of the Second Doctor era), as well as producing an absolute mass of Target novelisations. But that’s not all - Mr Dicks has written original novels (VNAs, EDAs, and PDAs alike), Quick Reads, audio stories, two stage plays, and even the Destiny of the Doctor video game.
Sure, Mr Dicks didn’t burn as bright as Mr Patel. But his contribution to the Whoniverse is unparalleled.
5. Nev Fountain
Comedy writer Nev Fountain has written several of the very best Doctor Who stories. For some reason, these stories tend to centre around Peri (Fountain is married to Nicola Bryant). “Peri and the Piscon Paradox” is the best Companion Chronicle by far, due to a combination of great acting by Bryant and Colin Baker and Fountain’s sizzling script. “The Kingmaker” is an outrageously funny historical with incredible dialogue and multiple ideas clever enough to carry a whole story.
Frankly, those two alone should be enough to convince anyone of Fountain’s brilliance. But there is so much more - “The Widow’s Assassin”, “The Curious Incident of the Doctor In the Night-time”, “The Blood on Santa’s Claw”, “Omega“... if you like Doctor Who, make yourself familiar with Nev Fountain.
4. Robert Holmes
More than anyone else, Robert Holmes is responsible for the esteem which the Fourth Doctor is held in.
Holmes first wrote for the show all the way back in Series 6, with “The Krotons”. He wrote the very first Third Doctor story, “Spearhead From Space”, in which he also introduced the Autons. They reappeared a year later in “Terror of the Autons”, which introduced Jo Grant and the Master. In “The Time Warrior”, Holmes introduced the Sontarans, a pastiche of imperialism.
It was in the Fourth Doctor era that Mr Holmes really made his mark. He took over from Mr Dicks as script editor. In his own right, he wrote “The Deadly Assassin” and “Talons of Weng-Chiang”, but he also turned “The Ark In Space”, “Pyramids of Mars”, and “The Brain of Morbius” into usable stories, even appearing in “The Brain of Morbius” as the Doctor.
After stepping back from script editing, Holmes returned as a hack to write stories like “The Caves of Androzani” (probably the most popular story in Classic Who) and “The Two Doctors”, before dying shortly after his 60th birthday.
3. Jamie Mathieson
Putting Mr Mathieson above Mr Holmes really shows my bias towards New Who, but honestly, I’d rather re-watch “Mummy on the Orient Express”, “Flatline”, or “Oxygen” than any of Holmes’ stories. Mathieson is very inventive and extremely good at maintaining pace and tension. I’m sure we’ll get more stories from him in the future, but the ones we have so far should be used as inspiration by anyone wanting to writing exciting Who.
2. John Dorney
It is hard to exaggerate Mr Dorney’s contributions to audio Who. He may lack the external fanbase of Mr Gaiman, the influence of Mr Magrs, or the legendary status of Messrs Dicks, Chibnall, and Holmes, but make no mistake, Dorney is exceptional. In almost every range he tries his hand at - Lost Stories, Novel Adaptations, Third Doctor Adventures, Fourth Doctor Adventures, Fifth Doctor Adventures, Dark Eyes, Doom Coalition, Ravenous, Time War, Companion Chronicles, Short Trips, Jago and Litefoot, Missy, UNIT, Diary of River Song... Dorney reliably writes the best story in the set.
In particular, Dorney’s stories are notable for the way they focus on character drama. Look at stories like “A Life In A Day” or “Absent Friends” for particular examples of stories that use sci-fi concepts to draw emotion out of characters, particularly the stoic Liv Chenka. Other highlights of Dorney’s include “The Red Lady” and the “Better Watch Out”/”Fairytale of Salzburg” two-parter.
1. Steven Moffat
What more is there to say? Moffat is truly exceptional, reliably writing the best stories in TV Who for several consecutive years. The classics are too numerous to list, but the stand outs amongst the stand outs are “Blink” and “Heaven Sent”/”Hell Bent”.
Some of Moffat’s best work comes away from TV. The minisodes “The Inforarium” and “Night of the Doctor”, the novelisation of “Day of the Doctor”, the short stories “Continuity Errors” and “the Corner of the Eye”, and lockdown stories like “Terror of the Umpty Ums” are Moffat deep cuts which deserve to be held in the same regard as his great TV stories.
Moffat’s imagination lead to him creating multiple iconic monsters - foremost amongst them, the Weeping Angels and the Silence. Moffat emphasised the use of time travel within the stories themselves; other themes in his work include memory, perception, paradoxes, identity, sexuality, and responsibility. He is, without a doubt, the greatest Doctor Who writer, and I am so lucky to have lived through the period where he was active.
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I was looking through a bunch of junk and found some letters from my dad when he was in the army. I’m afraid I'll accidently toss them, so maybe I’ll put them here?
OPs Name JUNE 02 03
I LOVE YOU
THIS IS MY NAME IN KURDISH
*my dad wrote his first and last name, and under it, in Kurdish*
ILL TRY AND FIND OUT HOW TO WRITE YOUR NAME AND MOMS TOO.
ITS STILL HOT. I WORK AND READ BOOKS TO PASS THE TIME AWAY.
HOW ARE YOU DOING? GOOD I HOPE. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN? DO YOU EVER HANG OUT WITH YOUR FRIENDS? TELL THEM I SAID “WASSUP?” NAH, DONT TELL THEM. TELL ME WHAT YOUR THINKING. I’M TRYING TO SEND YOU SOME MORE OF MY DRAWINGS. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DRAW YOU? DID YOU LIKE THE DRAWING I SENT YOU OF YOU NAME? ITS ALRIGHT IF YOU DIDNY. JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU DO WANT ME TO DRAW YOU.
(Flip Page)
THIS IS WEIRD! (The page does not have lines on the left side of it) i WONDER WHAT HAPPENED TO THIS PIECE OF PAPER. HaHa
I MISS YOU ALOT. PLEASE SOND ME SOME MORE OF YOUR DRAWINGS, YOU CAN DRAW ME ANYTHING YOU WANT TO.
ARE YOU BEING GOOD FOR YOUR MOM? ITS NICE IF YOU HELP HER OUT WHILE I’M AWAY.
HAVE YOU BEEN ANYPLACE NEW? HOW IS SCHOOL GOING FOR YOU? IS MOMMY GOING TO SCHOOL? I KNOW I WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL WHEN I GET BACK. HOPEFULLY I GET THE CHANCE TO LEARN EVERYTHING THAT THERE IS TO KNOW. THAT WOULD BE GREAT.
ALSO, ID LIKE TO DO SOME FISHING? HOW ABOUT YOU? I GUESS ILL END HERE. BE GOOD AND STAY IN SCHOOL. AND JUST SAY NO TO DRUGS.
THEYRE BAD.
I LIVE YOU OP
*hearts and x’s* DADDY
---
(I don’t know if all these pages are in order or if it’s missing any, but this was the letter in the same stack as the last but this one was for my mom. In some places his indents indicate passage of time.)
I HAVENT HAD ANY TIME TO WRITE SINCE WEVE BEEN ON THE ROAD, NOT TO MENTION THAT WE CAN’T SEND MAIL WHEN WE’RE MOVING ALL THE TIME.
WEVE BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR ABOUT FIVE OR SIX DAYS, I HAVENT REALLY BEEN COUNTING. I KNOW I TOLD YOU THAT WE’D BE IN KUWAIT FOR A WHILE, BUT THAT WAS SO YOU WOULDNT BE WORRIED. I’M GOING TO KEEP THIS LETTER THOUGH, TILL I GET HOME.
ABOUT TWO NIGHTS AGO, WE DROVE THROUGH BAGDHAD, SOMEBODY SAID THAT THERE WERE PILED BODIES, I DONT KNOW IF IT WAS TRUE.
AND I GUESS YESTERDAY, A COUPLE OF PEOPLE SAID THEY SAW A MISSILE OR SOEMTHING SHOT AT US. I WAS TRYING TO FIX A TRUCK SO I DIDNT SEE IT.
ITS NOT AS DUSTY HERE IN IRAQ. IT REMINDS ME OF THE CONVOYS IN KOREA.
MOST OF THE PEOPLE WILL WAVE “HI”. SOME OTHERS DONT.
I SAW A KID OPEN HIS HAND ONCE WHILE MOVING, AND IT SAID “BUSH” THAT WAS KIND OF COOL.
OH YEAH. HERES A STORY. WHILE OUT DOING A MISSION, ONE OF OUR “BRADLEY” TANKS FIRED ON AN ENEMY AMMO TRUCK AND CLIPPED A KID. THE ROUNDS BLEW ONE OF HIS LEGS OFF AND SOME OF THE OTHER, FROM THE KNEE DOWN. SO THE MEDICS PICKED HIM UP AND BROUGHT HIM TO OUR RECONCOLIDATING POINT FOR MEDICAL TREATMENT. I GUESS HE EVENTUALLY DIED FROM LOSS OF BLOOD THE NEXT NIGHT AND YESTERDAY THEY TOOK HIM OUT AND BURIED HIM.
ALSO WE PICKED UP ABOUT 25-30 P.O.W.s AND SENT THEM SOUTH.
IT GETS PRETTY COLD AT NIGHT. AND THE DAY’S ARE VERY HOT.
SINCE WE LEFT KUWAIT ITS BEEN ME AND MENDOZA IN THE FIVE TON WRECKER AND I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT ITS BEEN EXCITING. WE KEPT GETTING SEPERATED FROM THE CONVOY AND BREAKING DOWN. BUT I THINK THAT WERE BETTER NOW. HOPEFULLY.
IM STILL WAITING TO BE AMBUSHED TO MAKE ALL THIS SEEM REAL TO ME. A PART OF ME WANTS IT AND ANOTHER DOESNT.
AND IT SEEMS LIKE ONLY OUR UNIT HAS TO STAY IN UNIFORM, EVERYONE ELSE WEARS T-SHIRTS AND BANDENA’S AND RAGS ON THEIR HEAD
WERE STILL GOING NORTH. NOBODY KNOWS HOW LONG WE’LL STAY. ITS NOT THAT BAD HERE. MEANING, IT COULD BE WORSE.
I USED A “SHIT-CHAIR”. ITS JUST A METAL CHAIR WITH A HOLE CUT IN THE MIDDLE AND THE SEAT FROM A TOILET BOLTED TO IT, GROSS.
HELICOPTERS CAN BE HEARD ALL DAY AND NIGHT. I GOT TO SEE THEM DROP BOMBS ALL DAY ABOUT 3 DAYS AGO, FROM A DISTANCE OF COURSE.
ILL BE DRIVING AGAIN, IN A MINUTE. PROBABLY RE-FUEL AND BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN. IM ENJOYING IT.
I HAVE 8 MAGAZINES FULL OF ROUNDS. NO GRENADES, BUT I LIKE IT LIKE THAT.
SOMETIMES IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT.
I GUESS ILL END IT HERE FOR NOW
I LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU TWO TWICE IF NOT THRICE AS MUCH AS YOU MIGHT MISS ME TOO.
HELLO AGAIN. WERE SOMEWHERE NEAR TIKRI + MOSUL. YESTERDAY, ME + MENDOZA WENT LOOKING FOR MOMENTO’S. WE BROKE A LOCK TO A NEAR BY BUNKER AND FOUND 6 A.K.47s! BUT ON OUR WAY BACK TO TURN THEM IN, MAJOR TATU GOT THEM FROM US. I WAS SO PISSED. BUT I GOT A GAS MASK w/ FILTER, A FULL MAGAZINE CLIP FROM ONE OF THE A.K.s AND A BERET WITH IRAQ 1 RANK ON IT.
I MADE A STENCIL FOR THE TRUCK WERE RIDING IN. ITS CALLED THE “GAMBLER.” YESTERDAY MENDOZA DROVE, SO TODAY ILL BE DRIVING.
IM NOT POSITIVE, BUT, I THINK WERE GOING TO TURKEY. NIETO SAYS THAT HE OVERHEARD SOMEBODY FROM S1 (or SI, I’m not sure) SAYING WE MIGHT GET PAID EXTRA FOR GOING THROUGH BAGHDAD.
I THINK NIETO’S MAD AT ME. CANT EXPLAIN WHY. MAYBE ITS BECAUSE IM RIDING WITH MENDOZA AND HE DOESNT LIKE MENDOZA TOO MUCH. OH WELL, WHATEVER REASON, HOPE THINGS GET NORMAL AGAIN. HAVE TO GO,
*hearts and xs*
TODAY IS THE 25th OF APRIL, I RECEIVED FIVE OR SIX (OR SEVEN) LETTERS YESTERDAY. THE LATEST WAS DATED 07 OF APRIL. THAT TELLS ME THAT ITS GOING TO TAKE A WHILE TO COMMUNICATE.
WE HAVENT RECEIVED MAIL BECAUSE WEVE BEEN MOVING NEVER STAYING IN ONE PLACE MORE THAN A DAY, OR TWO, UNTIL NOW. WE’VE BEEN IN THIS SPOT GOING ON FOUR DAYS TOMORROW?!
GIVE ME A MINUTE...
FOR THE LAST COUPLE OF DAYS IVE BEEN HELPING MENDOZA PULL THE ENGINE OUT OF A 5 TON TRUCK AND SWITCH IT w/ ANOTHER ONE. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EASY BUT THE FLY WHEEL SEIZED UP INSIDE THE BELL HOUSING. ITS FINISHED NOW AND THE RUMOR IS WE’RE LEAVING (OR MOVING) AGAIN TOMORROW.
ITS 10:33 THURSDAY MORNING. YOUR TIME IS 12:32 JUST TURNING THURSDAY.
I ALMOST CRYED WHEN I SAW ELIS PICTURE. I REALLY MISS BOTH OF YOU. LET ME BACK TO BEFORE I GOT DISTRACTED. I HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO SEND MAIL BECAUSE WE’VE BEEN MOVING. BUT I GUESS THAT WHATEVER THREAT THERE WAS (IF ANY), ISNT SO THREATFUL ANYMORE, WE CAN START RECEIVING AND SENDING MAIL. NO PHONE TO CALL FROM, AND NO INTERNET TO E-MAIL FROM.
THE WHOLE UNIT IS SCATTERED, SO EVEN IF I GET WHAT YOU NEED IT’LL TAKE FOREVER TO GET IT TO YOU. LET ME PULL THOSE LETTERS BACK OUT. OH WAIT. I DID LAUNDRY AND SOME UNDERWEAR THATS DRY, FELT HARD, OH WELL, WAIT A SECOND, K
I HAD TO FOLD SOME T-SHIRTS. ALL MY SOCKS ARE STILL DAMP.
YOU CAN USE MY CONTRACT TO SHOW THAT I ENLISTED IN TEXAS AND HOWS THIS
*On a separate sheet my dad wrote a detailed note for my mom to give to someone to confirm that he did want to buy a house. He writes “I AM ALIVE AND WELL.” and “PLEASE ACCEPT THIS PAPER”, then he signed it with his scribble signature, and underneath it wrote his name in print and added “1st SQUADRON 10th CAVALRY HEADQUARTERS TROOP (I have no clue what this means)*
HOW’S THAT? HOPE I SPELLED EVERYTHING CORRECTLY. IM ALMOST READY WITH A DESIGN TO COVER THE OTHER TATTOOS ON MY LEFT FOREARM.
I JUST FINISHED LOOKING OVER ALL THOSE LETTERS YOU SENT FOR ME
IM BACK! I GOT SLEEPY SO I TRYED TO LAY DOWN FOR A LITTLE BIT. NO SLEEP. I DONT THINK. I DIDNT HAVE ENOUGH WATER TO WASH MY DCV’S AND A PAIR OF BDV’S. BESIDES FOR DRINKING WATER, BUT WE HAVE TO CONSERVE IT.
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE RUMORS. TOMORROW WE’LL BE LEAVING FOR THE IRAN/IRAQ BORDER TO DO “PEACE KEEPING” FOR 3 TO 6 mths. OTHERS SAY THAT THE 4ID (i think is what this says) GENERAL WANTS TO KEEP US HERE TILL NOV., THATS WHEN 1 CAV WILL COME TO REPLACE US. WHILE OTHERS SAY WE MIGHT LEAVE BY JUNE. NOTHINGS FOR SURE.
SMALLER RUMORS FLOATING AROUND THE SITE ARE; RAMSEY AND SFC BACON ARE SLEEPING TOGETHER. SGT SIREK HAS PLANS TO TAKE NIETO AS HIS APPRENTICE AND PADIWAN LEARNER OF THE DARK SIDE. LITTLE BLACK ARNOLD IS MILITARY INTELLIGENCE FOR SPECIAL FORCES OPERATING UNDER COVER A SURVEILLENCE AS PART OF
*the rest of the page is blank*
IM BACK. TODAY IS THE 27th. I GOT BACK TO THE LITTLE CAMP AREA ABOUT AN HOUR AND A HALF AGO. I LEFT YESTERDAY MORNING TO, WELL, AS PART OF DE-CON (DE-CONTAMINATION) MISSION. HERES THE INFORMATION THAT I GATHERED.
A SITE HAD BEEN FOUND THAT WAS THOUGHT TO HAVE CHEMICAL WEAPONS AND 1-10 WAS APPOINTED TO GO TO THE SITE AND DE-CON THE CIVILIANS THAT WERE GOING TO OPEN THEM. AS IT TURNS OUT THE CIVILIANS HAVE BEEN DE-LAYED AND WOULD BE SET BACK 1 DAY.
THE NBC TEAM THAT I WAS WITH WERENT PREPARED TO STAY OVER NIGHT AND AS FORCASTED BY SSG MINOR WE MIGHT HAVE HAD TO STAY 3 TO 4 DAYS. EVERYBODY WAS PISSED.
LATELY ITS BEEN GETTING REALLY COLD AT NIGHT AND WE JUST HAPPENED TO BE NEAR A RUNNING RIVER. SO THE, ITS ABOUT 9 O’CLOCK AND IM BEAT, NO SLEEPING BAG OR ANYTHING TO COVER UP WITH AND I DECIDE TO TRY AND SLEEP. I GET AS COMFORTABLE AS POSSIBLE AND I GET ATTACKED BY MOSQUITOS. NOW IM PISSED SO I DECIDED TO JUST TO STAY UP ALL NIGHT. ABOUT 10PM ONE OF THE HEMTT (this might just say “hemi”, I don’t know) FUELERS SHOWS UP AND SGT TORRES SAYS HE HAS EVERYBODYS SLEEPING BAG! THE SITES ABOUT 45 MINS AWAY AND THEY LEFT SOMETIME MID AFTERNOON TO GET OUR SHIT, I HATE THESE PEOPLE.
RIGHT NOW ITS 9:01 PM AND ITS 11:02 AM YOUR TIME. I MISS YOU.
RIGHT NOW IM GOING TO ADDRESS AN ENVELOPE AND HAVE IT READY TO SEND TOMMOROW THE 28th. IM SORRY IF IT SEEMS THAT IM NOT WRITING VERY OFTEN. FOR A WHILE WE COULDN’T. AND NOW THAT IT SEEMS WE MIGHT BE HERE A LITTLE WHILE, THEYVE KEPT ME REALLY BUSY. LET ME ADDRESS THE ENVELOPES (he drew a star here)
ALL DONE. I THOUGHT ABOUT THE HOUSE A LOT TODAY AND YESTERDAY. IM SURE BY THE TIME THIS LETTER REACHES YOU, YOU’LL HAVE EITHER GOTTEN IT OR GAVE IT UP. IM O.K. WITH EITHER DECISION YOUVE MADE.
YOUVE KEPT THIS FAMILY TOGETHER, AND THAT MAKES ME PROUD. YOUR SMART, ATTRACTIVE AND FUNNY. AND YOU DONT TAKE ANY SHIT FROM ANYBODY. I LOVE YOU.
I HOPE THAT OUR DAUGHTER TURNS OUT TO BE LIKE YOU.
I GUESS ILL MAIL THIS TOMORROW, FIRST THING, SO
EVER YOURS
EVER MINE
*my dad signed it with his scribble, and wrote his name under it. under that are hearts and x’s with my mom’s name and then my name under hers.*
#very personal but where the fuck am i gonna put them? you know where i kinda cant lose them?#letters from the guy that was my dad#pt 1#long post
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A/N: Based of a post were I suggested that the team competes in various events during the downtime created by the lockdown. A full story was requested by someone. If you would like to claim it, let me know in the comments.
As you might expect, this is filled with ridiculousness.
***
“That’s it, you’re disqualified, G!” Sam declared as he yanked a throwing knife out of the wall, the handle still shaking from being recently hurled.
“Why am I disqualified?”
“You almost hit me in the head!”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have been standing so close to the target.” As they continued to bicker, Eric, Nell, Kensi, and Deeks sat down on the bleachers set up in the gym.
“I wonder how long this argument is going to take.” Nell said, sounding mildly disinterested. Over the course of the day, they had competed against each other in various events, including completing a hundred pushups, a 100 meter sprint, non-dominant hand shooting, and miniature basketball.
The day long competition was the result of them all having far too much idle time while most of the state was in some form of lockdown.
Sam, Kensi and Deeks had been neck and neck for the pushups. Nell had given up after 10 in favor of watching Deeks and Sam finish. In the end, Sam had beat Kensi by three. Kensi and Deeks had tied in the sprint, which had resulted in a mini argument over whether or not they could have two winners and Sam had easily won in the shooting event. Callen had won the mini-basketball round.
“Well, I’d say it depends on how quickly Sam figures out that Callen is messing with him,” Deeks said, settling in for a good half hour of debate.
“How do you guys wear this stuff all the time?” Eric asked, doing a weird half lunge thing as he frowned down at his under armor shorts. “I always feel like it’s squeezing me to death.”
“Well, it does have its perks,” Deeks commented, wiggling his eyebrows at Kensi as he glanced pointedly at her strappy black sports bra.
“Mm, yes it does,” Nell agreed, eyeing his chest appreciatively. Deeks looked down at his skin tight tank top and shrugged.
“Anyway,” Kensi said, rolling her eyes. “We should probably intervene or we’ll never get to the next event.”
“You just want to get your trophy,” Deeks teased her.
“Hey I won the knife throwing competition fair and square. No one else even came close.”
***
“C’mon Deeks!” Kensi shouted, clapping her hands as Deeks and Callen went up against each other on the climbing walls. “You can do this! Climb faster!” She’d already lost against Callen earlier and had taken sides. Nell had also joined Deeks’ side, but Eric seemed torn.
“G, don’t do this to me again!” Sam shouted over Kensi’s encouragement. Deeks thought he heard Callen mutter something sarcastic about not being a show monkey.
Deeks was about 2/3 of the way up with Callen several feet under him. He grabbed the next two handholds, propelling himself another two feet. To the sound of Nell and Kensi’s combined shouts, he climbed the last few feet and touched the top.
“Yes baby!” Kensi cheered as he dropped onto the mat below. Callen let himself fall too and said,
“Well, thank god that’s over.”
“Unbelievable,” Sam said, sounding deeply disappointed. “How could you let him win again?” Callen stood up, breathing heavily with his hands on his hips.
“Once again, he’s got longer arms and have you seen his muscles these days? His arms are like freaking trees,” Callen pointed out. “Besides, I beat you.”
“I have more weight to lift.” Before Callen could respond to that, Nell cut in.
“I believe it’s time for the three-legged race.”
“Ooh, I won the three-legged race every year at my summer camp,” Eric said excitedly. He extended his arm to Nell. “Shall we, M’Lady?”
***
“How are you this uncoordinated?” Kensi shouted at Deeks as they tumbled to the ground for the third time in a minute. Sam and Callen were only doing marginally better; if he’d been less focused on not falling, Deeks would have found the sight of them fumbling around hilarious.
“I don’t know, maybe because one of my legs is tied to yours?” he suggested sarcastically, groaning as he Kensi tried to stand up and ended up yanking at his bound leg.
