The Importance of Silence: Why we need to cut down on the noise

Noise. Of differing frequencies, pitches and oscillations. From different sources. Everywhere.
On the street. People shouting, screaming, straining to make themselves heard in the din. Vehicles honking, asking other vehicles to make way, or just announcing their presence.
In our homes. The TV on all day- especially the specter of news anchors moderating shouting matches on live TV, in the garb of 'debate'. The laptops or stereo systems blaring full blast.
On the 'social scene'. People talking out loud everywhere. Laughing, crying, bitching, mocking.
Sitting in the living room of my home, on the top floor of an  ONGC colony apartment building, all I can hear is the sound emitted by vehicles passing on the road outside the colony, disturbing my mental peace. Since Goregaon is a posh suburb, I don't see that situation ending anytime soon.
That was vehicles. Let's move on to people.
Why are we so loud as a species?
Why do we need to be making noise all the time?
Why do we feel the need to create a cacophony, a constant babble of sounds in which not one person can get in a comprehensive word in sideways?
Why do we detest people who like to remain silent most of the time?
Why do we treat people who speak less with suspicion?
Why do we need for everyone around us to open their mouths and keep yapping all day...even if most of what comes out of our mouth is inane, frivolous stuff?
Why do we chuck people of few words out of our social circles, and treat them like outcasts?
Why don't we aspire to become better listeners, rather than better orators?
Why do we want to stress our vocal cords to more than necessary?
Why do we need, in hospitals and libraries, signs that say 'SILENCE PLEASE'?

Why on earth can't we respect this thing called 'SILENCE'?
Silence is a state of being, in which your mouth remains shut and your mind speaks.
Silence is a phase of introspection, of spending some quite time with yourself, all by yourself. Of discovering who you are, of thinking about life, about things.
Silence is a meditation in itself. A time for thoughts, for enriching ourselves mentally, and even spiritually.
Even as an atheist, I like to go and sit in a church. Why? Because of the complete, pin-drop silence they have over there. The only sound being made when the chorus of people singing hymns.
I love libraries and bookstores for the same reason. They are places of complete, blissful silence. Where I'm not afraid of loud chatter bursting my eardrums and distracting me from my work.
From my study, or writing or reading.
Introverts are known to be mostly silent people. I have always been an introvert, staying lost in my books and laptop and music most of the time.
I talk very less, as compared to the extroverts around me, who are much more voluble and create, in certain cases, what I call 'noise pollution'.
I talk only to people I really like; the rest, I courtesy with formal greetings and leave it at that ( but there are people with whom I hit it off, such that, even though we meet after long periods of time, I can talk to them for hours on end).
I like to sit quietly and observe, or listen to people when they talk to me or among themselves.
A lot of my material for writing comes from this observation thing.
Does that make me quirky?
Yes, maybe a little.
But I respect my silence. I stake claim to one of my fundamental birthrights: THE RIGHT TO SILENCE.
I expect others to respect that right.
There is this place I like to go to, within the recesses of my mind. The Temple of Silence, I call it.
It is a place where I can think, ruminate, analyze, have epiphanies, collate information I have absorbed like a sponge, create poems, stories and novels.
To enrich myself intellectually. To use my tongue only when it is needed, to speak good of others and to say the right things when needed.
To give my time only to people whose mental wavelength matches with mine.
It is better to be in silence and read a good book, produce a piece of poetry or prose or article, or read a good magazine or science journal or watch a good movie/serial...rather than waste my precious time talking to people I don't even like.

The point of this LoNG lecture is to say: We must respect silence. We must respect it within us, and we must respect those within others too.
Silence is a virtue we must value in others...because we must learn to be better listeners, both to other people and to the language of our subconscious.

So, when are you observing your rite of silence? Do you have your own Temple of Silence you escape to when you feel the need to? How does it enrich you? How do you plan on cutting down the noise from your lives?

Staying Alive

 Staying Alive

The fog rolled in from the swamp, leaving its characteristic opacity on everything it touched, corrupting the air, leaving the vicinities it covered in a dull haze of bleakness, acting as an accomplice to the already downcast inky blue sky.

“God! It comes again!” a man called Marvin said, pulling his jacket closer around himself, looking out through the living room window, shivering slightly, watching the fog march on and obscuring everything within seeing distance.

The same thought, at the same time, passed through the minds of the twenty-five thousand five hundred and fifty four residents of Weeping Marsh, as they saw what Marvin saw, their eyes widening in fear as their minds made the connection, their bodies trembling with more than the biting chill of the cold weather.

“Oh our Father in heaven! Protect your children from the evil designs of Satan, who attacks our holy abode again!” Father McCallis muttered under his breath, making the sign of the cross and touching the crucifix dangling from his neck and resting on his chest, as a reassurance, as he too witnessed The Fog from the window of his living quarters behind St. Francis’ Church.

“Jack! Molly! Come in, now!” Brenda Tyler shouted from the front door at her children, playing outside.

Both children looked at their mother, their innocent eyes widening in surprise.

“Come in, I pray you, children!” Brenda shouted again.

Both the kids rushed inside immediately, and Brenda closed the front door, putting all locks and bolts in place.

She would not let The Fog touch her house. Ever.

Crazy Catherine smiled her buck-toothed smile as she watched The Fog, her eyes gleaming.

Her hands gripping the thick, round metal bars of the small circular window that belonged to her cell. Her cell in the asylum of St. Aloysius Center for the Criminally Insane, located on the outskirts of Weeping Marsh.

‘ As my eyes see the unearthly light,

The Fog rolls through Weeping Marsh,

Whom will it claim tonight,

I hope their death isn’t very harsh’

Crazy Catherine sang out loud, alerting the other inmates in the other cells.

They started banging their fists against the bars of