“As the only married couple, we should be better at this.” Kensi sounded ready to kill him and he tried to sync his movements with hers.
Ahead of them, Nell and Eric were somehow managing to move at an impressive speed despite their vastly different heights.
Kensi growled as they fell yet again.
“This is a cruel, cruel sport,” Deeks sighed. In the time it took them to get back up, Eric and Nell crossed the finish line and immediately hugged, jumping up and down in excitement.
Deeks released the Velcro brace wrapped around his left leg, rubbing at the sore spot the rough material had left as they slowly walked across the field.
“Congratulations,” Kensi told Eric and Nell, managing a smile despite her disappointment.
“Thanks, but it was all Eric,” Nell said, giving him a proud look. “He’s a great leader.”
“Oh, I’m only as good as my partner,” Eric insisted, one arm wrapped around her waist.
“You two are disgusting,” Sam commented, trying to brush grass stains off his clothes.
***
“Nell, how often do you play mini golf?” Callen asked, sounding suspicious as Nell tapped her bright blue golf ball through a windmill and straight into a hole marked with a white 16.
“I may or may not have lived near a course when I was a kid,” Nell answered with a grin. She sank another ball with a single tap. “We played every weekend for a couple summers.”
“I should’ve known when you insisted we include it in the competition,” Kensi commented. She was a few strokes behind Nell and one in front of Deeks.
“Hey, I play to my strengths.” Nell shrugged, not seeming in any hurry to get to the next hole.
“At least the rest of us are doing better than Eric and Sam,” Deeks said, nodding to where Sam and Callen were struggling to get past a river that kept swallowing the ball and spitting it back out on the other side.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam this angry,” Callen said, his voice filled with poorly concealed humor. As they watched, Sam shouted something and threw his club across the course where it landed in the middle of a small sandpit. “I better go calm him down before we get kicked out.”
“Maybe we should cancel this event. I mean, this is just supposed to be for fun,” Kensi said, watching Sam stalk away as Callen tried to talk to him. Eric was still futilely whacking at his ball.
“Not a chance,” Nell said fiercely, pausing to line her club up to the ball. She swung, the blue tennis skirt she’d chosen to wear swishing with her movement, and smiled in satisfaction as she got another hole in one. “I won this trophy and no one is taking it away from me.”
“Nothing like a game of mini golf to foster familial goodwill,” Deeks commented wryly.
***
Beep beep beep.
“Alright, pencils down,” Nell announced to the sound of frantic scratching. Deeks leaned back, having finished his 10th Scattegories list several seconds early.
Kensi swore under her breath and tossed her pencil down, glaring malevolently at him.
“Ok, starting with Eric, gifts/presents, terms of endearment, kinds of dances, things that are black, vehicles, tropical locations, college majors, dairy, products, things in a souvenir shop, and world records,” Nell said. “And they all must start with the letter L.”
By now her voice was hoarse and she sounded like a teacher who had spent all day corralling misbehaving students. It wasn’t far off.
“Alright, I have Lady Lark, locket, love, nothing, nothing, Land Rover, Latin, nothing, leg warmers, lip balm, and nothing,” Eric rattled off, looking a little stressed. He’d taken his jacket off half an hour ago, apparently overheated by the pressures of the game.
Nell sighed, crossing a couple things off her list.
“Ok, Callen?” He’d been toe to toe with Deeks for the last five rounds and seemed pretty confident. Clearing his throat dramatically, he started reading off his list.
“Lewis and Clark, lima beans, lima beans, lima beans-“
“Wait a second, you just said ‘lima beans’ three times in a row,” Sam interrupted.
“Lima beans would make a great present in my opinion,” Callen said, leaning back in his chair and twirling his pencil carelessly.
“Well, I don’t. Besides, you can’t use the same thing more than once.” Callen sighed and tossed his paper on the table.
“Then you’re probably not going to like the rest of this list.”
“You seriously wrote down lima beans 11 times?” Kensi asked and he shrugged again.
“At this point, I just want the game to be over,” he said, earning a disgusted sound from Sam.
Kensi, Nell, and Sam all read off their lists, scratching of a word here and there. Deeks had insisted that he go last for each round, to give them a better appreciation of his brilliance. No one had argued, but that might have been more for the sake of expediency than that they actually cared. When it was his turn, he noisily cleared his throat.
“Lincoln, as in Abraham, lingerie,” he paused to glance at Kensi who rolled her eyes. “Ladybird, lap dance, lemurs, Lamborghini, Laos, law, low fat yogurt, a license, and liquor,” Deeks said, dropping his board on the table with a smug expression. “Boom.”
“Damn,” Eric muttered. “Why didn’t I think of lap dancing?”
“Because you have an ounce of self-respect,” Kensi said a little meanly, which Deeks put down to her losing another round.
“Ok, so Deeks is officially the winner,” Nell announced, to no ones surprise.
He took a bow, dodging Kensi’s elbow.
***
“G, that’s not a word,” Sam sighed, gesturing for Callen to move the letter tiles he’d just laid down. The board was covered with a grid of words. Deeks had most recently added “erotic”, built off of Kensi’s “elbow”. Sam hadn’t liked Deeks’ word either, but didn’t have grounds to protest it.
“Yes, it is,” Callen insisted. “And now I’m out of tiles too and since that’s 7 with a triple word score, I win.”
“Um, I don’t think so,” Kensi argued, crossing her arms as she glared at him. She’d played extremely competitively, contesting almost as many words as Sam. “You used an already existing word, so you can’t use the ‘s’.”
“And it’s not a real word.”
“It’s in the Harry Potter books.” Callen lifted his hands like that was definite proof, leaning back with a grin. “So I’d say it’s a real word.”
“Actually “lumos” is adapted from the Latin word “lumen”, Deeks explained, “so it’s really a made up word and even if it wasn’t, foreign words aren’t allowed or I would have killed this game.”
“I’m not taking it off.”
“Let’s never do this again,” Nell said to Eric from where they were sitting off to the sides as Sam pulled out a giant dictionary.
“But we’re still getting trophies, right?” he asked worriedly. Nell snorted.
“Of course. I am the champion of mini golf after all.”
***
A/N: Just for fun little side note, I really dislike mini golf. One of the first times I played (I was a teenager), got so mad that I had a similar reaction to Sam’s. Ever since my family has been very cautious around me while playing the game.
And Callen with the lima beans is also based on a real-life anecdote.
#ncis la fanfiction#marty deeks#kensi blye#sam hanna#g callen#eric beale#nell jones#ncis: games#ejzah fanfiction
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Sunday 16 March 1834
8 10/60 11 3/4
x
Incurred a cross just before getting up thinking of Miss W [Walker] very fine morning Fahrenheit 51.° at 8 3/4 breakfast at 9 1/4 with Marian - civil Note from Mr. Waterhouse with the catalogue of Mr. Radcliffe's (quondam Rouge Croix) catalogue of MSS [manuscripts] and letters &c. now selling at the 'prices affixed by Thomas Thorpe, no. [number] 38, Bedford Street, Covent Garden, London' 1834. the widow is in a madhouse and her scamp of a son (said Mr. Parker yesterday) takes this means of raising money -
from 10 1/2 to 12 1/4 in my walk - delightful morning - read prayers and sermon 2 Mr. Knight volume i. to my aunt and Oddy - my aunt poorly - saw her leg dressed - I think the sore rather larger, but as Oddy thought it much the same glad to withhold my own opinion - asleep for 1/4 hour - came to my study at 2 - wrote out yesterday and so far of today till 2 3/4 - Mr. Sunderland came about 4 p.m. - Told me the wound was certainly rather larger but my aunt's pulse very favourable - again particularly desired him not to come less seldom than twice a week - as my aunt so dislikes taking the anodyne draughts (thinks they prevent her sleeping) thought it would be better to recommend suppositories to answer the purpose of the draughts -
Till 6, wrote 3 pp. [pages] and ends (small and close) to Mrs. Norcliffe copying the title page of the catalogue (25 of my close, small lines) and of the 3 or 4 articles The long article chiefly concerning Mrs. N- [Norcliffe] no. [number] 546, and copying or giving sufficient extracts from articles 638 799 and 839 (Radcliffe, Wake, Wray) - the widow in a lunatic asylum &c. as above -
'I may perhaps be within York of you again before quite the end of the month - it depends upon my aunt's continuing as at present - She suffers a great deal; but I have no fear of immediate danger; but if I have a day or 2 at command, I shall hope to see you again - we talk of going to Duncombe park' -
cannot be long absent - shall not be off (if at all) before after-post-time on Saturday the 29th. instant
'Do pray write and tell me how you are - Come what may, I never do, and never shall forget all your Kindness - I always think with gratitude and pleasure, that you, at least, have done me the justice to believe, I had some sincerity, some steadiness of heart, some deeper and better feeling than many have given me credit for - I have been annoyed, and hurt by those from whom I least deserved, and least expected it; but you have never changed in Kindness, nor I in gratitude, for four-and twenty years, and believe me, my dear Mrs. Norcliffe, always very affectionately yours AL- ' Love to Isabella and all at Croft and to Charlotte too - 'You dont Know the good she did me 2 years ago' -
and wrote to 'Mr. Thomas Thorpe' to desire him to send me no. [number] 467, Lister pedigree, £2.2.0, of the catalogue if still unsold; if not, to inform me who is the purchaser - on receipt of the papers will immediately an order on Messers Hammerleys for the money - 'I am, sir, &c. &c. &c.' -
'no. [number] 467 Lister pedigree. - Abstract of the will of Samuel Lister, of Shipden hall, parish of H-x [Halifax], York, 1632 - Letter of John Pate Neville, Esquire Doncaster, 1812, relative to recording the Genealogy of the Listers in the College of arms. - Ten letters of Miss A. Lister, 1816-17, relative to the pedigrees of Lister of Shibden hall, replete with very interesting notices of the early descent of the family, from their branching off from the Listers of Gisburne and settling at Ovendeyne, now Ovenden, near H-x [Halifax], about the year 1399. -very copious notices, from registers, of the births, baptisms, marriages, and burials of the Listers of Shibden hall, 1554-1771 - Lists of proofs wanting, 1817, relating to the completion of the pedigree - Two lets. letters of Miss A. Anne Lister 1824-25, announcing the decease of several of the family who had died since the completion of the pedigree - Letter of E.C. Lister, Esquire of Manningham, as a subsriber to Radcliffe's Yorkshire pedigrees, 1827. Pedigree of the Cunliffes of Ickley, in Wharfdale, connected by marriage with the Listers. 2£ 2s. shillings' -
dinner at 6 1/4 then coffee - Marian came to me - staid down talking to her till 8 - then wrote the last 20 lines and sent off at 8 35/.. my letter to 'Mrs. Norcliffe Langton hall Malton' yorks and my letter to 'Mr. Thomas Thorpe 38 Bedford Street Covent Garden London Post Paid' - and note with the catalogue in parcel to to 'John Waterhouse Esquire Wellhead' Dear sir - Thanks ('particularly obliged') for the catalogue which I returned tonight for fear of being too late in the morning - much obliged for his ordering the catalogue for me at Whitleys - have written for the 2 guinea lot - united Kind compliments to his family party - 'very truly yours A Lister' -
read from page 508 to 560 end of 'Waldensian Researches during a 2nd visit to the Vaudois of Piemont. with an introductory inquiry into the Antiquity and purity of the Waldensian church and some account of the compacts with the ancient princes of Piemont, and the treaties between the English government and the house of Savoy, in virtue of which this sole relic of the primitive church in Italy has continued to assert its religious independence. By William Stephen Gilly, M.A. prebendary of Durham.
'Thou small, but holy spot of favoured ground! 'Where'er we gaze, above, around, below, 'What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 'Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound: 'And bluest skies that harmonize the whole. 'Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 'Tells where the volum'd cataract doth roll, 'Between those hanging rocks, that shock, yet please the soul.'
London printed for C.J.G. and F. Rivington, St. Paul's churchyard, and Waterloo-Place, Pall-Mall. 1831.' 'Gilbert and Rivington printers, St. John's square' 8vo. octavo pp. pages 560'
with my aunt from 9 35/.. to 10 35/.. - read the morning Herald partly aloud to her - looking 2nd series Waldensian Researches Till 11 1/4 - very fine day - Fahrenheit 55.° at 10 3/4 p.m. -
Reference: SH:7/ML/E/17/0008 - SH:7/ML/E/17/0009
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Saints&Reading: Mon., Mar., 8, 2021
Commemorated on February 23_by the new CAlendar
Saint Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna (167)
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Saint Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, was born about the year 80 and lived in Asia Minor in the city of Smyrna. He was left an orphan at an early age, but through the direction of an Angel, he was raised by the pious widow Kallista. After the death of his adoptive mother, Polycarp gave away his possessions and began to lead a chaste life, caring for the sick and the infirm. He was very fond of and close to the holy bishop of Smyrna Bukolos (Comm. 6 February). He ordained Polycarp as deacon, entrusting to him to preach the Word of God in church. At this time the holy Apostle John the Theologian was still alive. Saint Polycarp was especially close to Saint John the Theologian, whom he accompanied on his apostolic wanderings. Saint Bukolos ordained Saint Polycarp presbyter, and shortly before his death expressed last wishes that he be made bishop upon the Smyrna cathedral. When the ordination of Saint Polycarp to bishop was accomplished, the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to him. Saint Polycarp guided his flock with apostolic zeal. He was also greatly loved among the clergy. With great warmth did Saint Ignatios the God-Bearer regard him. Setting out to Rome where execution awaited him (he was torn asunder by wild beasts), he wrote to Saint Polycarp: "Just as the winds and turbulence require the rudder – for coming ashore, so likewise are the present times necessary, in order to reach God".
The emperor Marcus Aurelius (161-180) came upon the Roman throne and started up a most fierce persecution against christians. The pagans demanded that the judge seek out Saint Polycarp – "the father of all the christians" and "the seducer of all Asia". During this while Saint Polycarp, at the persistent urging of his flock, stayed at a small village not far from Smyrna. When the soldiers came for him, he went out to them and led them in to eat, and at this time he began to pray, having prepared himself for the deed of martyrdom. His suffering and death are recorded in "An Epistle of the Christians of the Church of Smyrna to the other Churches" – one of the most ancient memorials of Christian literature. Having been brought to trial, Saint Polycarp firmly confessed his faith in Christ and was condemned to burning. The executioners wanted to tie him to a post, but he calmly told them that the bon-fire would not work, and they could merely tie him with ropes. The flames encircled the saint but did not touch him, coming all together over his head. Seeing that the fire did him no harm, the throng of pagans demanded that he be killed with a sword. When they inflicted the wound upon Saint Polycarp, there flowed from it so much blood, that it extinguished the flames. The body of the priestmartyr Polycarp was then committed to flame. The Christians of Smyrna reverently gathered up his venerable remains, honouring his memory as sacred. A story has been preserved about Saint Polycarp by his disciple, Saint Ireneius of Lyons, which Eusebios cites in his "Ecclesiastical History" (V, 20): "I was still very young when I saw thee in Asia Minor at Polycarp's, – writes Saint Ireneius to his friend Florinus, – ...but I would still be able to point out the place where Blessed Polycarp sat and conversed, – be able to depict his walk, his mannerisms in life, his outward appearance, his speaking to people, his companionable wandering with John, and how he himself related, together with other eye-witnesses of the Lord, – those things that he remembered from the words of others and in turn told what he heard from them about the Lord, His teachings and miracles ... Through the mercy of God to me, I then already listened attentively to Polycarp and wrote down his words not on tablets, but in the depths of my heart ... Wherefore, I am able to witness before God, that if this blessed and apostolic elder heard something similar to thy fallacy, he would immediately stop up his ears and express his indignation with his usual phrase: 'Good God! That Thou hast permitted me to be alive at such a time!' ". During his life the saint bishop wrote several Epistles to the flock and letters to various individuals. There has survived to the present his Epistle to the Philippians which, on the testimony of Blessed Jerome, was read in the churches of Asia Minor at Divine-services. It was written by the saint in response to the request of the Philippians to send them a letter of the Priest Martyr Ignatius, which had been preserved by Saint Polycarp.
The Monk Alexander, Founder of the "Unceasing Vigilance" Monastery (430)
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The Monk Alexander, Founder of the "Unceasing Vigilance" Monastery, was born in Asia and received his education at Constantinople. He spent some time in military service but, sensing a calling to other service, he left the world and accepted monastic vows in one of the wilderness monasteries near Antioch under the guidance of hegumen Elias. Having advanced bit by bit through the degrees of monastic obedience, he received blessing from the hegumen to dwell in the wilderness. The monk pursued asceticism in the wilderness with but the Holy Gospel, which alone he took with him. Afterwards, the Lord summoned him to preach to pagans. He converted to the faith the local city-head Rabbul, who afterwards prospered in the service of the Church, being granted the dignity of bishop and for all of 30 years he occupied the bishop's cathedra (chair) at the city of Edessa. Finally, the monk Alexander settled not far from the Euphrates River. Monks gathered around him, attracted by the loftiness of his prayerful asceticism and spiritual experience. A monastery arose numbering 400 monks. Then the holy hegumen in his prayerful zeal decided to make at the monastery both by day and by night never-ceasing praise to the Lord. For three years the holy abba prayed, that God might reveal to him, whether it should be pleasing to Him to establish such a monastic rule. And by a Divine revelation it was brought about in the following manner: all the monks were divided by him into 24 watches of prayer. Changing shifts each hour, they sang in two choirs both day and night the holy psalms, with the exceptions when Divine-services were celebrated in church. Hence the name "Monastery of Unceasing Vigilance", since unceasing song was offered up by the ascetics to God. The monk Alexander guided the monastery on the Euphrates for twelve years. Thereafter, having left as its hegumen the experienced elder Trophymos, he set off with some chosen brethren through the cities bordering on Persia, to preach the Gospel and conversion to spiritual life. Having arrived at Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine empire, he also established there a monastery with his favoured ustav (rule) of "unceasing vigilance". The monastic abba died in extreme old age after fifty years of incessant monastic striving. His death occurred in the year 430. The commemoration of the Monk Alexander is also celebrated on 3 July.
All texts�� 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.
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3 John 1:1-14
1The Elder, To the beloved Gaius, whom I love in truth: 2 Beloved, I pray that you may prosper in all things and be in health, just as your soul prospers. 3 For I rejoiced greatly when brethren came and testified of the truth that is in you, just as you walk in the truth. 4 I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth. 5 Beloved, you do faithfully whatever you do for the brethren and for strangers, 6 who have borne witness of your love before the church. If you send them forward on their journey in a manner worthy of God, you will do well, 7 because they went forth for His name's sake, taking nothing from the Gentiles. 8 We therefore ought to receive such, that we may become fellow workers for the truth. 9 I wrote to the church, but Diotrephes, who loves to have the preeminence among them, does not receive us. 10 Therefore, if I come, I will call to mind his deeds which he does, prating against us with malicious words. And not content with that, he himself does not receive the brethren, and forbids those who wish to, putting them out of the church. 11 Beloved, do not imitate what is evil, but what is good. He who does good is of God, but he who does evil has not seen God. 12 Demetrius has a good testimony from all, and from the truth itself. And we also bear witness, and you know that our testimony is true. 13 I had many things to write, but I do not wish to write to you with pen and ink; 14 but I hope to see you shortly, and we shall speak face to face. Peace to you. Our friends greet you. Greet the friends by name.
#orthodoxy#orthodoxchristian#ancientchristianity#originofchristianity#spirituality#holyscriptures#gospel#sacredtexts#wisdom
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Son I’m reading this fanfic about A love triangle between Alex, Eliza and Some guy named Tench Tilghman. It’s post Pamphlet and Eliza is dating Tench. You’re kinda the Hamliza historical expert, how do you think our boy would react if he had a romantic rival for Eliza’s affection. Especially during the vulnerable part of their marriage ie the RP. And did Eliza have any admirers other than Ham? That’d be a great fic by the way. Hint hint wink wink 😉
Eliza absolutely had other suitors! In fact, on September 3, 1780, Hamilton wrote to Eliza:
You see I give you an account of all the pretty females I meet with; you tell me nothing of the pretty fellows you see. I suppose you will pretend there is none of them engages the least of your attention, but you know I have been told you were something of a coquette, and I shall take care what degree of credit, I give to this pretence. When your sister returns home, I shall try to get her in my interest and make her tell me of all your flirtations.
Tench Tilghman was one of Washington’s aide’s with Hamilton during the Revolution, and he may actually have been a romantic rival when Eliza arrived in Morristown in 1780. Tilghman first met Eliza in Albany in 1775, and he recorded the meeting his diary:
We arrived at the Cohoes around 11 o’clock. We had not the pleasure of viewing the beautiful Fall, to the best advantage, as the Water (from the lowness of the River for want of Rain) did not run over more than one half of the precipice of the rock which I am informed is 74 feet in Height, the river there is about 400 yards wide we with much difficulty descended the Hills almost perpendicular to the foot of the Falls. My foot once slipped and Miss Lynch who I was supporting and myself had like to have taken a short turn to the bottom. I fancy Miss Schuyler had been used to ramble over and climb grounds of this sort for she disdained all assistance and made herself merry at the distress of the other Ladies.
That Tilghman may have remembered the meeting and may have had designs on Eliza even in 1780 is evidenced by Hamilton’s first extant letter to Eliza:
Col Hamiltons compliments to Miss Livingston and Miss Schuyler. He is sorry to inform them that his zeal for their service make him forget that he is so bad a Charioteer as hardly to dare to trust himself with so precious a charge; though if he were only to consult his own wishes like Phaeton he would assemble the chariot of the sun, if he were sure of experiencing the same fate. Col Tilghman offers himself a volunteer. Col Hamilton is unwilling to lose the pleasure of the party; but one or the other will have the honor to attend the ladies.
Tilghman being a “volunteer” to take the girls on the sleigh ride does hint at the possibility that Tilghman may have been pursuing Eliza as well. Sadly, Tilghman died young in 1786, so, historically, he wouldn’t have been around to be involved in the aftermath of the Reynold’s Pamphlet.
Eliza doesn’t seem to have considered leaving Hamilton after the pamphlet (in fact, even after his death, she doesn’t seem to have entertained suitors), but I think it would have absolutely destroyed Hamilton had she considered leaving him for another man.
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Rushing Whispers Part 11/?
Read from the beginning or Part 10
June 25 & 26, 1970 ((approx 2550 words))
Cameron and I had left the house early to spend the day in and around Aberdeen. As we were driving along the River Dee mid day, I noticed Duthie Park to our left and my mind drifted to the last time I was at Polmuir Road.
“Do you think Lily would be happy to see me?” I asked.
“I don’t see why she wouldn’t be,” Cameron answered. “Did you want to stop by? We still have time before the meeting.”
I thought for a moment and agreed. We took a little detour and within minutes were standing in front of her house. My hand hovered with hesitation in front of the door. I stole a glance at Cameron, and with a smile he knocked for me.
It took a minute for Lily to get to the door, but once she opened it I could see the surprise clear on her face.
“Hi, auntie,” was all I said.
“Emily! Come, dear!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug and bringing me inside the house. “You too,” she told Cameron, who obliged and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
We followed Lily into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on and took three cups out of the cabinet.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” she chuckled as she turned back to face us.
“I didn’t expect to be back so soon,” I answered, glancing at Cameron. “It’s just me, though. Liliane isn’t here,” I added.
Lily sat down across from us and I could see how happy she was to see me again, as I was to see her. “I know, dear. I received a call from her yesterday, long distance of course,” she quipped. “Though she didn’t tell me you would be on this side of the pond.”
“I asked Emily to return,” Cameron answered. “You know that I’m a musician, and I’ll be touring for a few months with the rest of the band. I asked Emily to accompany me and she agreed.”
Lily looked at me and winked almost imperceptibly. “Where will you be travelling to?” she asked, obviously curious.
“We will be doing most of the tour in Germany and France,” Cameron began. “Some other dates are planned for Holland, and some British dates as well.”
“Very exciting!” Lily said as she stood to pour the tea.
“It is,” I agreed, my smile wide. “Auntie, would you mind if I gave Liliane a quick call? I’m sure she’s up now, it must be around eight for her.”
“Go ahead, I don’t mind at all.”
With that, I got up from the table and went into the sitting room. I sunk into the armchair by the phone and dialed the operator before giving my sister’s number.
She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Lil,” I responded. “How are you?”
“Emily! I’m doing fine, how are you? The flight was okay? Cameron was there to pick you up?”
“I’m good too, and yes. Also, yes,” I added with a laugh. “We’re at Lily’s right now, I thought I’d give you a call and let you know everything’s fine.”
“I’m glad, thanks for calling. When do you leave to join the travelling musician’s club?” she asked me through a stifled giggle.
“Ten days or so. I’ll write you a letter not long afterwards, so expect that in a few weeks,” I informed her.
“Did you show him the photo of your painting?”
“I did. He loved it,” I told her.
“That’s great.” I could hear her smile. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, sis. Well, our tea is ready and I don’t want to keep Lily waiting, I’ll let you go.”
“Wait, before you go. Thank Cameron for me, for keeping you safe. And remind him that if he doesn’t he will have me to answer to.”
I chuckled, even though I knew she was being serious. “I will.”
“Love you.”
“Same here. We’ll talk soon.”
I hung up and went back to the kitchen, my cup of tea set on the table and Cameron and Lily chatting pleasantly.
“Your sister is doing well?” Cameron asked as I sat beside him.
“Yes, she is. I’ll write her a letter soon, so in about three weeks she’ll be hounding the postman for a letter every day,” I laughed.
When it neared two-thirty, we said goodbye to Lily and made our way back to the house in Cairnie. The rest of the band, plus Geoff and the girls, were to arrive at three, but when we pulled up to the house we saw that some of them had already arrived.
Willie and Dale were standing outside the door, smoking cigarettes and talking. We got out of the car and greeted them; Willie looked his usual solemn self but Dale was happy to see me.
“It’s nice you’ve come back to our keyboardist!” he exclaimed after we exchanged a brief hug.
“Well, I didn’t leave by choice,” I said with a chuckle.
We all entered the house and Cameron left the front door unlocked for the others to enter when they arrived. Soon enough, the house was full and we were just waiting for Geoff. Sylvia and I were chatting when he walked in a few minutes later and immediately called the band to the meeting in the studio.
“What’s it like having lots of snow?” Sylvia asked. “I’ve never seen more than a few inches on the ground.”
“Try three feet of snow by New Years Day,” I quipped.
“Three feet?”
“I’ll give you one better,” I said enthusiastically. “Nine years ago, at the end of February there was an ice storm. An inch of freezing rain fell in two days. And the wind uprooted trees and everything.”
Sylvia said nothing, only a shocked look on her face. After a moment, she began asking questions again and I amused myself by answering them. I was just about to explain how Niagara Falls is actually three separate waterfalls when Lee walked into the room and asked me to join the meeting.
"I thought it was a band meeting," I noted quietly as we walked down the hall towards the studio.
"I'll let Geoff explain," Lee replied, opening the door. All the heads in the room turned towards us, Cameron smiling at me and Willie brooding. Everyone else looked mildly surprised, as if I had food on my face. Knowing I didn't, I made no move and waited to be asked by Geoff to sit.
I pulled up a chair beside Cameron and sat down.
"Emily," Geoff greeted me, "we have a bit of an issue with the album, and Cameron thought you could help us out."
I glanced at Cameron and he gave me a slight wink. I looked back to Geoff and spoke. "What's the issue?"
"The man who was to airbrush a photo of the band for the album cover, his mum's sick and he's backed out of the contract." Then, seeing my face change, he continued. "Now, I'm all for sympathy but he's got a contract with us that's now been nullified, and we're in need of someone to provide us with an album cover."
"And you want me to do it? I've never airbrushed before-"
"But Cameron has said you are quite a painter,” Geoff interjected. “Would you be willing to paint something?”
"Quick and dirty,” Willie added in a surprisingly interested tone. “We haven't got much time.”
I thought for a moment and realized that this might be the way to be accepted by the rest of the band, especially Willie and the manager, who didn't seem too happy with my presence. “I'll do it,” I said confidently. "But I'll need supplies, and some sort of idea to go on."
"Lee's got the sketches. He'll fill you in," Geoff said. "Meeting dismissed."
Everyone left the studio except Cameron, Lee, and myself. I'd remembered him being introduced as Leroy when we had first met, but bit my tongue.
"Cameron, are you sure about this?" I asked worriedly.
"Yes. Talk with Lee, figure out what you need and we'll get it for you. I'll be right back," he said before giving me a quick kiss and heading towards the living room.
Lee took Cameron’s spot beside me and handed me a sketchbook. "So, Emily, this is what I’ve got sketched out..”
After an hour or so of talking with Lee and making my own sketches, he left with Cameron to get the supplies I would need. Almost everyone had left; only Clyde and Sylvia stayed at the house to keep me company, which I appreciated.
“You know,” Clyde began as he stood, “there’s always been something with Cameron.” Clyde flipped the record and lowered the needle.
“What do you mean?” I asked, curious at his words.
“Something missing. He’s never been one to fool around for the sake of it, but no one’s ever stuck,” he noted. “He’s different with you, though.”
“He’s right,” Sylvia added. “He’s more-”
All talk of Cameron ceased as he walked in the door with Lee, hands full with shopping bags of art supplies and rigid canvases.
I stood and grabbed a bag from Lee, setting it down on the kitchen table and beginning to unpack it. Acrylic paints, multiple styles and textures of brushes, many sheets of thick paper…
It was evening, and everyone had left by now; only me and Cameron remained at the house. He had a test pressing of the album with him and was playing it for me in the sitting room, where I had repurposed the kitchen table and laid down a large sheet to catch any paint. All my supplies were ready and waiting for me, but first, I had to hear what I was painting.
“It’s a shame that no one in North America knows about you guys,” I told Cameron as the last song began to fade. “You’d kick some major ass.”
Cameron laughed. “The time will come. One day we’ll be known all over. And this album is the first step.”
I smiled at him. “I’m happy to be a part of it. Now, play it again.”
Cameron flipped the record back to the first side and set the needle down. I had sketched some ideas based on what Lee had shown me, but there was something missing from them.
“Is this album about someone?” I asked. “It seems almost like a plea, but for who, I don’t know.”
“You’ve got a keen ear,” Cameron noted. “It’s mainly about a man that Willie and I used to know, an old teacher of ours. He died in Korea. We were young and he had greatly impacted both of us,” he told me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, love. It’s not your fault there was a war.”
“Still,” I commented, “it’s not fair to die in someone else’s war.”
“No, it’s not.” Cameron paused in thought and then looked back to me. “We wrote this album as a statement. People can come from very little and do very much with themselves.”
Cameron began to describe to me his teacher and the impact he made, and by midnight II had two completed canvases, and the last was half finished. Cameron was reading on the couch but dutifully kept the turntable going.
It was difficult to paint on a schedule and at the same time make something worthy of being the cover for an album they’d all worked so hard on. I had a few last touches to add when Cameron stood and came to stand behind me.
“It’s not finished, not yet,” I told him.
“It’s wonderful,” he answered. “You’ve painted all over your arms.”
“Always happens,” I explained. “This is the first time you’ve seen me paint, isn’t it?” I added a few small brushstrokes and set down the brush and palette I’d been holding. The third version of the cover art was finished.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “I love seeing you so passionate.”
“I haven’t been so happy to paint in a long time.”
“I’m glad I could help with that,” Cameron noted. “Now, let’s go to bed.”
We got out of bed in the early morning, again woken by the shrill sound of a telephone. Cameron answered it and came back to the bedroom.
“Don’t go downstairs in your panties,” he warned me. “Willie should almost be here.”
“For what?” I asked incredulously.
“To see your paintings,” he said as if it made sense.
“I’m not even sure they’re finished,” I moaned. “Why does he have to come right away?”
“Just be grateful he didn’t barge in here at three in the morning to ask if they were done,” Cameron said with a laugh.
“Why, is that like him?”
“Very like him.”
With that, I stood and quickly got dressed. Brushing my hair and teeth took less time than I thought, so after I signed the corner of the canvas I even had time for a quick toast before Lee and Willie arrived with too much gusto for so early in the morning.
“You two look dead,” Cameron noted.
I was glad I didn’t say it, because Willie shot him a stern look. Lee, on the other hand, looked apologetic. He came up to me and pulled me aside as Cameron and Willie discussed something on the other side of the room.
“So? How do they look?” he asked me anxiously.
“Cameron says they look great,” I told him. “But come see for yourself.”
We’d removed some art from the walls in the hallway to put the three canvases up to dry. I brought Lee there and he gasped.
“That’s amazing! I think Willie will like it too, even with that stick up his-”
“That stick up my arse?” Willie asked, startling both of us. Cameron was behind him, but slipped past to come stand beside me with an arm around my waist. Lee looked bashful, but Willie ignored him in favour of the canvases.
‘This isn’t the Louvre,’ I said to myself as he critiqued the first painting.
The second had a more dramatic feel to it, but it was the third painting that caught Willie’s attention. He turned to us and nodded. “This one.”
“That’s that, then,” Cameron said. “Give this to Geoff and tell him to get it to his man.”
Lee delicately took the painting in his hands and lifted it off the wall, walking behind Willie. He glanced back at me and winked, I smiled in return.
We saw them both to the door but once they’d left, I hugged Cameron tight. “That was nerve-racking.”
“Was it?” he chuckled. “I suppose Willie can be like that sometimes, but I’ve known him so long I barely notice it anymore.”
“Well, I respect your... whatever-it-is for him, but right now, I’m glad he’s gone,” I said with a chuckle.
Cameron laughed and hugged me closer to him. “I can understand that.”
We laughed for a moment until my gaze fell to the two rejected paintings. "What will we do with these?" I asked.
"We'll decorate with them."
--
Part 12
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CINEMA (WORKING TITLE)
1. THE PHONE CALL
Ray had just woken up from the bed in the morning. He brushed up his teeth. Then he prepared a cup of tea at the kitchen of his Chandigarh apartment. Then he came to his room and opened the laptop. He was clueless about what to do since his 5th novel just got released. Now he was planning to work on his sixth one. He had the idea in his mind. It was slowly taking a shape for the last few days. However, he was listening to a soothing music, when a phone call from a lady came at around 7 o’clock.
- Hello.
- Yes. Who is this?
- Good Evening.
- Good Morning!
- I’m calling from California.
- Yes tell me.
- My name is Stella. Is this Ray?
- Yes.
- Okay. I have read your blog.
- (Excited) Okay, how was it?
- It’s great indeed!
- Thanks!
- Yes, now I have a proposal for you.
- And what is that?
- Can you write a cinematic novel out of your poems?
- (Excited) Yes I was exactly thinking about that!
- Yes, I know you can do it. I will fund this project.
- Some poems are in Bengali?
- I know I have read them too with the help of a translator.
- But I have a question.
- Okay.
- Why are you interested in this project?
- Because I am interested in male psychology.
- I am also interested in female psychology.
- So, are you gonna do it?
- Yes, of course. But I have another question.
- Yes tell me.
- Who will direct the movie?
- Of course you.
- Yes, I won’t give it to anybody.
- But on one condition.
- I hate conditions!
- Listen to me first.
- Okay, tell me.
- Yes, you won’t put name of any brand in your writing as you did in your previous novel.
- That’s exactly what I want now.
- Yes, it has to be pure.
- And I won’t give it to anybody to direct.
- I know. How could you? They are your people.
- Are you gonna come to India to meet me?
- Yes.
- When?
- I’ll tell you soon.
- Okay, I will wait for your call.
- Thanks, bye bye.
- Bye.
- Take care!
- You too!
This was great indeed. Ray felt excited. He was now waiting for the call and thinking about how to plot the story. He finished the cup of tea and phoned his parents in Kolkata as he does every morning.
2. THE IDEA
After a long time Ray browsed through his Bengali blog. He put most of his diaries on this blog. The poems, he used to write on these diaries, were actually mere documentation of his feelings. He wrote poems always as a method of catharsis since the day his father taught him how to write poems. He still remembered the incident of his first faulty rhyme. His father before going for shopping told him how to rhyme. He simply collected some lines from his text book that ends with the same sound and put it together one by one. When his father returned, he showed him that. His father told him that he had to devise his own lines. This was the beginning of the journey. He did not remember what his first poem was since he discarded many poems as he did not like it. But the first diary was still there. In the beginning he had a habit of writing anywhere. But then his father gave him a diary. That was his first diary. He was mostly driven by his father’s teachings and girl friends that aroused feelings in his heart. In the primary school he had a special relationship with a girl Nabanita. She left because of her father’s transferable job. However, that time the media was not so connected and his father did not allow him to get too much influenced by the television. So his relationship with Nabanita was pure and platonic. After primary school, as Nabanita left, he got closer to another beautiful girl Madhurima. She was his main inspiration behind the first diary. His family had a close relation with their family. She was pretty indeed. But he never told him that he wrote poems getting inspired by her since he was afraid of his father. However, this girl had a tendency to play with the mind of other boys. He even fled with a tall boy, and her family rejected him afterwards. But Ray’s father taught him literature. So his feelings were really restricted within poems. He cherished the beauty and kept on writing and fell in love with poems. That was the beginning and till now it was going on. But as Stella asked him he was really brainstorming how to put the poems in a cinematic way. Let’s try some tools of cinema. He thought of montage. But it was not suitable for a poetic treatment. Poems could not be treated as playback since it was unlike songs. Mise-en-scene was the only way to deal with poems. Since she told him for a poetic treatment, she thought when he would make the movie; he would do it like Tarkovsky. ‘But let’s first write the novel’ – he thought. He always wrote poems in rhyme except a few in prosaic styles. After a long time he found a way to start the novel. The senses of the Bengali poems would be translated in English. The rhyme form might have been lost. And then he would describe his fantasies around the poem that could be shot. That would be the best way to write this novel he thought. Next morning Stella phoned again.
- Hello, this is Stella here.
- Yes, yes I have saved your number.
- Okay. Did you find a way out?
- Yes, but it’ll take time since I have to translate the Bengali poems.
- Yes, that’s true.
- But only the senses will be translated since it’s very difficult to translate the rhyme as it is.
- Yes, I know. Every language has its own sound and that cannot be translated.
- Hmm.
- I have a surprise for you.
- I’ll transfer a decent amount as advance to your account.
- Okay.
- Tell me how you want to receive it.
- I’ll send you a link. Tell me the amount.
After that Stella told him about the amount and he sent a request online. And the amount got credited soon.
3. THE POEM ‘ARRIVAL’
The earth is dancing, the sky is dancing,
My heart is dancing.
I’m getting unstable by shaking it
With flower.
The river is babbling.
The butterfly is calling.
In the dawn to bathe
The holy girl is going.
The sky is very red.
The flower is getting relaxed.
The bees are drinking honey
Making their heart satiated.
Meanwhile the holidays
For one month is coming slowly.
On the raft the goddess
Is flying in slowly.
Relieving all the Goddess Madhurima
Is coming in.
Because of that I’m
So impatient.
4. THE FANTASY OF ‘ARRIVAL’
After writing this poem, he felt to fly with Madhurima across the sky. Then after coming down on the earth, he wanted to hug her. Then he wanted to go far away from the town. Then he wanted to touch her. After that he wanted to sleep with her in the catkin bush hiding from the nonsense of the crowd of the small town.
5. THE POEM ‘IN THE GREED OF PUJO’
The ‘Pujo’ is coming The catkins are dancing
Just look at that.
In the desire of honey The Shefali flowers
Falling on the ground.
The birds are flying The river is flowing
It’s the time of autumn fair.
You and me Are playing only
The game of stealing mind.
I caress the dream Inside my mind
They may not come true.
Amid the Pujo We will again build
The days of dreams.
6. THE FANTASY OF ‘IN THE GREED OF PUJO’
He wrote the poem before the famous festival of Bengal. Everybody buys new clothes during this time. The relatives gift new clothes this time. And the lovers dream to be together this time. So he wanted to travel from pandal to pandal with Madhurima. But that time the society was too conservative. Every decent couple was scared of the old people. So they could not be together during the Pujo. But they wanted to travel from pandal to pandal together.
7. THE SPLIT RHYMES OF NEW YEAR
7.1 Amid the falling leaves
The new sun is rising.
See in the whole world
The New Year is waking.
7.2. Wish in the New Year
All is well.
Let’s call the light
Of New Sun.
7.3 On the new day the new card
I am sending to you.
Wish the new love with the new
Become fulfilled.
7.4 Wish the dream of staying well
Be mixed up with you.
Wish our adda become
More happening in the form of new.
7.5 Wetting it in syrup of love
I give you the letter.
Let the attire of friendship be dazzled
In the new year.
7.6 Forgetting all, opening up the heart,
Knowing only the new,
I give you all my love
Only to you.
8. THE FANTASY OF THE NEW YEAR
It was new year. So the poems naturally celebrated the new and the new love. He wanted to refresh their love. He used to design greeting cards cutting the art paper and drawing cartoons on it. And then he used to gift to her and all his friends. So, he gifted a card to her expecting to refresh his hidden desire.
9. THE POEM ‘SILENT LOVE’
On that side blooming a white rose
A tree is giving its look.
On this side there is a bee hive
And the bees are singing with hazy tone.
When it’s dawn, the bees go to the tree
Dancing with the queen.
The mindboggling smell of flower –
The bell of heart starts ringing.
He wants to say something.
But he hides his face from the flower.
He goes time and again and comes back.
The mind is dreamful.
He thinks too far –
How to tell the flower what he thinks.
Probably the flower’s mind also swings
On the lap of bee’s imagination.
The tale of this intense love –
Who will tell by any chance?
Who will tell? Who will tell?
Who will tell unmindfully?
10. THE FANTASY OF ‘SILENT LOVE’
Actually this poem he wrote since he could not tell her that he was in love with her. So he used to go to her every day. He used to play with her. But he could never tell her that he was in love with her. She also did not know what love was actually. She enjoyed playing with her. But it was the innocence of puberty that attracted both of them towards each other. But they did not know what to say. They were crazy to be fused with each other. But they were scared and unmindful.
11. THE POEM ‘LET IT BE SALTY’
In the teen if the touch comes in,
The touch of falling in love and coming close,
‘I’ll sit by you, I’ll come close to you’- if the mind thinks,
They stick to each other, and they will not listen to anyone.
People say, ‘O my god, the brat is totally spoiled’.
The brat says, ‘Damn it! I have just started to taste it’.
The age says ‘Leave the lecture, this is our demand.’
‘Just fifteen – how can we forget the new fun?’
This is true, this is true – the glue of raw jackfruit!
Is it so easy to remove even if you make the dog lick?
The dog also follows rule, the tether is true.
But this brat continues to dance on the rope of love.
The green tamarind is so sour – you eat with salt.
So let it be a little more, even if it’s the raw age.
The raw age is very sour; so salt is inevitable.
Let the love be salty; what’s so harmful in it?
This love may not stay in the old age.
So the memory should stay there as the heart wants.
A little bit of sweet meat, who wants to eat?
Let the small memory be salty –only it will be tasty then.
12. THE FANTASY OF ‘LET IT BE SALTY’
This poem was written after he read a novel of Bankim, where the old writer was describing how it felt to cherish the memory of teenage love. He was totally influenced by that novel. His uncle gifted it to him. So he wrote this poem to forget the pain of not being able to disclose the love to her girl friend. He forgot the pain temporarily by reading Bankim.
13. THE POEM ‘LOVE BEGGAR’
All the secrets
I’ll pour off.
I’ll forsake the shame.
Pull me close
And give me love
Full of your heart.
I want love.
I want madness.
I am mad for you.
Give me love,
Only love.
You just give it to me.
Squeeze me with your
Naked hands and
Blood red lips.
Whatever I have
Snatch it all
And give me your love.
If I get love
I’ll go and
I’ll leave all.
I’ll go to the land of sun,
Where the dream oozes.
14. THE FANTASY OF ‘LOVE BEGGAR’
He was crazy for her girl friend. He wanted to leave home with her. He wanted to go to someplace else far away from the daily life. Dreams that defy the reality he wrote as this poem. He wanted to go to somewhere, where there will be no disturbance to dream big. But he never wanted to be alone. He wanted to explore dreams that were unreachable for the reality. He was impatient to get her girl friend. He was telling himself that he could do anything to get her as a life partner. But he was clueless under the blue sky like a beggar. He was begging for her love.
15. THE POEM ‘BUTTERFLY’
Butterfly The showy colours of your wings,
The style of yours on the flowers,
Are too sweet.
At your eyes I put my eyes
And there is the rain of
Happiness.
Butterfly Looking at you
I feel calm and
I keep on dreaming.
I lose my way suddenly,
The chariot of mirth full of
The smell of love
Flies in my heart.
Butterfly Your dazzling dance
And the makeup on the flower –
Make me hypnotized.
I see you and I think where
Is the key of your mind.
I feel like opening the lock.
Butterfly On your breast the music is dormant.
My heart floods with emotion -
The sight of your eyes.
When your heart dances
The new song of love
Gets created.
Butterfly On your wing the new song
Makes my heart filled
With the sweet smell of honey.
My mind wants you
Loving you all the time
In the rhyme of love.
Butterfly Your heart and my mind
Will stay together forever
Looking at the world.
Faraway there the sky floats on air
Starry eyes come to see.
Along with our heart.
16. THE FANTASY OF ‘BUTTERFLY’
Her nickname was butterfly. He used to call her with this name. He used to cherish looking at her. Every time he looked at her, his heart used to become full of emotions. He used to think of how to praise her. Thus he wrote this poem.
17. THE POEM ‘FIRST MEETING’
Going along without goal
Suddenly I saw on the way
Standing, who are you?
The moon like face of yours
From my heart everything
Just squeezes away.
The soft smile of your red lips –
The love flute plays in heart –
Please tell me who you are.
Who is this enchantress of the dreamland?
At the first glimpse,
She snatched my heart.
With soft eyes and polite smile
You looked at me with love.
-only seeing that
I am flooded with love tide.
So with stormy heart
I am looking for you.
18. THE FANTASY OF ‘FIRST MEETING’
It was a complete imagination. Though he met her before and played with her before and gossiped with her before, he dreamt of a dream date with her. And that reflects in the poem. It was a dream to meet her as for the first time.
19. THE POEM ‘THE FIRST’
The known eyes are lost.
Nobody knows where.
Yet, in the dream in every morning and evening
They call me.
At the warm red lips
And vibrating cheeks
The heart got stuck
Many days back.
In this life I can’t forget
The enchantress.
For her there’s this touch of love
And dreamful pain.
For her the dreamy seven hues
Fall on the heart
And makes it crazy, mad
And dizzy very often.
With the rhyme of honey
And sweet smell, she came close.
In the mind that comes
Every time with illusion.
I love that sweet smile
Till now during spare time.
All pain gets relieved because of
That memory.
Who will understand and who will make me understand why the mind is shaky.
The heart is still wet with
The juice of first love.
20. THE FANTASY OF ‘THE FIRST’
He was writing this poem in Kolkata sitting at a mess. By this time he joined a reputed college in Kolkata for higher studies. He left his home. But he would go frequently to his home town so that he could meet her again. This was starting of getting distant from her. Far away from home he missed her too much and always he would be eager to go back home just to see her. This first love would make her completely homesick.
21: THE POEM ‘DREAM’
You are the hope of weary mind;
Without you active eyes are blind.
You always smear pale faces with freshness;
You are the love of minds, vexed and hopeless.
You give both eyes a new happy sight,
You are the mirth and sorrow at midnight.
I feel crazy to cuddle you turning off lights;
I find lost songs in you every day and night.
Only you can allay my heart's agonies,
You are the elixir, I love you like a beast.
22. THE FANTASY OF ‘DREAM’
He felt lonely out there in the big city. He was uncertain about his future. So he was clueless about how go back to her girl friend. He was anxious about losing her any day. So he was trying to relax himself. On one hand there was his girl friend and on the other hand there was his dream. This was the time when these two emotions started clashing with each other. It was not about choosing one among them. It was about how to handle these two. So since he missed her and also he dreamt about her every day, he wrote this poem. This was very critical to understand this poem. Very precisely in her absence, he surrendered to his dream. It was like meditating in the crowded lonely city. When nothing was there, he had his dream.
23. THE POEM ‘I JUST LOVE YOU’
Amorous butterfly you have come
And stood before me.
Seeing you the harp of my heart
Is playing loudly.
Suave smile, white face
And bright eyes
Make me mad.
So sweet is your frown.
You are sweet, you are the creation.
Seeing you I feel happy.
I see you there and in dream.
I feel so happy.
So for words of your red lips
I come time and again.
Forgetting everything, opening heart
I just love you.
24. THE FANTASY OF ‘I JUST LOVE YOU’
He returned home in a vacation. Again he saw her out there. But he was afraid to approach her. The distance by now had grown more. She used to go by their house. She used sit on the culvert in front of her house. He used to sit with his friends. Everybody wanted to know his feelings. But the distance started to grow more. He understood that slowly she was going away from him. But she did not want it. He did not want it. But he could not tell it to her too because he had to score good in the examinations. And love was seen as a poison for concentration. But he could not tell anybody that he needed her to score good marks in the examinations. Since for more than seven years she inspired him to write poems and scoring good marks in the examinations. So her absence and his shy mind made everything impossible for him. He just could not reveal it to anybody.
25. THE PEOM ‘AT YOU’
I came to your heart
With a lot of hope,
As the Autumn clouds
Float on the sky.
To me your eyes
Are a wonder
You are more beautiful
Than the flower I guess.
I have travelled a lot.
I stopped at you.
Don’t refuse. Please call me
At you.
26. THE FANTASY OF ‘AT YOU’
This poem he wrote after returning from home having failed to tell her about his desire. So this was the beginning of his insecurity complex. The idea that his father would retire from job soon and he had to stand on his own feet made him totally insecure in the lonely city. Though his relatives were there in the city, he could not feel homely since they remained busy with their jobs. Only a retired maternal aunty used to call her at her place time and again. He used to argue about the world order with her husband. But whenever he met any new girl, he thought that he was not suitable for her for either she was too beautiful and had a great future or she was from a social background that could not be afforded by him.
27. THE POEM ‘TO YOU’
With a little make up and smile
You looked at me.
Seeing you for a moment
I look for your face
Here and there.
At your gestures and postures
I am mad and crazy.
So, I keep hope and
I scoot to you
Asking for your heart.
At your song and your ego
The dam of my mind gets broken.
Losing track in wild forest,
I scout for your eye balls
Madly.
The flower is your friend.
You are butterfly amazing.
Will you feel angry
If I look at you
A little bit more?
28. THE FANTASY OF ‘TO YOU’
Again he could not see her because of the distance. He wanted to see her face that used to relax her. But there was no other way out to go to her except during the vacation. Even the higher study made him too busy. He started watching movies in cheap theatres. He started visiting his relatives’. But nothing satisfied him. He used to pack his bag six months before any vacation. It was simply unimaginable for any practical human being. But he was that homesick. He was crazy for her. He was anxious for his career. His heart was pounding every second for her.
29. THE SPIT RHYMES
29.1 The boat of love swings slowly
On the blue sky.
My mind has been lost
To the butterfly.
29.2 The seven hues are calling
Tearing the breasts of blue.
Let my heart be lost
In the ocean of love.
29.3 I will come close, I will sit by you
And I will smile.
I have become too ardent
Loving you.
29.4 For whom I do so many things,
She does not care.
Others only show consolation
That’s not fare.
29.5 I see in wonder
How two of your eyes
Make me purblind.
29.6 The heart swings inside chest.
The emotion of love gets spilled
On the crazy mind.
Looking at you for a moment
The flute of mirth is playing
In silent heartshire.
29.7 They know we are uncontrollable
We are dangerous.
The great lord got vanished
Because of us.
29.8 Two of our tiny hearts
Might be too close.
Yet, there must be a distance of
Rustic tune.
29.9 My dreams float like a cloud
Inside your eyes.
They smile with the tune of love.
The ignorant mind gets lost
Loving you forever.
29.10 The shadow of mirth, the warm illusion
And the colours dreamful
Hit my heart and makes
My heart crazy.
29.11 Time and again, round and round
The illusion of memory
Fill my heart and makes me
Forget all the give-and-takes.
30. THE FANTASY OF ‘SPLIT RHYMES’
This was written again, when he returned home for a vacation in 2003, which means he was in the final year of his Physics Honours course. He saw her again but from a distance. He was now clueless about what to do. So he was writing split rhymes to create an illusion of happiness within himself. At the same time he did not believe in god since first he was a student of Physics and second his father told him there would be no god to save you when you grew old. So it was better to work hard for a safe future. This is the beginning of the illusions that he would keep on creating from now onwards – a futile effort to keep the happiness intact inside by means of illusions that would keep on breaking and getting built up inside the mind time and again.
31. THE POEM ‘EAGER’
In the limit of limitless sky
On the thinking boat of love ocean
Floating with the crazy mind
Let my heart find the love.
Let my heart float away
Anywhere today.
Crazy in happiness,
Warm touch and warm stream,
The cold body is all screwed
After the hug.
Let my heart float away
Anywhere today.
Leaving all the shyness,
Shaking the shape of body,
Let the moony night
Find the warmth again.
Let my heart float away
Anywhere today.
Let it go to hell today.
Let it be lost with a love-tune.
At the limitless horizon
There’s the call of seven notes.
Let my heart float away
Anywhere today.
32. THE FANTASY OF ‘EAGER’
This was a flash back poem, written in 2002. But he posted it on the blog after the ‘Split Rhymes’ that were written in 2003. Now he wanted to have sex with her at night, especially a moony night. He wanted to hug her and feel the fragrance of her body. This was the result of his desire to get fused with her at a moon lit night. This was the manifestation of his pure sexual desire that he would hide from the society. So, yes, the fantasy of the poem was certainly having a holy alfresco sex with her under the moon. He would write this kind of poems time and again whenever he felt the urge.
31. THE POEM ‘ONLY YOU’
Let the night come, if it really wants to fall.
The smile of your red lips will flash in moon light.
The bright eyes are as if the flame of revolution.
Looking at those I’ll tell the words of my heart.
You are there at every nook and corner of my heart.
I just think when I’ll be able to reach your heart.
I beg of you to give me a place at your heart.
Take my love filling your heart fully.
Today a pair of lips told you the words of my heart.
Are your red lips gonna tell everything is futile?
If it happens so, just know that I’m gonna die!
I could not win your heart – that’s the defeat.
32. FANTASY OF ‘ONLY YOU’
This poem was suicidal. He was getting scared sitting far away from home that he would certainly lose her. So he was declaring his defeat.Nothing was more important to him now than her. He was giving a hint of committing suicide. But nobody read the poem. It should have been read by her. But that was not possible. So he was rolling the life with dwindling hope and amplified doubt. This would make him skeptical about the intentions of girls. This would result misunderstanding the girls soon. By this time he was studying in a boys’ college. But he was extremely introvert especially about her hidden desire towards girls. He would discuss about world order loudly with his peers. But he would not share his fantasy for girls with anybody. It would reflect only in his poems that nobody till then read.
33. THE POEM ‘I’VE LOVED’
I’ve loved you my dear.
I’ve loved you.
You’ve played me. So
I’ve loved you.
You’ve got the crazy fragrance
Of my disheveled hair.
You’ve slipped upon my
Suave beauty and
Thus you’ve aerated my heart.
You’ve seen my beauty.
You’ve got my soft touch.
With all the madness
Your heart got the mirth.
Whatever I have,
I’ve given you all.
You’ve played me. So
I’ve loved you.
34. THE FANTASY OF ‘I’VE LOVED’
This was an important poem. In his childhood his father made him a member of the local library, where he got introduced to some women writers. He read about feminism. He read about women by women. Now he was recalling them. The colourful teenage made him quite mature about women at a very early stage of life. So he could not be a feminist since he had experienced close contact with girls including his girlfriend before. Except Madhurima he had some other girls as his friends. However, now sitting far away from home, he was trying to understand what Madhurima could feel about him. Thus the poem got created. He wrote on behalf of her. He tried to imagine her feelings. He tried to put himself in her shoe psychologically.
35. THE POEM ‘LOVE MEANS…’
Can "You-are-mine-and-I-am-yours"
Strengthen the love-bond?
Love means all are close
You and I are vagabonds.
36. THE FANTASY OF ‘LOVE MEANS …’
In heart he felt like a vagabond or mendicant. He wanted to travel to unknown lands with her girl friend and meet new people. This is the imagination. But in reality he was travelling alone - sometimes with his friends, sometimes with his relatives, sometimes with his parents; but never with his girl friend -thus the poem.
37. THE POEM ‘THE SPARROW’
A sparrow has just learnt to fly.
She starts her new life by throwing
The chirp of freedom to the blue sky.
One day she goes out to make a new nest.
In the dusk, she gets a shelter inside a hole
Of a big tree bent over a small pond.
When the sky shows its reddish dawn-soul,
She wakes the tree up.
A tiny shiny fish moves up and down there
In the water of the pond; the tree sees and smiles.
As the sparrow joins, today they feel happier.
At the arrival of a new friend they become cheerful.
All are excited and joyful.
The time becomes ruthless suddenly.
The tree that gives flowers and fruits all the time
Is relieved of life untimely.
The pond is filled by soil in no time.
Alas! Where is the tree and where is the fish?
All is buried now in the darkness of time.
The helpless sparrow starts her journey again.
Now she comes to a nearby city. There
In a huge palace inside a small hole
She builds her nest; she cannot get her share
Of left-over food there any more since
The number of beggars keeps increasing.
She cannot tolerate the pain of life there.
She starts flying madly to find a shelter.
She gets irritated by the shrill sound and smoke
Of factories and cars.
At last she gets a permanent shelter.
While flying through the city, she gets hit by a bus.
She sleeps forever on the dust.
She gets fused with this huge earth.
38. THE FANTASY OF ‘THE SPARROW’
By this time he wrote quite a number of poems and read more than that. This poem was a result of his reading poems vividly and the benevolence taught by his father. This had nothing to do with his girl friend. It was a poem that he wrote to practice his writing skill. And this was probably the first poem that he wrote in a prosaic style. That’s it.
39. THE POEM ‘NEW YEAR FROM FAR AWAY’
Remember our tales.
Remember our pains.
Many words of heart and mind
Of the lost hundred days,
In the ray of New Year,
Let’s celebrate again.
With all these now we will talk
Through letters.
40. THE FANTASY OF ‘NEW YEAR FROM FAR AWAY’
This is a poem for Easa, another girl, who was his classmate and now she was staying in Odisha for higher study. They used to send letters to each other. She was a good student. So, he wrote this poem for her.
41. THE POEM ‘GO THE WAY YOU SHOULD’
The eastern sky is calling now.
Keep walking my friends.
Rain or storm,Happy or sad,
The morn or eve -whatever it is -
Let’s go ahead my friends.
Don’t look back even for once.
See the tinge of red.
The scarlet sky is calling you.
The horizon is radiant.
Look ahead my friends.
Even if you find no one now,
Go alone my friend.
In severe pain, with eyes aflame,
Just don’t be upset.
Let’s go ahead my friends.
All the words that are unsaid
Speak out my friends.
All the slogans that ring inside-
Now and then-
Shout out my friends.
Let the hindrance come closer.
Why to be so afraid?
The sound of conch is out there
Amidst the shocking deaths.
Cross each turn with your head
Held high my friends.
42. FANTASY OF ‘GO THE WAY YOU SHOULD’
He was now writing letters to Easa regularly. But he was not in love with her. She was a good friend from his home town. Opposites always attract. So it was kind of that – a good friend of opposite sex. By her letters he was trying to reduce the inner pain that he could not share with anyone. He was fed up with Madhurima since he felt ‘enough is enough’ kind of emotion inside. He was unable to bear the pain anymore. He would feel this emotion afterwards also and this emotion would produce some of the poems later. So he wanted to cheer up himself by writing this poem.
43. THE POEM ‘GO AHEAD’
Losing way in dense forest
Looking at bereft heart
The mind gets burnt.
Leaving the nostalgia
Go ahead towards the light.
The address will be found.
You are not the only one, who lost the way.
There are many talents like you –
You’ll find there ahead.
Let the mountains and rivers come.
Keep going my friend.
The dream will be found.
Don’t be afraid of the unknown.
Keep no hesitation
While going ahead.
On the way in the mud
If you fall and get stuck,
Call the unknown.
Forgetting all the pain
With the light of free mind
Go ahead all of you.
Leaving the nostalgia
Go ahead towards the light.
The address will be found.
44. FANTASY OF ‘GO AHEAD’
He wrote this poem, when he dreamt big. He wanted to face the unknown people and unknown places. That was his father’s lesson. His father told him to prepare for struggle. His father told him that life is a struggle. If he does not study well, he won’t be able to travel places. So listening to his father’s words, he wrote this poem. All you needed a pen and paper to dream big. So this poem was a dream that he saw from his study through the window towards the culvert where the pretty girl used to come and sit.
45. THE PHONE CALL
After a few days when he was feeling tired of writing, Stella phoned him in a morning. She said,
- Good evening!
- Good Morning!
- How do you do?
- I’m fine, just a bit tired of writing.
- I know that’s quite natural.
- Yes.
- Can you do one thing?
- What?
- Mail me whatever you have written so far.
- Okay.
- Actually I am really eager to see what you have done. It must be interesting.
- I don’t know.
- Okay fine. Just send me the write-up and take rest for some days. I’ll text you my email id.
- Okay.
- Take care. Bye bye.
- You too. Bye.
After a few seconds of the conversation, Stella texted her email id. And he forwarded a soft copy to her. Then he phoned his parents since it was the time of pandemic and lockdown. Then he prepared his breakfast and had coffee with it. He did some office works from home. In the evening he went for a stroll in the park. He phoned his friends. Then at night he slept after talking to his parents over phone. Next morning Stella phoned him again,
- Good evening.
- Good Morning.
- I read your draft.
- Really!
- Yes.
- How is it?
- Pretty unique and unconventional.
- Thanks!
- But you skipped some poems written in 2001 I guess.
- Yes, it’s not complete yet. Some of the poems have similar fantasies…
- No no! I want to know all the fantasies. Don’t skip any single poem.
- Okay, I’ll do something about it.
- Yes please. Did you have your breakfast?
- No.
- What are you gonna have?
- Butter toasts, coffee, orange and banana.
- You should take eggs also.
- Yes usually I take that. But I am scared for the situation of lockdown. So we have become a little bit of economical now.
- Okay.
- Who were there in your family?
- My parents and my sister.
- Did she get married?
- Yes.
- Okay. Where do they stay?
- They stay in Kolkata. I mean Calcutta according to British pronunciation.
- Yes, I know. And where do you stay?
- I stay in Chandigarh.
- Okay. That’s nice.
- Won’t you ask how big the apartment is or what is the cost of bearing me as a producer?
- (Smile) No, I am not that kind of a lady! My purpose of asking you these questions was just to make you feel relaxed. I know what you deserve. These queries have nothing to do with our deal.
- Okay.
- Now listen to me carefully.
- Okay.
- You keep writing. After the lockdown my manager will come to India to sign a contract with you.
- Yes that’s better since I do a job.
- Yes and if you need more money, just write to me.
- I don’t write for money.
- I know dear. But money is necessary. Keep it up. Goodbye!
- Goodbye.
She cut the phone. He went to prepare breakfast. But his brain became active again. He was thinking about how to incorporate the skipped poems in the draft.
- ary. Keep it up. Goodbye!
- Goodbye.
She cut the phone. He went to prepare breakfast. But his brain became active again. He was thinking about how to incorporate the skipped poems in the draft.
46. DOWN THE MEMORY LANE
Summer was knocking at the door. Here in Chandigarh the summer is always horrible. It reaches at least 46 degree Celsius every year. It makes everyone suffer a lot every year. However, till now the weather was okay. So he was scared about the summer. Yet, he woke up in the morning. The sun ray was coming through his window. It was no longer pleasant and it had started to show its might slowly. So far the sun was enjoyable. He used to slide the curtain to open his window every morning. But he could not do it anymore. Now it had started to become hotter. This year he would definitely buy an air conditioner. But he had a doubt about what would happen post lockdown. He might get a better job with a better package. In that case all these gadgets like washing machine, geyser, air conditioner, television would be a burden. So till now he was living with minimum gadgets. However, the warm sun was rising behind the buildings hinting a dry followed by a sultry summer. And he was having a cup of tea. After writing a chapter he would prepare his breakfast. After spending a whole day for thinking about an idea about how to include the previous poems he could not get anything new. So he decided to stick to the grammar of cinema. A cut away would be a nice choice he thought. ‘So let’s cut away down the memory lane’, he thought. The name of the next poem was ‘During the Pujo’. Pujo was a huge festival in Bengal. And everyone liked this festival. So he would also enjoy the festival. Every year during this time he would get excited to mingle with people and have fun. Everybody did that. Precisely no body participated in this festival as a religious being. He participated in all the festivals like Pujo, Eid, Muharram, Christmas etc. But he never followed any rituals but eating since he was not encouraged by his father to do so. His father never told him not to go to the festivals. But he said that every progressive idea helped toward a better world. So he was too innocent to understand the propaganda behind these festivals. Now he knew it while writing this draft. He would translate the poems related to festivals. But it had nothing to do with religions, especially the organised propagandist divisive ones. He was taught to celebrate festivals but not the rituals that would culminate to division of humanity and civil war. That’s never accepted. Now he felt that all festivals could be there without the propaganda behind it. That had to be removed at any cost. He liked humanity, festivals, celebrations, parties. He would go to anywhere to attend any festivals. But he would not follow the rituals that were connected to propaganda and controlled by a particular religion. In fact he felt that people should have worked together to remove the religions from the festivals. Then everything would have been alright.
47. THE POEM ‘DURING THE PUJO’
I will be here during this festival.
I will be nearby.
I will see how much you can dress up.
I will see how much you can smile.
I will see who looks better -
The goddess or you.
May be I said something too much.
Forgive me, forgive me dear!
If you cannot do it,
You rather be angry.
I will see you from a distance.
I will see how you look.
The light of moon beam on pink face –
That’s also not so bad.
48. FANTASY OF ‘DURING THE PUJO’
He was studying in a high school and the festival was coming. He was excited to see his girl friend in new attire. He wanted to see her from a distance since he could not propose her till now. He was afraid of her. He always thought what would be her reaction – positive or negative – in case he proposed her. He was not prepared to take no for an answer. And he was scared of his father. So he always thought twice before committing any nuisance. So he wrote this poem as if he was prodding her with words on the culvert where they met almost every day.
49. THE POEM ‘TOMORROW’
Through every vein of mine
Sending the warm flowing addiction,
You are living happily.
You thought I’d get addicted
And stay dizzy as always.
Probably I am like that today.
But did you think that forever
I’d stay like this?
You did a blunder if you had thought so.
The poison that you injected into me
Is eating up me now slowly.
It has burnt and provoked me
Like an angry tigress.
Today I am excited.
I am clad with the fire of revenge.
You thought you would sleep quiet
In the light of falling afternoon.
And you would stay happily.
I’ll not allow that.
In the high summer
On the dry desert
On the great pyre
Slowly I’ll burn you
Bit by bit.
With poison I’ll burn your body.
Then I’ll throw your body
On the burning chest of hot sun.
The hunger of the history
Will be satiated then.
50. FANTASY OF ‘TOMORROW’
This poem was the result of many things. He was studying in class eleven. In the morning with his father he used to hear German Bengali, Chinese Bengali and British Bengali radio news. And he used to discuss those with his father and friends. Then he used to play with his girl friend. Since then he was worried about the downtrodden people of the world. By this time he read Hegel, Feuerbach, and thus Marx. He read an English version of Das Kapital. As a result he conceived of the future world. This poem was about a revenge that symbolised a world after revolution or any other radical change.
51. THE POEM ‘FOR LOOKING AT HER AT ONCE THE FIRE OF LOVE’S BEEN KINDLED AT THE HEART’
Why did you look at me
That way for a moment?
Crazy is my heart dear
And I’ve become mad for you.
I’m mad, I’m eager.
The heart is having a storm.
Where’ve you been lost dear?
Take me back at your heart
I can’t bear it anymore.
For the soft touch of your eyes
I’ve lost my whole memory
But your presence there.
With the touch of your red lips
At your soft naked eyes
I’ve surrendered my heart.
I’ve surrendered to you.
I’m mad for you.
So I rush to you.
Just sit by me and I’ll tell
That I love you.
52. FANTASY OF ‘FOR LOOKING AT HER AT ONCE THE FIRE OF LOVE’S BEEN KINDLED AT THE HEART’
This was again the desire to be closer to her. He was looking at her every day. Now he wanted to kiss her openly at the place where they used to meet every day. Closer and closer he wanted to come. But it was not possible at a conservative society for a young boy of reputation. On one hand the desire, on another hand the society. Kissing openly in public was considered vulgar in India. But that was exactly what he wanted to do. Just a kiss under the afternoon sun and everything would have been solved.
53. THE POEM ‘OUR TALE’
The conspiracy of pain -
All the consolations are false.
We’ve heard enough theory
About life.
We’ve seen a lot of pain.
We’ve seen people dying.
They’re fighting against hunger.
Yet, the heart is full of hope.
So many scars at the heart
We’ve kept intact like gun powder;
When it is kindled,
The horizon will be burnt.
But the sun will rise again.
Don’t give up my friend!
Hold the tether tight.
The sun is hot and blooming.
53. FANTASY OF ‘OUR TALE’
This was the real story of them, which means the boy friends. They did not like to study. They did not want to hear any sophisticated theory about life. They were hopeless. They were impulse driven. They wanted ready-made solution about their future and career. So they were giving a damn to the establishment. They were watching pornography. They were shouting aloud at the adda. They were dismissing all the theories. They had become complete cynics. But he ended the poem with a hope as he always did. Again he even did not show this poem to his friends. He was so possessive about his poems. At that age he did not know the reason. Now he realised that he was introvert about his poems since the origin of it was mainly his girl friend. He grabbed his poems so tight as if they were his girl friend.
54. THE POEM ‘THE RACE OF BRAWLERS’
A shabby cottage with thousands of holes on the roof,
Everything inside is visible with a little effort,
It’s more if it’s called a house, it’s even more, if it’s called a cottage –
Just like a house of cards or a brittle bottle.
It’s monsoon. So it’s going to fall soon.
After that there will only be sky over the head.
No income - without food they spend the days.
They have nothing, but the naked child has clay at least.
With the clay he builds up mountains and cuts the river before
Along with the memory of grass flower that he saw somewhere
In the imagination his tiny mountain is much bigger.
Beneath the mountain there are many boulders.
His mother sat to cut the stones on the lap of barren mountain.
He is playing with the thin grasses with full concentration.
He is smiling at her mother. The mother is smiling at him.
Suddenly someone cries aloud, and the smile is gone.
The mother’s eyes are wet and blood trickles from her hand.
The little child without getting it starts to cry aloud.
Unmindfully her hand got thrashed by the hammer.
The fancy traveller gets irritated and calls her the race of brawlers.
55. FANTASY OF ‘THE RACE OF BRAWLERS’
This was poem completely driven by his altruist philosophy. By reading philanthropic philosophies he discovered his hidden sympathy for the downtrodden class. And he used to visit mountainous Bhutan often for picnic or travelling. There he saw these workers cutting the rocks. So he fantasised this poem.
56. THE POEM ‘LOVE’
Catkins get a swing.
The flower Shefali wakes.
Unknown jungle birds
Are chirping here and there.
The Sun uncle opens the eyes.
The tiny grass flower gets a swing.
On your pink face the soft sun –
The heart flies here and there.
On the sweet day with the happy song
Let the door of my heart open.
From my tiny heart
I give you a gift.
57. FANTASY OF ‘LOVE’
He wanted to gift her something. But his father was strict about money and flexible about creativity. So he did not have money to purchase a gift for her. He was also feeling shy to tell her about love. So with all these emotions, he wrote this poem for her. All he could give was love and poems. He did not tell her about the poem again. But he wanted to go to her and gift something really rare. But he was not sure whether the poem was rare or cheap.
58. THE POEM ‘LOVE YOU’
For you
I’m mad.
So, I’m looking for you.
With care
I’ve put you there
Inside my heart.
Dishevelled appearance –
In the juice of youth
You are wet dear.
If I get you
I’ll give up
All the shame I have.
When I’ll meet
You there
At the love night,
You will see
How happy
It’ll be.
I’ll sit by you
I’ll come to you.
Love flute will play.
Touching your heart
My love
I’ll tell you
I love you.
59. FANTASY OF ‘LOVE YOU’
He wanted to meet her at a special night without being ashamed. It means he wanted to be free with her. He wanted to meet her in a quiet night with a special ambience. And yes there was a hint of sex. But it was not only sex but also the ambience.
60. THE POEM ‘LOVING YOU’
Loving the mankind
I’ve known the earth.
Loving the blood
I’ve known the struggle.
Loving the sweat
I’ve known the sorrow.
Loving you
I’ve known myself.
61. FANTASY OF ‘LOVING YOU’
This was a philosophical poem. He wanted to say if she was not there he could not explore his inner soul. If she was not there he could not experience the emotions that were hidden inside him. The mankind, the earth, the blood, the struggle, the sweat and the sorrow could be experienced everywhere. But knowing the ego was not so easy. Because of her he could discover his ego. And with that ego he would travel different places keeping her memory within.
62. THE POEM ‘THE OLD’
That playground of run-from-circle and the rows of mango trees
Have got lost one by one and filled with the concrete jungle.
So many known faces and lines of known smiles Have got lost and I’m alone there from horizon to horizon.
The close friends got lost and the far got closer.
Quarrelling with the far, I’ve gone to new land.
Wherever I’ve gone to get happiness of mind,
I’ve got shocked seeing thousands of hungry stomachs.
Walking a long distance, I’ve stopped by you.
But still I doubt whether Madhurima is there on my way.
63. FANTASY OF ‘THE OLD’
This was a very interesting poem. Till now he had not left home town. But he was always interested in reading books outside the syllabus. So slowly he developed a philosopher inside him. That philosopher was writing this poem. This was a prediction made by the philosopher within with a slight hint of skepticism. He was being a realist that when he would leave home, he was going to encounter a reality that was not going to be all sweet at all. So he was ending the poem with his girl friend’s name that symbolises his skeptisism about achieving her. He was not so sure about his future be it the marriage nor be it the career. From this poem onwards his subconscious would be dictated by his wisdom that he achieved by reading and hearing and the reality that he would experience every day.
64. THE POEM ‘THE SOUND OF THUNDER’
The thunder roars and I hear it with my ears
The thunder pen cuts the lines
On the chest of sky. The scared people
Shut the door.
The suave moon’s and The free night’s
Heart losing light
Gets destroyed In a moment
By the raging storm.
In the stormy wind The traveller in the end
Loses his path.
One step ahead Two steps back
The lightning in the dark.
On the river water There will be soon
The raging waves.
On the sky With dishevelled hair
Which beautiful lady shows it wrong!
By the angry look of the disheveled hair.
The heart is pounding hard.
When you will look On the opposite side
Of the dark hair.
You will know that You love only this
Lady.
65. FANTASY OF ‘THE SOUND OF THUNDER’
This was a poem about a rainy night influenced by his girl friend. He was sitting in his study. It was load-shedding. So there was no light. Only a hurricane light was lit. The sky was clad with dark clouds. Lightning was happening. And thus he compared the nature around with her girl friend.
66. THE POEM ‘SEEING AT ONCE’
The red long scarf is flying in the air
With the red rose.
Into the shy eyes of the princess
The heart’s got stuck.
The beggar eyes do not shift
From the immaculate beauty.
Seeing her at once
The heart is filled with mirth.
On her shiny moony face
The sap of beauty falls.
I wish I look at her
For a thousand years.
67. FANTASY OF ‘SEEING AT ONCE’
This poem is again out of the eagerness of seeing her. He missed her. He was preparing for his final board examination. After the examination, he would prepare for higher study. And after getting the result, he would go to Kolkata. And the fear of distance and the desire of seeing her continuously produced this poem.
68. THE POEM ‘THE LOST YOUTH’
In the new fun of new monsoon,
In the new dawn with the smell of shefali,
In the new hue of the new sun,
In the colour of rose petals and
In the happy nature’s craziness,
I’ve seen you with my full heart.
On the tribal girl’s limbs and body,
With flowery ornaments,
In the suave manifestation of moon beam and
In the cool wind of dense forest
I’ve seen you with my full heart.
Keeping the eye on that of a doe,
At the shy golden face,
When the deer looks with
Full concentration,
In the flood of its hearty passion
I’ve seen you with my full heart.
Beneath the starry sky,
Sitting with you in privacy,
With the touch of your uncrowded hand,
With the touch of your uncrowded hand,
I’ve forgotten everything.
Even then I’ve seen you in the
Suave manifestation of moon beam.
Today I don’t see you anywhere,
Afraid and scared, have you left
This earth dear? Probably
On the chest of a faraway star
Immobile is your sight.
That’s why I no longer forget everything.
That’s why the immobile sight of yours from
A faraway star makes me think
Time and again.
69. FANTASY OF ‘THE LOST YOUTH’
A very close uncle of the colony gifted him a book of Jibanananda, a famous poet of Bengal, on his birthday. His poems were ornamental with details. He started reading those poems. That was his first introduction with this Master post-Tagore poet. So in his heart he was always scared of losing her girl friend one fine morning. This emotion got fused with the style of Jibanananda. But he was also aware of the fact that he did not even know the details of Bengal as this Master poet did. So his inferiority complex grew inside and he did not show it to anybody since he felt it was not as great as the Master poet’s creations.
70. THE POEM ‘WISH’
Wish
With the force of a kick,
Tearing all the tethers,
In the land of hues,
With a crazy mind,
Through the dust,
Flying and flying,
Losing way and finding way,
With the smell
Along the heart,
Wish with you
I get lost in
The land of love.
71. FANTASY OF ‘WISH’
He wanted to experiment with the poetic styles now. He thought of a poem that was a one liner. He was still preparing for his final board examination and he was experiencing the burden of study. So he wanted to run away with his girl friend. This emotion and the pressure of study produced this experimental poem.
72. THE POEM ‘YOUTH’
A little joy, a little pain,
A few coloured words,
Joy, sorrow, weep, smile –
With all these we love.
Hard again simple and easy,
Sweet, salty, a bit poison,
A bit white, a bit black,
Dirty, grey or good,
Amid all there’s the light of hope.
We are bad, we are good.
73. FANTASY OF ‘YOUTH’
This was again a poem about his friends collectively. He was young and his friends were also young. His girl friend was young too. And he loved all of them. So he was writing a poem about their youth that was going through different experiences and incidents in their lives. It was colourful indeed!
74. THE POEM ‘WHO KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED’
Today the moon looks good.
The grass flower calls me closer.
Hearing the chirps of jungle bird,
My heart becomes jolly.
Who knows what happened!
Joy pours into my heart.
Amid the joy with the love song
The heart plays the rustic tune.
In the forest’s creepers and trees’ leaves
It wakes up with the chirps of birds.
In soft sun on the love ocean
My heart gets lost.
Wish I exceed everything
Destroying everything -
Breaking the shackle
Wish I get lost in the mirth.
Across the sky and air
The fragrance of love makes it crazy.
Wherever I look it’s all joy.
I’m mad for you.
Under the moon beam in the suave evening
Amid this limitless joy
Everything looks good.
Who knows what happened today!
75. FANTASY OF ‘WHO KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED’
This was a simple poem about happiness. It happened often when he got excited about the nature, peers and girlfriend. And when he felt less pressure he used to feel like this. In fact the time of the poem was very important. It was a flashback poem written in 2000 a year before the previous poems. The date was important since in 2000 he was in class eleven. So the pressure of study was less as the board examination would happen in 2001. So this year was the playtime for him. He was enjoying everything around. A little bit of study, a little bit of football, and a little bit of meaningless gossiping with girl friend – and everything became wonderful.
76. THE POEM ‘RUSTIC LOVE’
Every morning a boy and a girl
Used to make mountains and play together.
The boy used to draw with fingers on the earth.
The girl used to say, ‘I don’t understand what you do!’
The boy used to say, ‘There’s no meaning I just love to draw!
Please bring the water and let’s build a fancy hill again.’
When the girl used to make garland of shefali,
The boy inserted one of them into her hair.
The girl used to rush to her mother to show it.
The mother used say, ‘You are looking really nice today!’
Then and there she used to run to the boy and say
‘Please insert another into my hair.’
Her hand was clayed and the heart was full of fragrance of flower!
This way they love each other.
If you wish to call it love, call it so or not.
The simple clay hill was much bigger in the imagination.
The barren mountain was green in the imagination.
There was a narrow stream, where pearls were flowing.
How did it matter that the stream was small and narrow?
It made the unwilling boulders move.
This way when the girl used to think sitting there,
The boy used to ask, ‘Please tell me what you were thinking so tight.’
The girl used to say, ‘There’s no meaning I just love to imagine.
Let’s bring the water and build a new mountain again.’
New mountain, new soil, new imagination –
This way they love each other.
77. FANTACY OF ‘RUSTIC LOVE’
His home town was surrounded by villages and rustic lives. If the sky was clear the third highest peak Kanchanjangha was easily visible from the north end of the town. Now he was reading literature vividly. He was playing with his girlfriend and thus he had his imagination. So, he imagined a rustic love and put it in words.
78. THE POEM ‘SWEET SMILE’
How sweetly you smiled
Looking at me –
I felt relaxed O my
Darling of dreamland.
Into my mind you have
Inserted the touch of beauty.
Over the suave soft smile
The heart is flying.
Looking at the red smile
Of moony face,
My whole day got spent
Thinking about you.
Floating with your
Blood smeared wet lips,
I don’t know when
I fell in love with you.
79. FANTASY OF ‘SWEET SMILE’
He was seeing her girlfriend almost every day. He loves to look at her. They talk about many things –sense and nonsense. This poem revealed his desire to see her smile time and again. He used to imagine her face at night before going to sleep. Her face was a remedy for his concentration. Thus he had a fetish for her smile. Her face and her smile used to increase his attentiveness.
80. THE POEM ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’
New year, new light, new new hopes,
Split smiles, split words, split love.
In the fragrance of new flower the heart is unmindful.
For the new fun of new year the courtyard of heart floats across.
When the butterfly asks the flower, ‘Could you give me a little bit of honey?’
The flower says, ‘You can take as much as you want.
Let the New Year be happy. Then I’ll be happy too.’
The mankind appears to be really trivial then.
Did they ever have such a big heart?
In the New Year you and I put on new dresses.
Where is the New Year of the beggar kept?
You and I have a new year and thus the new hope.
Did he have no hope except frustration?
We do have fun, but please look after them too.
The downtrodden class needs a bit of help too.
Only then the New Year with the new hope
Will travel along happy tear of our heart.
81. FANTASY OF ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’
It was said before that he started reading philanthropic philosophies at a much younger age. And he had the charm of her girlfriend that influenced her to write so many poems. This was the last poem of his ‘First Diary’ according to the blog. There were many other lost poems that he could not upload in the blog or discarded. But this poem was produced by the mixture of philanthropic philosophy and the charisma of her girlfriend. So his soul had now been taken over by philosophies along with the presence of his girlfriend.
82. THE MAIL
Now he felt a bit relaxed since he finished working across the poems of his ‘First Diary’. Now it was time to inform Stella about the progress. He also needed a bit rest. He had a small blister at his ankle. He had not been wearing shoes since the lockdown begun. But he started evening walk at the park. Summer was coming soon. Amid all these he wrote a mail to Stella,
“Dear Stella
I have finished working on the poems of my ‘First Diary’. Please have a look at the attached file and reply soon.
Thanking you
Ray”
Thus he attached the draft with the mail and clicked on the send button and sent it to her email address. Then he got up from the chair. He went to the bathroom and took a bath for at least half an hour. Then he had lunch and lay on the bed. He could not usually sleep during the day time. He also had problems regarding sleep at night. Slowly he was getting rid of insomnia. These days he was sleeping well at night with a light dose of sleeping pills. He was feeling better now since he finished at least a chapter of the draft. So he was happy. But he did not know what to do. He knew Stella would call back after reading the draft. So he was waiting for her call.
83. THE GREY DIARY
He was now waking up late. In the evening he was strolling in the park. He was doing a bit of office work. This way a few days passed. He was now browsing through his blog. He was studying a bit for a distant learning course that he was doing from a university of Hisar. But he was not being able to concentrate properly. He was a very bad multi-tasker. Slowly he was learning multi-tasking these days. At last Stella phoned him,
- Good Evening.
- Good Morning.
- How do you do?
- Fine. I was waiting for your call.
- I know.
- Have you read it?
- Yes.
- What do you think about it?
- I loved it. But I have a few questions.
- Yes tell me.
- What do you mean by ‘cut away’?
- It’s nothing but inserting something from a different time and place within the narrative.
- Okay. It’s complicated. I know only about cutaway collars (smile).
- What’s that?
- It’s the collar of a formal shirt.
- Okay. That’s interesting.
- Yes. I think I have understood the ‘flashback’ only.
- Yes, it’s like going back to past.
- Yes.
- Did you enjoy reading the draft?
- Yes, absolutely.
- That’s enough for now.
- Okay. Are you tired of writing?
- Yes a bit.
- Take rest then.
- I was thinking about my ‘Grey Diary’ now.
- The second diary?
- Yes.
- Okay. Keep thinking.
- I am facing a problem.
- What’s that?
- I have categorised some of the poems from my diaries in different sections while uploading on my blog.
- Don’t worry; I have gone through your blog. Stick to it and use the cinematic tools as you did before. I love your blog.
- Thanks.
- What’s the situation in India now?
- Pretty bad. Lockdown till 3rd May.
- Okay. Do you have a printer?
- I have it in Kolkata. But not here.
- Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll sign the contract soon.
- Okay.
- Do you need more money?
- No. But I don’t know the exact market value of my work.
- Leave it to me. I know it and I won’t cheat you.
- Okay. Thanks.
- And I think you know that market economy is crashing everywhere.
- Yes I wrote it in my last book.
- Exactly.
- So everything will be redesigned now.
- Yes, true.
- So don’t worry about the economy. Take rest, think and when you feel like writing, do it.
- Okay.
- Just stick to your blog. And tell me if you need more money.
- Okay. I have another question.
- Tell me.
- As a reader are you feeling bored of the format?
- As in?
- Like ‘the poem and the fantasy’ format. Is it not getting repetitive?
- Absolutely not.
- As a young woman, I am really interested in the fantasy.
- Okay.
- I told you before that I’m interested in male psychology. You are writing exactly what I want to know.
- Okay.
- I’m not forcing you. If you have something new in mind, you can incorporate that. But I do want to know about the fantasies behind your poems.
- Okay. That sounds nice.
- Yes, keep it up.
- Another question?
- Yes tell me.
- Don’t you want to know about the girl?
- No. I want to read it in your draft.
- Yes, that’s the way it should be.
- Exactly. Any more questions?
- No, I got the point.
- Yes, now do it the way you want to do it.
- Yes, I need some time.
- Nobody is forcing you. Just keep it up.
- Okay. But…
- But what? Tell me don’t hesitate.
- The second diary…
- Yes the ‘Grey Diary’…
- Yes, that’s mainly about frustration.
- Yes I guessed that. So…
- So I was thinking whether it’ll be fine to depict it as it is or there should be some extra flavour to spice it up.
- (Excited) No no no, don’t just spice it up. I told you it has to be pure.
- Okay, okay. I got the point. I’ll write it as it is.
- Yes. That’s better.
- Okay, thanks a lot!
- I’ll call you soon.
- Okay.
- Bye.
- Bye.
84. THE POEM ‘IRE’
Fearing the death, the naked life lives cowardly.
The time whips hard on bare body.
The poems become lost with no value for it.
In the heart there remains cowardly ire.
The protest gets lost in the labyrinth of power.
As shadows demand, the life is climbing up the ladder.
At the day-end weary mind closes eyes in fear.
The greed of seeing light in dark dream is there.
Sound after sound make a riddle to be inert.
The silent lamentation of incomplete poem
Encroaches the unknown chamber of heart -
The ire of failed spark in soaked gunpowder.
85. FANTASY OF ‘IRE’
When he was writing this poem, he spent almost two years in the campus of his film school. He was a studious hardworking student. He attended almost all the classes regularly. He completed the projects successfully so far. But he was uncertain about his future. He was continuously hearing about the struggle of upcoming future. He was a guy, who wanted peace and happiness. But Indian economy was slowly moving toward privatisation as a result of the fall of Soviet Union. His teachers were silent about it. As a film school student he started reading Eisenstein, Ken Dancyger etc. He was becoming trained in tasty and good cinema. But Indian Film Industry was highly driven by bad hybrid low cinema. That made him frustrated. He wanted to protest against everything. But he felt helpless since he could only write a poem with a pen and paper. Cinema cost patronisation. Neither he was from a rich family nor he found any opportunity of sponsorship. Thus he imagined the ire of failed spark in soaked gunpowder.
86. THE POEM ‘SMELL OF THE FLOWER, BOKUL’
I know you think
My greed is there for your eyes.
You think that my five senses want to touch you.
I don’t disagree.
You wriggle back often.
Yet, both of us rush to each other
And come back too
With invisible alibi.
This way many years were spent.
Today suddenly it is raining.
The babbling sound of Ichhamoti
Fills the heart.
Believe me after almost years
The memory of your essence
Has covered me completely.
The smell of a treeful bokul flowers in the river water.
87. FANTASY OF ‘SMELL OF THE FLOWER, BOKUL’
Amid the frustration about future career, he was surviving with the memory of his girlfriend. He was busy with study. He was writing for a little magazine. But whenever he was alone, he reminisced about his girlfriend. She was going away from his life. But his heart was not being able to forget it. On one hand his dream that was continuously being challenged by the establishment. On the other hand his fantasies about his girlfriend. He actually became busy with life and tried to forget her. But his memory, his heart and his brain were continuously telling him about her. This was making him homesick very often. But he was struggling hard to get out of this. After a spell of busy life, one fine morning she returned to his memory in a rainy day. Ichhamoti is the name of a river that is there at his mother’s ancestral place, Basirhat. So far he visited the place several times. So he recalled that. He also recalled the evergreen Bokul tree that was there at his hometown opposite to the gate of his high school. He was thinking about all these things randomly and becoming homesick.
88. THE POEM ‘TWO OF US’
Two of us stare
At each other.
Yet we are scared;
What if something happens?
89. FANTASY OF ‘TWO OF US’
Again he was recalling his heydays of the past. Now he was getting more mature. And he had watched many movies so far. He had been reading a lot. So he was recollecting the memory of how they stared at each other and if they met again, probably sex could happen.
90. THE POEM ‘TWO OF US’
That day both of us stared at each other.
Both of us wanted to get close to each other,
But somewhere the desire faced obstruction.
I had greed in my eyes.
Probably your eyes had it too.
Yet there was the desire to get close.
You flew with your showy wings.
I flew with my dreams.
We could not get close to each other.
91. FANTASY OF ‘TWO OF US’
This poem was the extension of the previous poem. Both the poems were written on the same day. Now he was trying to get rid of his sexual desire. He was writing about a tentative real conclusion of their love that originated in a small town and did not get ripe because of the society especially the old people, who tried to impose their dreams and ideas on to the younger generation. Their orientation was different. Except his father and teachers, all the old people of the town were screwed with the idea of running after money. Thus she would probably get married to a dumb mediocre merchant in the near future.
92. THE POEM ‘FROM THE GARRET’
From the garret, I saw the city.
Suddenly a drop of water flew in.
Cloudy sky,
Cool wind.
Hug my body tight. It felt good.
Wish to get wet.
Yet I can’t.
From the garret I saw standing
Wet road, wet cars.
93. FANTASY OF ‘FROM THE GARRET’
The girls would come to him indeed. This poem had nothing to do with his girlfriend. The times were changing. He met a girl Sumana, who left the film school since she was shocked by the ragging. She used to invite him often to their rented house in North Kolkata. He used to phone her too. Now he forgot all the conversations with her. All he could remember that she mentioned about rain and garret once. Again he put him in her shoes and wrote this poem for her.
94. THE POEM ‘NO FIRE ANYMORE’
Why do you come time and again?
I acquired the skill
Of dreaming alone.
I fell in love with the grey life and
The eye of the bird.
No fire anymore,
Only there are smoke and ash.
Cloudy sky,
Cloudy river water,
On the grey canvas the black birds –
Flowers fall down,
The lone bald tree,
Monotonous sorrow in the heart.
Yet, it’s raining again.
Why do you come time and again
With wetness?
I recall the childhood, I feel overwhelmed
To get wet soon.
Yet, no fire anymore,
Only there are smoke and ash.
95. FANTASY OF ‘NO FIRE ANYMORE’
Now he became busy with life. But the beauty of nature was making him romantic. He was trying to get rid of his feelings. But he was not being able to do so since he started to meet new girls in his life. And in every girl, he was now finding love. Living away from home, he was looking for his girl friend in every girl. That was the beginning of a new journey. He would keep looking for a girl, who could inspire him in writing poems.
96. THE POEM ‘ROTTEN CORPSE’
I’ve lost my way in the middle of the sea.
My boat is directionless.
The sun sets in the west.
The darkness of fear, depression, anarchy
Becomes denser slowly.
The storm rages on.
I’m the lone boatman in the middle of the sea.
The throat becomes dry.
The salty water hits the eyes.
The eyes get burnt.
In the dark I sit grasping the oar.
Yet in the end it is not saved.
Everything turns upside down.
The deadly effort to float –
Yet, it goes down slowly.
In the land of pearls and jewels,
There lies the rotten corpse.
98. FANTASY OF ‘ROTTEN CORPSE’
This was his state of mind in the same year. He was doing everything to get settled down properly in near future. He accepted the fact that he had lost his girlfriend. So he was hopeless now. He was trying hard to survive. He was studying in one of the only two national film institutes of the country. But he could see no future. He was utterly frustrated. So he compared himself with the rotten corpse. The film school was happening. But he did not have money in his pocket. He was surviving with a little bit of money that his father was sending to him every month. But that was not the real crisis. He never wanted money since he thought that he would get a better living by pursuing his passion. But he was seeing no way out. And the capitalist world did not believe in creativity, sympathy or kindness. It was hard to sell the passion. In fact it was a matter of debate about where and how to sell the passion since that was what the market economy all about. So he was clueless about his future. But it did not stop him from creating art. He started writing the novel ‘Orange’ among all these. But his heart was going through ups and downs. He had a dream to make a cinema out of ‘Orange’. But he did not know how. After finishing the draft of Orange, he would mail it to some studios in Hollywood and the draft would get leaked soon. After a few years he would find that the concept of the great banyan tree was stolen as home tree in a movie by a famous award winning director. And Orange would change the world soon. But he would not get anything out of his creativity. His frustration would continue.
99. THE POEM ‘LET IT BE HAPPY’
Let the butterfly take bath in the dew drop of dawn.
Let the smell of shefali flower be smeared with her.
It does not matter if I can touch it or not.
Let the earth be happy.
100. FANTASY OF ‘LET IT BE HAPPY’
This poem was about his sacrifice. He wanted to touch her girlfriend. But she was staying far away now. He was not sure whether he would be able to touch her again or not. So he was being realistic and happy about life.
101. THE POEM ‘THE FAMILY MAN’
These days I don’t feel angry or happy.
I don’t feel repentant or arrogant.
All the emotions remain immobile inside.
I commute to office and go for shopping.
I act along the whole day
Not because I’m in distress or sorrow.
This has become my habit.
The sigh has become my habit.
To lose has become my habit.
To be weary has become my habit.
And also not seeing after seeing it has become my habit.
Sometimes I feel how about breaking the habit.
Thinking that it was not a bad idea
I go to Darjeeling.
Something more?
I don’t think it’s possible in this life.
102. FANTASY OF ‘THE FAMILY MAN’
This was again a poem he was writing on behalf of others. He saw the daily lives of his teachers. He saw the daily life of his cousin brother, who was a brilliant student but he did not leave Kolkata as he fell in love with the city. These people neither ran after money nor got involved in any kind of out of the box idea. He saw the clerks in his film school. They were also same. They were family lover. Though they were very much aware of the politics and world order, they chose a peaceful family life in the city of Kolkata. So he was putting himself in their shoes to hone his skill of poetry writing.
103. THE POEM ‘THE EYES’
He loves the two eyes like a fool.
He loves them ignoring all the thoughts.
One day he thinks that
He will go closer.
Then he will stare, for a long time,
At those eyes.
But he has no spare time.
So the wait begins.
But he cannot go closer.
The sight gets blurred in the dust of history.
The smell of heated stone in hoofs of horses,
The smell of rotten corpse,
Surpassing all these there appears the fragrant perfume.
Yet, he cannot go close.
The sight gets blurred.
The mind becomes eager.
The smoke becomes denser.
The blood becomes hot.
The eyes disappear slowly.
He scouts like a fool.
The perfume becomes harsher.
He becomes calm.
The eyes disappear gradually.
He becomes calm.
104. FANTASY OF ‘THE EYES’
Again the pain for her girlfriend returns. He wanted to say that among all he was still looking for those eyes. He was recalling the medieval history that he read in his school life. But nowhere could he find them. He was frustrated and slowly accepting the fact that he had to lose her. So he was pacifying himself by writing this abstract surreal dreamy poem.
105. THE POEM ‘TIME OF LOVE’
Keeping the expectation of love
In the heart,
It surrenders everything to the security.
The craziness of power play
Has to be seen with wide awake eyes.
The time of love is only there
Within the dream.
106. FANTASY OF ‘TIME OF LOVE’
He was busy doing the course at his film school. He was unlike other students, who took things casually. He took every lesson so seriously that he had no spare time at all. Meanwhile he was noticing the power play of his teachers. They used to blame each other. He did not like it since his father was also a teacher. So it appeared to him as a power game. He was also aware of politics. So he thought that he could not do anything about it since he was so insignificant a being that he could not even have time for love because of these powerful teachers. So he wanted to dream about love. The sleep was only the time, when he could think about love.
107. THE STRESS TALE
These poems were reminding him the old days of struggle and suffering. He was again going down the memory lane. But all the memories were not pleasant. So he was feeling stressed within. Stella guessed that. So she phoned him,
- Hi
- I’ve not finished the Grey Diary yet.
- I know.
- How do you know?
- I mean I guessed that.
- Okay.
- Are you feeling stressed?
- Yes, a bit
- I guessed that.
- How?
- It’s quite natural since you’re recalling your past now.
- I did it while working on the first diary too.
- Yes, that was not about frustration.
- True. You are a clever woman.
- Whatever; do one thing?
- What?
- Send me whatever you’ve written so far.
- Okay.
- May I ask you a personal question?
- Why are you being so formal?
- Okay, let me ask you directly.
- That’s better.
- Are you married?
- No
- Do you have a girlfriend?
- Yes.
- Where is she now?
- She is in Mumbai now.
- Okay she belongs to Mumbai…
- No she belongs to a suburb of Kolkata.
- Okay.
- So I guess she is also stuck now.
- Yes.
- What’s her name?
- Dipabali.
- What?
- Leave it you can call her Dipa.
- Yes, I’ll call her Dipa.
- Yes.
- Okay send me the draft. I’ll call you soon.
- Okay.
- Bye.
- Bye.
He sent her the draft immediately and waited for her reply. She read it quickly. The next morning she phoned him again,
- Hi
- Have you read it?
- Yes, it was frustratingly great.
- (Smile) Yes, that’s how it should be described.
- Now tell me one thing.
- What?
- Do you know the Governor of California?
- What a great question! How would I know?
- You should know.
- Okay.
- He is my friend. His name is Gavin.
- Where are you now?
- I’m in Chandigarh.
- Which state is it?
- Punjab.
- Okay. Can you just spell it?
- Yes.
- Wait for a second.
- Okay.
She brought a pen and a diary and asked him again,
- Okay now spell it.
- Spell what?
- (Smile) You are really frustrated and getting forgetful too.
- Yes true.
- Spell the name of the state, where you are staying now.
- Okay. P for Peter, U for umbrella, N for Norway, J for Jordan, A for Afghanistan, B for Boston.
- Okay. Do you know the name of the governor of this state?
- No I know the name of the chief minister.
- Is he the elected chief of the state?
- Yes, he is equivalent to your Governor.
- Okay.
- What’s his name?
- Amarinder Singh.
- Please spell it.
- A for Australia, M for Monday, A for Afghanistan, R for red, I for India, N for New Zealand, D for Doll, E for Egypt, R for red. That’s his name. And the surname is Singh.
- Yes I know many Singhs.
- Why are you asking these things?
- You won’t understand.
- Okay.
- Take rest and keep writing. I’ll call you soon.
- Okay.
- Bye.
- Bye.
She cut the phone. After a few seconds the car cleaner called him. He got down the stairs with the key and opened the car door for him. And then he walked up the stairs to his apartment and phoned the laundry man so that he came and collected the used clothes for washing and pressing.
108. THE POEM ‘THE MAD’
Looking at the sun in the east sky, the mad pundit thinks
It could’ve been burst in the middle of the sky.
The colours would’ve sprinkled and have made the clouds wet.
The clouds would’ve got shrunken becoming sweet cakes.
If the cakes fell on the ground after a shake in the sky,
The breakfast could’ve been done with only those things.
Every morning, thus, he used to look at the sun.
Every one would think that he was busy in worshipping the sun.
109. FANTASY OF ‘THE MAD’
It was a pure nonsense poem. There was a proverb in Bengali that if one had food in his stomach, he could tolerate a lot of pain. At the same time he recalled the nonsense poems of Sukumar, a famous Bengali nonsense writer, whom he read in his school life. Coincidentally he visited a sound studio of one of his teachers for an internship programme, where he saw huge posters depicting the poems of this famous poet. At the same time he was facing problems with food in the campus of the film school since till then there was no mess facility in the hostel, though later the administration would give it a thought after an agitation. With all these experiences he tried to write a nonsense.
110. THE POEM ‘WHITE FLOWER’
The calm smoke in the tea cup; Sitting by the window
He looks outside with calm eyes.
Nearby a white flower beneath a green tree
Is lying being wet with dew in the calm morning.
Beautiful, beautiful and beautiful is she -
Far better than war, cry, lamentation and the world.
111. FANTASY OF ‘WHITE FLOWER’
It was a flashback poem written in a December just after joining the film school. December is the time of soothing winter in Kolkata. So the weather was pleasant. But the world was busy with war. People were dying for nothing. Most probably it was the time of Iraq war. So he did not like people dying, crying and lamenting anywhere in the world. Thus he wrote this poem.
112. THE POEM ‘IT’S SMOKY ALL AROUND’
It’s smoky all around.
Inside the spark smoulders
Slowly and slowly.
The blue sky and the green earth
Get lost in the world of smoke.
It feels like to talk
With the ghost, god, and spirit.
It feels like to dream all day long
After the sleep.
In the dream there is a well.
Below there are snakes wriggling.
It feels hungry.
The sleep gets broken.
The unstable mind scouts for fairy tales.
With beauty, humour, palace and wealth
There arrives the prince of dream.
With the princess he gets fused
After love, touch and lone affair.
For a moment sweet air flows inside.
It feels good.
Yet the quest does not stop.
Searching and searching in smoke of weariness
Two eyes get closed.
113. THE POEM ‘IT’S SMOKY ALL AROUND’
This was again a poem he was writing for those, who love fairytales and look for their Mr Right. Actually he was again trying to research on her girlfriend’s psychology that was totally driven by the fantasy of good look. He was also not an exception. He liked her. But now he realised that he liked her not only because she was pretty. But it was mainly because of the discourse of his childhood and puberty. Had he not spent time with her, he would not have fallen for her. It was not only the beauty, it was something more. She believed in god due to her orientation. But he was strongly driven by other materialistic philosophies. So now he understood that only with beauty one could not survive for a long. Actually the dream, hunger and beauty were correlated. Thus this surreal poem to explore the fantasy of her girlfriend.
114. THE POEM ‘LET THE FOUNTAIN FLOW’
Let the fountain flow on your body.
Let the fountain flow in my mind.
Let the fountain flow babbling babbling
With the taste of elixir.
Let the bud bloom at night.
Let the stars smile
After a long period of time.
115. FANTASY OF ‘LET THE FOUNTAIN FLOW’
This was again a poem to cheer him up. He was studying in the film school. He was attending classes regularly. He was doing the projects. Amid all he was meeting new girls, who were making him nostalgic about his girlfriend. So he missed her and he was recalling her by writing this poem about wet beauty. He wanted to see her wet in water. He wanted to hug her with his wet mind. He wanted to be all wet in a starry night.
116. THE POEM ‘SUDDENLY THE BODY GETS WET’
Soul and soma want to part way.
The desire travels in the land of sound, colour and light.
The smell of flower seems good.
The red light makes it feel crazy.
From the bee hive a drop of honey
Suddenly falls on the tongue.
Suddenly the body gets wet.
From the river there comes the sound of rain.
117. FANTASY OF ‘SUDDENLY THE BODY GETS WET’
This poem was the result of watching cinema. The cinema was technically created out of the three components sound, colour and light. Cinema was basically an illusion of reality that affect directly on the mind. Mind can fly everywhere. But the body was an obstacle to its imagination. So they wanted to be separate. At least he felt like that while writing the poem. Other lines were the ornaments that he used to decorate the poems.
118. THE POEM ‘BYPASS’
In front of my film school
There is the wide E.M. Bypass.
On the divider a mad woman
Used to stay with her ‘belongings’.
Along the Bypass the car used to go.
The buses and bikes used to go.
And quite often she used to shout.
One day upon curiosity I asked her,
‘Why do you shout?’
She just laughed at me.
‘What’s the history behind her laugh?’ -
I thought like a fool.
I didn’t think that like the skyscrapers
By the bypass,
This history has no market value.
119. FANTASY OF ‘BYPASS’
He saw a dishevelled shabby nasty mad woman residing on the divider of the road E.M. Bypass in Kolkata. His film school was situated by this road. So he thought of this poem since nobody cared about the mad woman. He heard the stories of many talented people becoming mad in the end of their lives. He was unsure about his future too. So he wanted to write something about this.
120. THE POEM ‘BYPASS-1’
The standing girl on the bypass –
I like you.
I like your hair,
I like your attire and your glance,
Suddenly
I like it too much.
The momentary joy,
The momentary frustration.
Yet everyone moves on.
I also move on, hopeless.
121. FANTASY OF ‘BYPASS-1’
As mentioned above, he was now looking for her girlfriend everywhere. As he used to eat at the street side food shops till the administration brought in the mess facility, he often used to travel along the sidewalk of E.M. Bypass. And like every young boy, he used to look at the beautiful girls. He started to develop the fetish for the appearance of the girls. Every time he saw a girl, he wanted to talk to her and play with her like he did it with his girlfriend in his childhood and teenage. But it was not possible since in the unknown city everybody was unknown and every encounter was unknown. So he was afraid about the unknown girls as every gentleman was.
122. THE POEM ‘BYPASS-2’
When I walk by the Bypass,
I see drain, dusty jujube tree,
And jungle flower.
I see stray dogs,
The perfume that walks by
Comes and shakes the dream.
Bypass of dust, green, and garbage –
By it there are the nascent skyscrapers.
123. FANTASY OF ‘BYPASS-2’
This was a poem of Japanese style. He was learning Nihongo in a nearby university. There his teacher introduced him to Japanese poems. From there he learned the styles of visual description. Later he would also write a few haikus. So this poem was a visual description of the Bypass that he experienced everyday - nothing more or nothing less.
124. THE POEM ‘LET IT BE CALM’
Let the blue survive in the sky.
Let the mustard field be yellow.
Let the green come back again.
Let the mind calm down, calm down and calm down.
125. FANTASY OF ‘LET IT BE CALM’
His mind was unstable since the busy world was unstable. The city of Kolkata, like all other cities, were congested and disturbed with human crowd. So he wanted fresh air and nature to be back. Somewhere down the line this torture of ‘civilisation’ on the mother earth had to stop and the mind needed to be refreshed.
126. THE POEM ‘GOOD’
The just unjust have gotten confused.
The colourful lights were everywhere.
The seven hues of the evening have
Settled down with full might.
Violet is good, blue is good.
Green is good, yellow is good.
Orange is good, red is good.
The time of liking them has just gotten limited.
127. FANTASY OF ‘GOOD’
This poem was the extension of the previous poem. He was getting so busy with life that he could not cherish the beauty. Like every people around he found himself becoming mechanical. He was simply jeopardised with busyness. He wanted to get rid of that.
128. THE POEM ‘GREY SEA’
The grey sea -
Again there is darkness.
The five senses suffer in fever.
Invisible lamentation.
For whom and why?
The failed question
Time and again.
129. FANTASY OF ‘GREY SEA’
This was a flashforward poem. When he was writing this poem, he left the institute. He went to Mumbai and returned from there back home in northern Bengal. Then he again shifted back to Kolkata. Without a job, he felt frustrated. He was doing freelancing. Meanwhile he suffered in fever for a few days. He had had this disease of cough, cold with fever, since his childhood. He also had problems in his tonsils. But he had a habit of documenting feelings as poems. Thus he wrote this poem.
130. THE POEM ‘THE PAST’
The heart becomes empty. Lamentation!
The storm rages. The mind becomes blank.
Many words return anew.
There were mistakes in calculations.
But there was no escape.
There was no possibility to return.
The time laughs in persiflage.
Frustration and nightmare circle the life.
Where is the end? Where does it end? –The mind keeps scouting.
The debris of history spreads its hands.
The past – that’s only the wait of time.
131. FANTASY OF ‘THE PAST’
By this time his girlfriend got married. His brain accepted it. But his heart did not. So he was being pessimistic about everything. He thought that it was a mistake to leave his home town. It was a mistake to come to Kolkata for higher study since his school life and childhood was so rich. He scored a bad result in his college life due to the absence of his girlfriend. Then in the film school all the minds appeared to be polluted with the dream of quick success. He neither wanted success nor the fame. He only wanted to get back to his girlfriend and thus to his home town. This was a suicidal poem. The last line revealed his intention that in near future he would commit suicide. But poems would make him alive. Had he not been able to write poems as catharsis, he would have definitely committed suicide. So he was telling that everything would be the past.
132. THE POEM ‘FOR YOU’
For you I can write
Pages after pages.
In a moment I can fill
Thousands of diaries.
For you I can draw
A lot with water colour.
For you I can become
A failed poet.
133. FANTASY OF ‘FOR YOU’
Frustrated with life, he started preparing for a civil service examination. He hated sound and cinema that ruined his life. Thus he joined a reputed coaching centre in the city of Kolkata. There he saw a pretty madam, who used to teach political science. It did not happen for everyone. But this madam aroused the feeling inside him again. Thus he wrote this poem.
134. THE POEM ‘ALMS’
Many words cannot be told
Since those do not sound well.
The heart gets heavy with unknown weight.
It’s said that weeping makes it light.
I don’t know. The eye water got vapourised many days ago.
Cacophony all around –
People die again they enjoy.
So what?
I live in an isolated island.
My happiness has been lost many days before.
I hate the alms of kindness.
135. FANTASY OF ‘ALMS’
This poem showed the bitter truth about the unorganised film world, where employment happened by references. So he got his first job in his film school itself as an intern. But the job was totally manufactured and given by the higher authority though the requirement was there. As a result of the job because of too much of travelling due to the conspiracy of a teacher and a few of his batch mates, he developed permanent backache for the first time. After this he went to protest against it to the head of the department. He said that he had been taken in this job to clean the shit. His subordinate teacher, who sent him for a production assistant’s job to Pune via Chennai, said to him that he was there to bear his orders. He wrote a note against him. In reply to the note he used the word ‘request’. For the first time he realised that it’s nothing but a political game being played by his superiors. And when he texted to the teacher, who referred his name to the administration, about whether his contract would get renewed or not, he simply said ‘no’. Now he realised the game being played against him. Since then he hated sound and any of the people, who were bossy and acquired a higher post with higher salary. He would simply not talk to them until it was not extremely urgent. Yes he developed a complex that told him continuously to hate the bossy higher authority. And it would not go so easily.
136. THE POEM ‘MELANCHOLIC’
For a long time I have not swum in the river water.
For a long time I have not talked to you.
For a long time I have not felt the air by the calm river.
For a long time I have not met my Nepali friend.
I’m not feeling well. I’m not feeling sleepy.
In the cloudy mind it’s raining cats and dogs.
137. FANTASY OF ‘MELANCHOLIC’
He met a Napali police officer once while travelling by a train to his home town. He was a nice guy having a great passion for cinema and music. He would take him to Darjeeling several times to build up a film school over there. This plan was still going on. But due to his jobs, he had been travelling across the country. So he was missing him. He was missing his girlfriend. And he was missing his home town. So he was feeling sad and melancholic.
138. THE PAUSE
Again he was tired of going down the memory line. So he took a bit of rest. He was not awaiting any phone call. He simply wanted a peaceful break. But Stella understood it. He was struggling to translate the poems since they were reminding him about the days of his frustrations. The Grey Diary was all about that. And it was the longest one. The year 2007 and 2008 were most frustrating to him. He had no clue about the future. He was surrounded by fake success mongers. So he paused for one day. The next day when he was sitting to write after the breakfast, at around 10 o’clock Stella called him,
- Hi
- Yes.
- What are you doing now?
- Just sat for writing.
- And you were not being able to write.
- Yes.
- It happens. Take rest.
- Yes. It’ll take more time than what I expected.
- Don’t worry. Take your time.
- Yes, it’s going more and more depressing. I’m just thinking of finishing the Grey Diary as soon as possible.
- No no. Take your time. It has to be pure and truthful. Don’t do anything in hurry.
- I have contacted Gavin.
- Who is Gavin?
- My friend and the governor…
- Yes you told me that.
- Yes
- You contacted him about what?
- I told him about you.
- And what happened…
- He said he would do anything to materialise our dream projects.
- Why? Don’t you have the money?
- Yes I have. But your Orange got stolen, right?
- Yes.
- So, we need a little bit of political help.
- Okay.
- Gavin will soon contact Amarinder.
- Okay.
- You take rest and try to write and don’t leak what I said to you.
- Okay. I’ll not leak anything. In fact so far I did not tell anything about this project to anyone.
- Yes, that’s better.
- How is your girlfriend?
- She is fine.
- You know what happened near Mumbai?
- No. What happened?
- Mob lynching.
- I did not get the news.
- I knew it.
- When did it happen?
- Two days back. Call your girlfriend and check whether she is safe or not.
- Okay. I’ll call her right away.
- Don’t get panicked. The situation is under control.
- Okay.
- Just ask her how she is doing.
- She did not tell me anything about it.
- May be she does not know about it at all.
- She is eating and sleeping in Mumbai.
- She should do it.
- Yes, what else could be done in this situation?
- Yes, true. Just call her and talk as you did it before. Don’t feel panicked or give her panic.
- Yes, true.
- Good night.
- Bye.
Stella cut the phone. Immediately he called her girlfriend in Mumbai. She was preparing breakfast. She told her about the news. She also did not know it. She said that she would call back after watching the television. After a few minutes she called back and described the situation to him. She added that people did not understand their own good. More than hundred people had already been arrested. However she told him not to worry.
139. THE POEM ‘NEARBY, GLISTENING THE HEAVEN’
Nearby, glistening the heaven,
-the sea of sensation.
It feels weary after running for ages,
Whole body is naked, busy, disheveled and cliché,
Though the sandy beach sparkles and the daylight softens, it sweats.
It sweats till the perspiration mixes with tear.
The eyes burn in pain.
Sparkle of sand fades away somewhere,
The sea water is softer, glitzier and glistening more and more,
The naked life runs, to dive into it, on the shore.
Slowly the sea comes closer,
And slowly her time runs up toward the end.
Nearby,
Glistening the heaven.
140. FANTASY OF ‘NEARBY, GLISTENING THE HEAVEN’
This was a poem about uncertain future. After writing this poem, he read a real story in a newspaper that an aspiring model committed suicide in Howrah. This sparked insecurity inside him since he was also going to work in the same profession in near future. He felt that he was close to the massive Indian Film Industry, but he had no clue about how to enter the industry. He saw the big studios in Mumbai as his teacher took them to the studios as part of an industry tour. But he also added that the people working there were getting alms of money except the head engineer. These stories made him feel isolated, insecure and frustrated. And just then this news of suicide appeared in the newspaper. A dream to be big in the tinsel town got extinguished. So his imagination followed the suit, which was not at all expected. Thus he again felt really unhappy about it since he could have been the subject to this fatal expectation. This story made him cautious about the future.
141. THE POEM ‘UNATTACHED’
Poetry, poetry, poetry -
Holding the pen the burnt mind sits idle.
Yet, a single line cannot be written.
The sadness within is kept by
The immobile words.
Only the heart gets churned up,
The eyes are tired of looking at things,
Whether it’s bad or good,
Incidents happen everywhere.
Unattached, uncommitted mind
Live fearing the death.
142. FANTASY OF ‘UNATTACHED’
Almost two months he could not write a single poem. But now he got a little bit of spare time. But he became inert. He was not liking the place where he was being for the time being. He was facing a block. He asked for a new mattress from the warden, but he had a tendency to serve the students from rich background. And he was seeing this typical ‘production’ mentality everywhere in the film school. This was how this world ran. He would be a silent spectator to everything. And always he would not be able to write it down.
143. THE POEM ‘MY FILM SCHOOL’
Challenging many odds
My film school lives.
Amid the good, bad and joy
The conspiracy of living gets lost.
From the sky on the lake water rain falls.
The eyes get satiated with the smoke of water.
Yet, a drop of water oozes often
From the corners of two eyes.
With a heartful of frustration the helpless bud,
Lives in the hope of blooming someday.
144. FANTASY OF ‘MY FILM SCHOOL’
He was a silent spectator of everything happening around. He was reading Rumsey and McCormick, Glenballou etc as a sound specialization student to prepare himself for the future war. He was facing many odds in his film school life. Yet, he had a tendency not to give up hope. After every depression, he tried to cheer him up. And all he had a pen and a paper to do that. This was his weapon to rectify all the odds. So he wrote this poem of hope keeping the reality intact. This poem summed up all his experiences in the film school.
145. THE POEM ‘BUBBLE’
In deep dark of the blue sea
A bubble goes up to the sea surface,
Where its death is
Waiting.
146. FANTASY OF ‘BUBBLE’
Again he was trying to write a poem in Japanese style - but this time with a touch of life. Every poem is related to life. But here it directly meant that the life would end soon after experiencing everything around. There was no other way out but to reach the sea surface i.e. the top and die. That’s the destiny of every life. No dumb astrologer was needed to predict this thing.
147. THE POEM ‘LIVING CORPSE’
The living corpse, lying in fever,
Does not lament anymore.
There is no love in unspoken words.
There remains only remnant of gunpowder.
A shore of ocean floats
In the unwinking callous eyes.
A lot surpassed,
Remaining - a lot more.
Weary mind seeks rest,
Within the womb of night.
Yet, the heart throbs day and night.
The living corpse awaits a painless retirement
Of the heart machine.
148. FANTASY OF ‘LIVING CORPSE’
Again he fell ill amidst the loneliness of city life. Though this poem sounded quite like the poem ‘Rotten Corpse’, it was different. He used to feel feverish whenever the season got changed. As told before he had some minor health issues that occurred during the season change time. He did not like this illness. And for a moment he felt like dying. So he just wanted to take rest after having medicine.
149. THE POEM ‘TRIVIAL HEART IN THE CROWD’
It’s a trivial heart in the crowd.
Hopes often peep up.
The explosive of dreams disappear in pain.
Helplessly two eyes stare.
The body is as busy as machines.
At the end of the day,
It’s the television that satisfies.
Yet the unsatisfied heart sits in vain,
Silently in urban air.
150. FANTASY OF ‘TRIVIAL HEART IN THE CROWD’
After experiencing the big bosses of the institute, he felt a crisis within. In the common room of the hostel there was no television. So he missed the television. He tried, but he could never accommodate himself with the life of the new city until his cousin brother would take him at their adda of a little magazine. Even there new erudite people used to come and he was a mere listener in every case. That time enriched him indeed. At the same time it made him lonely in the city. He wanted to speak. But he could not. So he felt like a trivial heart in the crowd.
151. THE POEM ‘REMIND ME’
When my friends move away from me, so bless me that
I do not have time to wonder.
When close ones leave me slowly, so bless me that
I do not have time to cry.
Only after walking a long distance
In a strange crowd of known faces,
Keep reminding me that
I am a trivial drop of life among millions.
152. FANTASY OF ‘REMIND ME’
So far he had written many poems. He had read some bad poems of some infamous poets. He just could not imagine how these silly poets got famous. He wrote poems to document his feelings. What more could it have to be unique? He never wrote for fame. He started writing at a much younger stage. He never struggled to become a poet. It came to him naturally. But he was seeing the arrogance of some poets, who really got famous by writing nasty dirty mediocre poems, which had neither any meaning nor connected to their lives. But they got famous rather infamous. But he never wanted to be like them. He wrote poems only when he felt an emotional upheaval in his heart. It was the documentation of his feelings indeed. So he was scared to end the life like them. So he never showed his poems to anyone but once to a very senior script writer. And he always wanted to be with people. He just did not want to be like them. It was always better to be a trivial heart in the crowd.
153. THE POEM ‘BUSY YOU’
Though I know you are busy
With your work in your country,
Far away far away,
Yet closer and closer you come
By the tension of the rope of letters.
With the storm your name
Flies in along the sky.
Travelling the world becoming tired,
You’ll come to me -
Thinking that I am waiting
For you here.
154. FANTASY OF ‘BUSY YOU’
This was a long story. He went to Busan, the then Pushan, of South Korea to attend a workshop. There he met a pretty girl Tamara from Belarush. Later she would write letters to him. He would reply to those letters from his home town. And he would publish a magazine with her pictures and some of his selected poems. So he wrote this poem for her.
155. THE POEM ‘THE ANT’
The ant swims
Against the current
So that he can reach
The grass flower bloomed
On the riverbank.
156. FANTASY OF ‘THE ANT’
This poem again indicated his inner wish to get back to his girlfriend and thus his home town. So he was imagining a tiny ant’s effort to defy the huge river current and go against it to enjoy the beauty of the grass flower.
157. THE POEM ‘ON THE SEA SHORE OF MADRAS’
The light of the world will go out slowly.
With reflections of the dense clouds on the breast
The waves hit the sea shore
Of Madras.
158. FANTASY OF ‘ON THE SEA SHORE OF MADRAS’
This was a poem conceived by a sea beach of Madras. He got a scholarship to stay and study in Chennai. Before his final diploma film in the institute, he got the chance. The head of the department advised to go for the course as his director delayed to start the final project. So he spent all most six months in Chennai. There he met new friends, both girls and boys. They would inspire him to write again. Actually in Bengali, the Madras was pronounced as Madraj after her British name. It would become Chennai post independence. So he used the word ‘Madraj’in the Bengali poem actually.
159. THE POEM ‘I’M WATER’
How do I tell you that
I’m water.
I’m destined to flow.
You’re the goose.
You came and played on me.
I saw with happiness
While flowing with speed.
Certainly you thought this was my hoax.
But how do I make you understand
That I’m the river water?
160. FANTASY OF ‘I’M WATER’
This poem was written after travelling to Korea and Madras. This had made him curious about the new places. So he was comparing himself with river water and trying to convince her girlfriend that he was not playing any hoax with her. But the journey of life had taken him away from her, though this emotion was temporary. Soon he would feel homesick again.
161. THE POEM ‘IF YOU CAN…’
If you can hold me tight;
I want to be stable.
In the palm tree like the weaver birds
We’ll live together.
I know the storm will come.
The nest will be ravaged.
Yet, hold me tight.
I want to be stable and
Look at the blue sky with my wondering eyes.
162. FANTASY OF ‘IF YOU CAN…’
This poem again expressed his desire to be stable and to form a family with his girlfriend. He would start writing his next novel ‘InFaTuAtIoN’ within a month. In this novel he would try to describe his feelings for opposite sex as infatuation. This novel would be highly misunderstood, misinterpreted and used as an untold source of cheap cinemas. But he wrote this story at the backdrop of his home town. He would gift it to some of his friends as well as sell it to some people. However, he wanted to be stable. But he did not know how. His future was uncertain and he could not marry anybody because of financial instability. His father got retired. He would leave the institute very soon. Amid all these he tried to forget the love of his puberty as infatuation. This poem was his desire to marry his girlfriend. And the novel was his counter intention to forget the affair he had by calling it infatuation. The different forces were working inside him. He was developing multiple personalities. One person in him wanted to be stable in life. But the reality was telling him that it was not possible. So he developed another mature pragmatic writer in him. The novel was the result of the head-on collision between these two personalities. And the immature lover created the poem.
163. THE POEM ‘THE DRIZZLE, CONTINOUS’
Depression, tiredness, and the smoke of cigarette –
In the bitter mouth there’re the tasteless buds.
In the brain the non-working sparks
Run like a barren sperm.
In the hole of sexuality there’s the failure.
Only picture, blood red rose and
Smell-less wall paper.
Different from cry, laughter –
Undefined feelings below the eyes.
Yet, after a long time
It feels good to see the continuous drizzle out there
On the lake water.
164. FANTASY OF ‘THE DRIZZLE, CONTINUOUS’
This was a flashback poem. He was writing this poem just before he would start writing Orange. This was the time when the idea of Orange was slowly developing inside his brain. But he was not being able to pen it down. He started a little bit of smoking and occasional drinking in the institute. So he was feeling frustrated in his brain. This poem was an abstract description of his state of mind.
165. THE POEM ‘IT CALLS CLOSE’
The smoke in black hair,
On the lips there’s the explosive of rotten cigarette.
Yet, into the eye balls the heart builds its hut.
It calls close
And closer.
166. FANTASY OF ‘IT CALLS CLOSE’
Again it was an abstract poem. He was sitting in the tea shop on the opposite side of his institute. He was gossiping with his friends. He was smoking a little bit. Occasionally he was drinking in his room with his teachers. Especially the production teacher used to come to his room occasionally. He used to take him out to the clubs of Kolkata often. There they used to chit-chat with wine and food. This poem was the result of the burning desire to create something.
167. THE POEM ‘WHAT’S SO WRONG IN IT!’
If he suddenly feels ostracised, what’s so wrong it?
What’s so wrong in it if the solitary mind lives in the solitary sky?
If it does not live, what’s so wrong in it?
From the infinite vacuum to more vacuum
Walking a lot of distance, panting in tiredness,
Just before the death if he finds a chunk of
Childhood,
What’s so wrong in it!
168. FANTASY OF ‘WHAT’S SO WRONG IN IT!’
He could not remember where he conceived this poem. But it was clear that he was still in the quest of his childhood. Momentarily he felt lonely. And he had a complex that always drove him to think that he might die tomorrow. So he did not care anything at all. He used to respect people. But he had no fear as always. But when the people, he loved and respected, betrayed him, he felt sad and lonely. It used to happen quite often in the institute. He did not like this phenomenon at all. And whenever he felt betrayed, he used to feel lonely and go down the memory lane to his childhood that was pure and jovial. Thus this poem got conceived – a momentary frustration.
169. THE POEM ‘WHETHER IT FEELS GOOD OR BAD…’
Whether it feels good or bad,
To live is the destiny.
Counting the pains of love,
In the dream of acquiring the ultimate state of mind,
Getting absorbed is the peace.
In the weight of dream, hope and wait
The courage to love is dim.
170. FANTASY OF ‘WHETHER IT FEELS GOOD OR BAD…’
The lover inside him spoke again. The factors of real life were hiding the lover time and again. He wanted to say that the institute gave him dream. But the same institute snatched his love from him. At the same time dream was there. But no straight way to reach the dream was visible. So it was bringing frustration in mind. But one had to live with all of these. So it was a moment of nothingness in life that would continue for a long period of time.
171. THE POEM ‘IN THE LAND OF JOY’
In the same boat, reaching the village of joy
They met each other.
They talked, they felt good, and they could focus on
Creating the joy.
In the end of the day, they had enough weary spare time.
Beneath the moon beam,
Amidst the workers,
They talked for a while and they had the wish.
They had a little time.
Meanwhile the task of creating joy got ended.
In the same boat, crossing the river
Both of them hugged each other.
It felt good, it felt happy, and the mind became empty.
172. FANTASY OF ‘IN THE LAND OF JOY’
Till now he had not hugged any girl. So this was his imagination what could happen after he hugged any girl. So the platonic love, the imagination might get lost – that was his doubt. He was not from a culture that would simply copy anything from the west like the copycats do. He was well aware of the Western Civilisation. But he was never taught to copy them without any justification. So he was just from a culture that did not allow couple to hug each other in public. It was the culture of Indian subcontinent. And he was not crazy for a hug. He was rather crazy for sex that was what couple should do. He was simply not into the half culture of the half pants.
173. THE POEM ‘THE EYES’
A pair of eyes that want to
See me time and again –
Let’s finish the life looking for them.
If they are found, what will be left?
174. FANTASY OF ‘THE EYES’
This was again a philosophical poem in the quest for two eyes that were crazy for him. Actually he was looking for a true love without conditions. And that was not possible in the labyrinth of the system that he was living in now. So his skepticism grew more and more. In fact in a world, where everyone seemed greedy for success, true love did not exist. So he was predicting that he would not find a true love in this life.
175. THE POEM ‘THE AIR COMES AND KISSES’
The air comes and kisses the whole body.
The naked homeless mind floats into
The deep darkness of dream.
In the greed to taste the flawless joy
The flower falls on the mud.
It rolls up and down in crazy mirth.
The petals get torn one by one.
In the storm, water, mud clad night
The air comes and kisses the whole body.
The naked homeless petal floats into
The deep darkness of dream.
176. FANTASY OF ‘THE AIR COMES AND KISSES’
This poem was about the desire to have sex. He was not rich. He stayed far away from home so he was homeless. And the word homeless was quite akin to Bengal. Post independence India got divided by the conspiracy of the British. Thousands of people got homeless due to the partition. The most affected states were Punjab and Bengal. He belonged to Bengal. So the word homeless reminded him about the partition. He read the history. He heard about it from his parents. So he also felt like one of them as a Bengali. So the word homeless was very important for him. Now far away from his home, he felt like a homeless. And as a homeless young man he also had the desire to have sex. So he wanted to have sex now. But he was afraid of the dark consequences too.
177. THE POEM ‘BOKUL’
See my friend under the Bokul tree how the Bokuls drop.
The leaves of the Bokul tree, how they move up and down.
The cold wind comes and softly touches them.
Suddenly a drop of rain falls on my bare skin.
I wish after calling I tell you with the open heart
See my friend under the Bokul tree how the Bokuls drop.
178. FANTASY OF ‘BOKUL’
This was a fun rhyme. He was recalling the Bokul tree that was there opposite to the gate of his high school. By now he had mastered the art of rhyme. So he was imagining two girls were playing underneath the Bokul tree and enjoying the nature and fragrance. So it was completely his imagination. This poem was a result of the Bengali rhymes he had read so far plus his imagination and attraction toward girls.
179. THE POEMS ‘UNCOVERED’
He finished ‘Grey Diary’ according to the blog. So he sent a mail to Stella attaching the updated draft. After that he took a refreshing shower and shaved his beard. Now he thought of relaxing for a few days until Stella called back. After almost two days in the morning Stella called him,
- Hi
- Hi, good morning.
- Good evening. What’s up?
- Nothing much, just relaxing a bit.
- Okay, that’s great.
- Have you read it?
- Yes.
- And how was it?
- Fantastic.
- Thanks!
- Are you in touch with your family?
- Yes over phone.
- How do they do?
- Bored of the lockdown. But they are fine.
- How is the situation in India?
- Lockdown till 3rd.
- After that…
- No one knows, what’s going to happen.
- Situation is worse in here.
- You have any idea regarding what to do in this situation.
- I have no clue. I am also tired of this situation.
- Yes, everyone is suffering due to the virus.
- Here in India the daily wagers are suffering a lot.
- How did you get this information?
- My dad called me in the morning.
- And what did he say?
- In Kolkata, the daily wagers are facing huge trouble.
- That’s quite natural.
- What are the governments doing out there?
- No idea. In this situation every news agency is busy promoting the leaders.
- Did you get any information regarding the food stock of India?
- Yes, one of my friends said that the central government had sent rice grains for eight months to West Bengal government.
- You mean to the state where your family lives?
- Yes.
- That’s great.
- No but it was not getting distributed properly.
- Okay.
- And what about Mumbai?
- Cases were increasing every day.
- Yes same here.
- Okay. Take care.
- I think it’s all happening due to this strange economy.
- Yes true.
- So what’s your suggestion at this stage?
- I don’t know. All I know everything is under threat.
- As in?
- As it happens in every congested city.
- What do you mean? Tell me specifically.
- For example take any congested city like New York, Tokyo, Mumbai or Kolkata.
- What about them?
- In these cities people commute like cattle in local trains.
- Yes true.
- That’s under threat.
- True. What about villages?
- There is no proper village anymore. In villages the farmers don’t want to farm anymore because of rapid urbanization. And most of their families have migrant labourers, who are now stuck in different states far away from home.
- What are they saying?
- What to say madam? They are coming out to the streets saying that anyway they are going to die.
- So they are not afraid of the virus.
- No longer.
- That’s gonna be dangerous man!
- Yes. I guess more danger is ahead. Everybody has a right to live comfortably.
- In USA also enough food is there. It just has to be distributed properly?
- And the GDP driven market economy won’t allow that.
- Yes, that’s where we are stuck. What about Tata?
- He is an exceptional man. But again people could not wait for the mercy of the rich. Not every rich is benevolent. It’s the right of the people to live a comfortable and better life. This point has to be noted.
- (Smile) Yes. Noted with thanks. Now calm down.
- Are you going to work more on this draft?
- Yes, why not?
- No I was thinking that everyone is getting upset with the situation. So I should not force you.
- You have never forced me.
- Thanks. What next you want to work on?
- On the poems ‘uncovered’.
- The section ‘open’ or something like that?
- Yes, this section consists of poems both from ‘The First Diary’ and ‘Grey Diary’.
- Okay.
- Yes, But these poems contain limitless unrestricted fantasies.
- Okay.
- So I categorised them in the section ‘Uncovered’.
- So it’s gonna be explicit now?
- Yes kind of.
- Great! You are going great.
- Thanks.
- Another thing I wanted to tell you.
- What?
- Gavin phoned Amarinder.
- Really?
- Yes.
- And what did they talk about?
- Nothing much. I did not hear the conversation. But he said that you should keep in touch with your friends, who read your books.
- Yes, I am in touch with at least two friends, who thoroughly read my books.
- That’s enough.
- Why? Are you going to take it to the court?
- Yes something like that may happen.
- That’ll be great. And ..
- Yes tell me.
- I sent my books to National Library of India and Asian Film Academy Archive in Busan too.
- That’s fantastic.
- Thanks.
- Let’s wait for the normalcy. Everything will be alright.
- I hope so. And till now I don’t need any more money from you…
- (LOL) You are a gentleman, indeed.
- Thanks.
- Okay. Bye for now.
- Bye.
180. THE POEM ‘SHAMELESS’
The heart cries for joy, the old stops it.
Can’t think what to do and where to go.
Seeing the soft smile, blood red lips, warm body,
Tell me dear how to stop it, the wish spreads its wings.
My blood is primitive, my body is crazy.
Shameless is my creation, how do I hate it?
The callous heart keeps looking to the path of great time –
When will the thunder fall on the artificiality?
The laughter of the old will be burnt and destroyed.
The civilisation will smile again with a lot of greens.
The warmth will be aroused and the joy will be flowed.
The will will fly again, nobody will stop.
In the land of joy at calm and cold night,
I will do whatever I want with my love.
In the sky the moon will smile blue and calm.
On this earth the flute of limitless joy will play.
With the infallible honey of Mahua and in the make-up of madness
The Dunduvi will play on the land of greens.
The empty bereft basket of heart will be fulfilled.
With the hues of lust every sorrow will go.
The stream wet with moonbeam will make the soma wet.
The dream of love will be aroused in the suave, cold and slippery body.
On the earth there will come the primitive nudity.
The civilisation of Monu will be destroyed.
So, let it go, let the old go, let it go to hell.
We will stay back unshackled and float in the river of joy.
181. FANTASY OF ‘SHAMELESS’
Now he was reading about Monu and Batsayan. As it was told before he would not take anything without proper justification. So he was totally discarding the idea of Monu that said sex was a duty to produce child. He liked Batsayan more since he told that sex is fun. In this poem he was throwing venom to the community of orthodox old people, who were the unsaid obstacle to have an intercourse with his girlfriend. He simply hated them. This poem was written in his teenage in his ‘First Diary’.
182. THE POEM ‘THE CHANGE OF TIME’
The wish is there in my marrow, the shame is thus gone.
I want to live the way I want with my own religion.
Whatever the blood-flesh-heart-mind tell, I do.
I am free, not shackled, but I keep dying in love.
The fire is on my eyes and in the body there’s the heat.
Whenever I want I’ll burn the ultimate youth-mind.
The tide will come close, the mind will become crazy.
The garbage of the dead river will be washed off.
Come and lick the will deadly and regretless.
The cry and smile, fire and spring, are fused in one body.
The heart is indifferent toward the shout, slogans or protests.
With the sorrow and joy the lamentation of heart got mixed up.
I know that and I follow that and I hear the song of heart.
I’ve been sitting here for thousand years, awaiting you.
The wish peeps through the corner of eyes and mind.
The change of time will come to break the old make-up.
Enough is enough, impatient, no waiting anymore.
The vagabond will create his luck with his own hands.
183. FANTASY OF ‘THE CHANGE OF TIME’
Again this was a poem from his “First Diary’. This was the beginning of his puberty. He was experiencing change in his body and mind. The sexual desire was growing inside. He was becoming crazy to have sex with his girlfriend. But the society is stopping him from doing that. So he was writing this poem. It was told before that the emotion, enough is enough, will produce some of his poems. And this one was one of them.
184. THE POEM ‘THE RHYTHM OF LIFE’
I will go with you to a new land far away
With the make-up of a vagabond leaving the shackle.
I will go far away leaving behind all shame.
I’ll go filling the heart with infallible rhythm of life.
Running to the deep forest with the call of green
I’ll play with you, the princess of my heart.
The sun will see, the moon will see, the star will see
What a joy flows along the two hearts!
Sinking in the beauty-ocean of the eternal beauty,
I’ll scout the jewel of heart time and again.
For a thousand years what nobody could see,
That wave of the unknown land will float us across.
Floating in tide we’ll leave the notorious bond.
How does it matter if the fools keep on brawling with each other?
The beauty has called me, I will for sure respond.
Leaving the false attire, I’m coming, just wait my dear.
The heart wants, so I’ll leave the decent eyes.
With the seven hues, on the body river, I’ll play love -holi.
185. FANTASY OF ‘THE RHYTHM OF LIFE’
This was a poem about running away from the eyes of the society to a new land, where nobody would be there to dictate them. But that was not possible in a society, where people were bound by the so called decency. This poem was against the decency – a desire to play with the body of his love in a new land. Actually he wanted to be alone with his girlfriend and taste her body. But again the society was bound by the ‘decency’. So he felt to be 'indecent' with his girlfriend.
186. THE POEM ‘IN HEAVEN-HELL’
You want to tether the light with the rules, the fire with the society!
With the force you want to stop the evergreen spring!
Every effort will go in vain; you will die rotting-melting.
The rule of the free was written by the nature.
The moon and sun will bring in night and day.
The joy of love will be fulfilled with the spring.
The flowers will bloom on the earth till the light is there.
In the dark tell me how the flute can play!
The heart gets filled with the music and happy wine.
The cry and pain get lost in the sound of laughter.
So,
In heaven-hell with blood-smell let the decent race live.
Smeared with grace, in the wild joy, let the night be spent.
187. FANTASY OF ‘IN HEAVEN-HELL’
The love made him realise that life was not all about happiness. It cannot be so called pure or holy. This idea of holiness was a pure contradiction to the human life. And he thought of sex and he wanted to have sex. So he was protesting against the norms of the society that were preventing them to have sex. As a solution he was telling how to live both in hell and heaven at the same time. That was what life is all about. It simply could not be just pure and holy. It had to be a mixture of the both.
188. THE POEM ‘CONFLICT’
In the conflict between soul and soma and the primitive friction,
The limitless joy within the limit exists with the love-bond.
In the body the joy of love has reached the epitome.
So, the mind is shameless in the ocean of love.
The suave river, wet body, primitive nudity
Bring in heavenly joy and extreme madness.
Underneath the fountain in the fusion of two bodies
The scarlet green nature plays with the tune of ultimate joy.
Decent-indecent bargain is happening in full swing.
The mind does not know, the heart does not hear sitting out there.
189. FANTASY OF ‘CONFLICT’
This was a poem about the conflict and touch. He was eager to touch his girlfriend vividly. In the puberty as the sexuality gets ripe, he felt the urge to have sex with her girlfriend. But only having sex does not mean anything. So he was talking about primitiveness, where there was no shame. Absolute pleasure under the scarlet sky in the green nature would engulf them. They would also be nude to explore the friction of the two bodies. That was what he wanted to do.
190. THE POEM ‘INDOMITABLE’
The sky, adorned with seven hues of rainbow,
Smiles in the new joy-dense dawn with dreamollusion.
The life rushes to get lost having no destination.
The desire floods across the mad heart.
The slim river’s dream friction on well-built stone –
The cold life gets satisfied with the warm touch.
On the chest of deep dense hill with ups and downs
The soft light strikes upon with fully mad joy.
When the happiness and joy flood breaking the dam,
How could the dove-duo not respond?
191. FANTASY OF ‘INDOMITABLE’
He was now describing a proper backdrop for sex. This poem was all about sex metaphorically. He compared himself with a stone and his girlfriend with a hilly stream. Again he was comparing her with soft light and himself with a hill. This way he was describing the desire along the poem. He was trying to say that everything was conducive for a fusion. So how could they not respond to it?
192. THE POEM ‘THE WISH’
In the fountain-wet, soft-sweet, lotus-smell of body,
The sad mind dances with the rhythm of the warmth.
Amid the life of seven hues, there is the wish –
If the warmth does not touch it how could it play?
The heart day-dreams and the mind spreads its wings.
The birds in the sky keep on flying.
In the dark forest the deer runs after the doe.
In the shy eyes of the doe the wish plays.
The spring wind strikes the green leaves.
Amid these the wild goose finds the geese.
With the rhythm of light, shadow, soft wind, and calm waves,
The love gets spread across the pores of the body.
Across the sky, wind and nature with the call of heavenly desire,
The wave of love is running today, who could stop it?
193. FANTASY OF ‘THE WISH’
This was a poem taken from his life and dedicated to all the lovers of the nature. He always found animals are purer than human beings. And the love is also unconditional. It was only possible, when one became part of the nature. So he was comparing the lovers with the deer, the goose etc. He was also challenging the establishment by saying that no one could stop this wave of love. It was pure, unconditional and natural.
194. THE POEM ‘VIBRATION’
The body looks for supplement, the will spreads wings.
Inside heart, therefore, the shape is imagined.
From sky to universe to the road of cosmic time,
As a feel for body, the existence remains confined.
The just-unjust - calculations - would have got confusing,
Had the humankind not found a shape, amazing.
Zero and infinity are quite an enigma.
Between them there lies the pain of soul and soma.
The allurement of dreamy joy and invisible illusion -
Everywhere there is a chemistry, hidden.
The creation of new is always in pain -
The irresistible, impassioned, vibration's rain.
The vibration is old gold - the root of creation.
The vibrated is, therefore, in quest of jubilation.
195. FANTASY OF ‘VIBRATION’
This poem had a long story. He was studying in a reputed college in the northern suburb of Kolkata. Now the reality was it was a boys’ college. So, they always missed girl friends. A girls’ school was there by their college. But he did not have any interest in the girls of that school since till now his girlfriend was unmarried. By this time he completed the manuscript of his first book ‘Hotya’. As a friend he used to visit another reputed university, where his school mate Purabi got admitted. Now he was studying Physics. He was meeting Purabi with his friends. And in this process, he fell in love with Purabi. Why he had no idea? In the course of time Hawking’s work on string theory got published. He read about it and discussed it with his friends. From this theory and the love and affection toward Purabi, this poem was born. This poem was like a child of them, yes Purabi and him.
196. THE POEM ‘FREE’
Jumbled-up all the fun.
The disease is called 'Think-not'.
A vagabond still believes though,
The horizon is earshot.
A girl weeps sitting there.
Of the fact she is aware
That she is alone unlike others.
Nobody is there for her.
The drunk vagabond notices
And then he beckons her.
She senses danger.
Yet considering a stranger
She comes closer.
The vagabond asks,
- "Why do you weep dear?"
- "I've been looking for days.
But I can't find a peer
Of my kind.” She says.
- "Why do you search dear?
The time will flow away."
- "I think of so many things
That I wanna share someday."
- "Why do you think like a fool?
If you don't, you'll get all,
Whatever you want and long
- a handsome plastic doll."
-" I don't want all those."
-" Then what? Only voice?"
-"You are right - a free voice.
Would you hear? I'll say
What I thought till today."
-" No dear. I'm diseased."
-"What disease? What's the name?"
-" 'Think-not' - a rare disease."
-"How is it? Symptoms?"
-" Time kicks, pinches and
Slaps hard on and on."
-" How strange? Dangerous?"
-"Yes, very contagious.
The whole town is suffering.
That's why I am fleeing
To a land where there is no time."
-"Where is the land of no time?"
-"Still searching, still searching.
I haven't yet found the thing."
-"Would you take me with you?"
-"Where would I take you to!?
It’s not possible, I guess!
Tell me how I can spoil your flowery face.
I'm in a complete mess -
No house, no address.
I have only one friend -
The dust of the road to no end.
People call me mad.
Some call me drunk and bad.
As they say I don't fit
In their great land.
Also, I never wanted to stay with them.
Yet, my heart clings to my homeland.
-"Then why did you leave?"
-" There came the epidemic
Ruining the rythm of life.
The disease is called 'Think-not' -
A very rare type.
This disease touched me and
I left my homeland
To look for a remedy.
I'll go wherever I can find it.
Can you show me the way to the land of remedy?"
-"You are diseased, indeed.
You are diseased, indeed.
You have lost your sight
And the creative mind.
The land you are looking for
Is by your side.
Tell me wanderer,
'Will you take me with you?' "
-"Wait a bit, wait a bit.
Let me just think a bit.
Who are you and
Why did you come across?"
-"I am at a loss
And I want a free voice."
-"I am at a loss
And I want a free land."
-"If we unite and explore,
There will be sorrow no more."
-The vagabond looks
This way and that way for nothing.
The flowers are newly bloomed,
The grasses are soaked with the jewels of spring.
The freedom comes walking close
So easily!?
The mind becomes burden-less,
Wonderful, wonderful
So easily!?
Splashes of lake water;
Mirth in heart's chamber.
The horizon is put today
Inside two eyes.
The chirp of happy birds,
The tune of happy flute,
The hymn of young woman
Are heard inside.
The sight is of no control.
The vagabond thinks, 'let it roll.'
- "On this colourful day
It will take us,
Through the serpentine way
To a little happy nest."
-"In that nest there'll be light -
The light of our eyes.
The soft and blue light."
-"The free light, the open light,
The moon light, the star light,
The calm and the lost light
of free taste."
-"The joy, the free hope and
The free thoughts will come
One after another doing good to us and
It'll be the best."
-"Where are you free girl?
Please spread out your hand.
Let me touch and let me be
Blessed in free land."
197. FANTASY OF ‘FREE’
This was a poem written when he was studying in the institute. This poem described his mental state. He could not propose to Purabi because he was uncertain about his future. He moved away from his home town. He could not propose to his girlfriend too. So he was now looking for a girl, with whom he could talk and who was like him meaning she had a vagabond mind. So he was anticipating a meeting that could change his life completely. Since his childhood he was a thinker. Besides studies he used to do a lot of things like playing football, drawing, reading story books and a lot more things. Everything was stopped after leaving home. The city Kolkata took away everything from him in the name of struggle. The huge syllabi of the university, the fear of failing in the examination, and the pain of living away from his girlfriend made him completely inert about life. After 2001 his life was complete anathema to his childhood and teenage self. However, he was surviving in a way or other. The cinema institute gave some breathing space though. But it was very little compared to his childhood. So he was imagining an encounter with a girl of his type.
198. THE POEM ‘FIRE’
The fire is inside me, the fire is my spell.
I feel like playing with the fire.
I have waves of joy in my smile, light in my eyes.
The body is full of mind blowing warmth.
That’s why I am arrogant, I don’t care.
With hard feet I trample on the old.
Who will stop me; let me hear who will stop me?
The dream is calling me from the sky.
That’s why I walk ahead without looking back.
Let the free mind rush to me seeing me there.
I’ll no longer keep anything hidden in my heart.
Like a kite I’ll shout underneath the blue.
199. FANTASY OF ‘FIRE’
Again this was a poem written by him on her behalf and thus for all young adolescent girls, who wanted to shout out and show off. It happened in the puberty. The nascent sexuality drove young girls toward attention. Some of them became attention seekers. This poem just described their mentality at a glance. Her girlfriend was also one of them. As described before she fled with a handsome guy to explore her sexuality as she probably did not get it from him. But later her family managed to bring her back to normalcy. He felt jealous obviously. But later he realised that she expected something from him, which he did not understand. He would realise it much later, when he grew up and there was distance between them. But anyway this was a real story. So she would not wait in reality. And he would keep on struggling for a better job. And both of them would part away in the course of time. Neither was it a fairy tale nor were the cheap movies that she loved to watch. So in reality she might get a happy family. But he would not get it so easily.
200. THE POEM ‘I’LL BE PRIMEVAL’
I’ll be primeval, I’ll be mad, I’ll be savage today.
Under the moon in the silent night take away my attire.
I’ll roll on the grass; I’ll sink into the blue water.
I’ll only call you forgetting all staffs.
The sound of falling leaves, the obscure darkness-
Only you and I and our bond of the warmth
Will bring in the ultimate moment and the night of limitless joy.
The calm mind will be unstable and the unstable will become mad.
The moonbeam will fall on the wet body time and again.
With the touch of joy, suave light, it’ll bind the body.
That body will remain waiting for you.
With its nude touch your heart will be filled with joy.
I can’t wait anymore, please come close to me
With heart, mind, body in make-upless make-up.
201. FANTASY OF ‘I’LL BE PRIMEVAL’
This was again a poem that showed his love for the nature. The primal life of human civilization was attracting him. He wanted to run away from the daily life. He wanted her touch. So he was imagining the pure beauty under the sky and into the blue. The moonlit night attracted him. The green grass attracted him. With all these he was creating a space where the pure love would happen. He wanted to cherish the feelings of heart and body together. So he was offering her his pure nudity. Now it was time for her to come close with her primal charm.
202. THE POEM ‘WITH THE DREAM’
I’m the soma-hearted, soma-minded, soma- meditating yogi –
The consumer of heart, soul, soma and dream.
My joy lies in consuming the heart in addition with soma.
Where to get a space for mind and the day-night of the joy.
Dreaming a lot, travelling more, I’ve come in the end.
Time and again I’ve fallen in love with the soul and soma.
Yet, where it gets stuck with what nobody knows.
Everywhere the shyness drags me behind.
The dreamy-dense-diffracted mind comes down suddenly
Smeared with the dissatisfaction of heavenly wild joy.
Yet, the mind does not hear, don’t know why, can’t get it properly.
Only I fill my empty heart with the dream.
203. FANTASY OF ‘WITH THE DREAM’
He was totally driven by materialistic philosophy. So he was mocking at the so called spirituality that was nothing but an illusion to get rid of the real desire. He simply thought that if he had desire, he should have worked to achieve it. But the norms of the society were stopping him from achieving that. The illusion of spiritual philosophies was nothing but redundant garbage of the society since no man could ever claim that he never masturbated. So this was where the soul and soma were related. So he wanted to give a damn to yoga, meditation and other methods that prepare the mind not to achieve the desire. He felt that his mind should have worked toward the desire. To him it was all fine until he was not hurting anyone. Having sex was not a taboo for him; of course it had to be consensual. But old monks of the society did not understand it. He believed in playing games, doing physical exercises but yoga. So he was calling him a soma-meditating yogi, which was an oxymoron phrase indeed. He was mocking at the idea of meditation and yoga, indeed.
204. THE POEM ‘WARMTH’
What starts with seeing, becomes ultimate with friction.
So every mind lives the life while the body burns.
Urban, rustic, wild, civilized get fused in the same joy.
Without warmth living is not possible for this life.
It’s beyond-beauty illusion, a unique sensation.
To express it in words is simply a mad’s job.
With the touch between the bodies, it gets aroused.
It makes the weary body wet in warm love sap.
In birth, thought, dream, sleep the silent warmth
Arouse the eagerness to live time and again.
At spring night on the bed in primal fusion
The warmth writes the bond with flawless rules.
So,
Why to live with machines, spells and cults
Only if you get fused in joy, you’ll understand.
205. FANTASY OF ‘WARMTH’
After writing so many poems about sexuality, now he was feeling that it could never be expressed in words. So the puberty driven sexuality was telling him that there was nothing more important than to have sex at a spring night. And all the people, be it rustic or urban, could never escape this enigma of desire. That was simply mind blowing to experience sex. But it was again not possible for the norms of the society. So he was writing this poem.
206. THE POEM ‘BODY’
In the eyeballs there’s the well adorned thunder spark.
In the lips there’s the instigation of happiness.
On the shaved cheeks there’s the assurance of softness.
To fill it with happiness, the warmth is calling.
In the high and wide shoulders, there’s the wave of peace.
On the upper body with the muscles the dream talks.
On the two chests the lungs move up and down.
Afterward there’s the wavelike smooth desire.
Within this there’s an immobile silent hole.
Its soundless call is severely savage.
With limitless addiction the thin waist is bound.
In the shameless lower part there’s the enigma of hips.
The call of fire-spring by the valor with the infallible supernatural
Is staying all alone at the same place silently.
With a little touch of warmth it wakes up.
And the impatient woman gets the sheer thrill.
Along the healthy thigh, the beauty of muscles -
To touch them the fairy is always eager.
So, in severe heat at the call of fire, the eyeballs are stable.
The heaven of joy, where will you flee without touching it?
207. FANTASY OF ‘BODY’
This was again a poem he was writing on behalf of his girlfriend. He wanted to explore her fantasy. Thus he was writing a description of the body of a man. He was now delving into the fantasy of a woman. This poem was about how girls want to see a man. It was an abstract poem about the body of a man. That was quite interesting for him. It started with his girlfriend’s psychology. But the poem became universal. One might recall the Vitruvian man of Da Vinci. But he wrote it in his puberty much before knowing about the Vitruvian man. In fact it was an abstract poem, not as direct an approach as Leonardo drew it. However, critics could say anything. But he wrote it to explore the fantasy of his girlfriend. Later he would also write about the body of a woman.
208. THE PHONE CALL
The weather was sunny here. He was busy writing the draft. After finishing the poem ‘Body’, he took a bath. Then he prepared the breakfast and had it with coffee.
He did not expect it. But Stella phoned him.
- Hi
- Good morning.
- Good evening.
- What’s up?
- Working on the draft.
- That’s great.
- Actually I’m impatient to read it.
- Wait for a few more days.
- Okay.
- Actually this section was tougher than the ‘Grey Diary’.
- I know.
- How do you know?
- My translator told me that.
- Yes. So it’ll take some time.
- Okay.
- What’s happening in California?
- Nothing new, situation is quite complicated now.
- Why?
- Because of lockdown.
- Yes that I know. But is there any new development?
- Yes, each and every person is being tested here.
- That’s nice.
- Yes. But life is getting boring.
- Yes true. Don’t worry, everything will be alright soon.
- Hope so. What’s happening in India?
- Home ministry relaxed the lockdown from today.
- That’s great. So you can shop now.
- Yes, but not at malls.
- Okay.
- Yes, only the local shops will be open with restrictions.
- That’s nice.
- Yes, I’ll go for shopping soon.
- You should.
- Yes.
- Could you please send me the draft?
- Yes, but the ‘uncovered’ section has not been completed yet.
- Don’t worry. Take some rest. I’m feeling bored in here.
- Okay. I’ll send it soon.
- Just send it now. I am crazy to know about your explicit fantasies (smile).
- Okay. As you wish.
- Okay. I’ll get back to you soon after reading the draft.
- Okay.
- Till then you take rest.
- Okay.
- Good night.
- Bye.
Stella cut the line. He sent the draft to her. After two days, she phoned him in the morning.
- Hi
- Yes, I was just awaiting your call.
- I know.
- Have you read it?
- Yes, it’s fantastic. I just loved it. You really have the guts.
- Thanks.
- It’s gonna be a path breaking work, I’m telling you.
- I always try to be unique.
- I know your life is unique.
- Are you going to make a movie out of it?
- Yes that’s the real purpose.
- That’ll be great.
- And you will act in this movie.
- I’ll decide that.
- No I insist.
- But I’m fat and bald now.
- Don’t worry. Try to reduce your weight and rest of the things could be worked out.
- It’ll not look realistic.
- It’ll.
- Okay. Who will direct the movie then?
- You.
- How is it possible?
- You know better than me.
- Okay, I’ll devise a plan since you insist.
- That’s better.
- Okay.
- But finish the draft first.
- Yes, that has to be done at any cost.
- Cost is my headache. You just keep working on it.
- Okay, thanks.
- How is your family?
- All good.
- Nice.
- Good night.
- Bye.
209. THE POEM ‘FAIRY TALES’
These norms rules bonds appear to be intolerable.
Whatever we want, we’ll do. We have no restraint, fear.
If I wish I will fly in the sky.
If we wish we will get fused secretly.
Wish is natural to me and the blood is mad.
I’ll write the fairy tales of life anew.
210. FANTASY OF ‘FAIRY TALES’
This was again a poem about his hidden desire. He wanted to run away with her in a secret place and have sex. But he was restrained by the society. He was predicting that he would write the fairy tales anew since the fairy tales that people read so far did not have a realistic approach. They were simply full of fantasies to become princess and prince. But the conclusion of these fairy tales was always a happy ending, which was quite against the real life. Actually he was predicting that he would write Orange sooner or later. That’s the fairy tale of today.
211. THE POEM ‘IN SCANTY ATTIRE’
On the nude body a little darkness and littlest clothes –
Today, the definition of beauty is in the mould of mini and micro.
Anew, in new make-up, in new fun
The primal joy smiles through the scanty attire.
The blue sky, wild green, or the colour of fire,
Whatever the styles of the designer’s smart cut,
It’ll hit the market with success with its appeal.
Ah, in the scanty cloth there lies the pure happiness.
Scanty dress, scanty shape, but yet not scanty.
On the breast it takes care of the fire of illusion.
Sometimes it’s mysterious, sometimes it’s mad.
Looking at a glance, the heart gets mad.
When the cleavage between soft joys start on warm breast,
It binds him suddenly midway –
The duo joys get more and more mysterious,
The mad heart with eager eyes sees without speech.
If it drops from the shoulder a bit,
If the cloth moves a little bit on the soft breasts,
Forgetting the argument, brawl, huff, esteem
Beggars, pseudos, honests, dishonests – all rush in.
In the night in solitary room, with you my love,
While diving into the ocean of love I also wish that
In arm-amunition-clotheless scanty attire,
Let me see you at a happy night sitting by there.
212. FANTASY OF ‘IN SCANTY ATTIRE’
This was a fantasy that every man had. He was a voracious reader. He used to read anything that was there in front of him. He used to collect the sensual photos of celebrities from news papers and magazines. He had a diary, where he used to paste them. In this poem he was discarding the idea of pornography by Picaso, since he was getting pleasure out of watching the celebrities in scanty attires. So now his young mind was being crazy to see his girlfriend in scanty attire. It was just an ordinary fantasy that every young man had. Later he would realise that it was not an easy task to make a good pornography though since sex was a transient in the average daily routine of life. So it was certainly not easy to deal with the transient and make a good piece of cinema out of it so easily. There was a huge chance to get shocked by the transient. However, he wanted to see his girlfriend in scanty attire.
213. THE POEM ‘HOT AND SOFT’
Hot hot wish of
Soft soft youth –
With this there is the unsaid
Heart’s beating.
The bodyful of sparks
Look for heap of explosives.
In the wait of explosion
The heart is silent.
The pure explosion
Has no fear of sin.
In the warm river
Let the tide and forbidden
Storm come.
214. FANTASY OF ‘HOT AND SOFT’
He was feeling the urge again. So he was awaiting an explosion. It was his desire to have sex with his girlfriend that was getting stopped time and again because of the norms of the society. So he was simply comparing his urge with the sparks and the ecstasy with the explosion.
215. THE POEM ‘MAKE-UP TALK’
Flying the hair, arrogant, trembling the red lips
I walk the way I want. The flood of the youth
Flows on the soft body with the warmth.
Looking at that thousand eyes talk about me.
At waist the jeans stops after a slip,
After the showy top the navel peeps through.
I walk with firm steps like a horse.
After every step there is the smooth soil beneath.
Swinging the clothes, I walk with a different gait,
When I wear sari, see-through, of the colour of my wish.
The colour of shoes matches with the transparent sari.
The obscure body comes up at the night of joy.
On Saturday at calm night nobody can stop me.
Just below the waist slipping a bit the make-up ends.
On smooth thighs there comes the flood of soft light.
I dance leaving all the senses of holiness or sin.
On the sea-shore, when I run in dremolluison,
I flaunt all my beauty behind the touch of a bikini.
I play with my love in the water of sun set.
I become unstable, when the night arrives.
Ultimate, soft and hot, the attires of my night –
I put make-up on my darling as I want to do.
After that the creator knows what the state of my love is.
My beauty is the result of curd, sandal and cucumber.
Eye liner, mascara, body lotion,
Lipstick, massage oil, foundation,
With all these I have my world amidst the family works
I always look for a better self as I want.
216. FANTASY OF ‘MAKE-UP TALK’
Again this was a poem written on behalf of her girl friend. He belonged to a middle class family. She belonged to a middle class family. And both of them have fantasies that were discussed so far. Now he was writing the fantasy of her girlfriend about make-up. Every girl liked to wear make-up as her girlfriend did. So he wanted to write poem regarding all the young girls, who loved to feel a bit arrogant, a bit confident after wearing the make-up. This poem was basically a result of reading the section, where the tips about how to look better used to be published, of a typical commercial news paper as he was facing problems with pimples. His acnes made him worried about his look. He did not understand that was quite natural in puberty especially for the boys and girls with oily skins. So he started reading about cosmetic and herbal treatments for skin along with fashion. Thus this poem came into play.
217. THE POEM ‘SOMA’
Those enchanting eyes are filled with dreams.
The blood red lips are smeared with cry and smile.
Stable voice, sweet tune, suave soft body –
Even in the dream, seeing them the mind wants to rush in.
About those stormy breasts, what’s the mystery?
Thinking that time passes, there is no laziness.
The hot-soft-mango-like frozen two joys –
With touch, love, beauty they fulfill the desire of a man.
In the land of light, the soft suave plane
Has got the mine of beauty along the space.
In the waist there flows the stream of thin river.
With the touch of it the sagacity of the old becomes silent and immobile.
The fire lies there within the mysterious chasm.
Along the mind and heart from body to body it binds the society.
For the trembling thighs and the weight of the hips
Ages after ages the mankind feels febrile.
The soft, supple, wet, suave, light danger -
With this rhyme the limbs of her are kept in order.
218. FANTASY OF ‘SOMA’
After the poem ‘Body’, he was now describing the female body, achieving what is his fantasy, of her girlfriend. So as a result he was writing this poem on behalf of the race of men, who always dreams to have sex with a perfect female body. This was an abstract description of a female body. He was also warning that if one delves too much into the soma of a woman, it might become fatal. But nothing wrong in writing poems about her, painting her picture, marrying her or even having sex with her in case it was consensual. Everything is okay. But it could be dangerous to handle a bimbo. That’s all what he wanted to say.
219. THE POEM ‘AT THE NIGHT OF JOY’
Let all the sorrows go away
At the night of joy.
Let the rain fall along the body
Now and today.
Let it soak all the limbs
Of yours and mine.
With the wet make-up
We’ll mate.
The night will wake up.
220. FANTASY OF ‘AT THE NIGHT OF JOY’
This was again a dream to mate with his girlfriend in a rainy day. He was trying to conceive a perfect place an environment for their sex to happen. But he could not do it since he was an introvert in nature. He could write pages after pages, but he could not tell his girlfriend that he wanted to have it with her. He was often very unsure about the conclusion of their love as fairy tales did not exist in reality. He could not remember exactly when he wrote the poem. But it was still showing that he was feeling upset. Whenever he was upset, he would write something to cheer him up. Thus he wanted to create a space and time that would be conducive to their mating.
To be continued ...
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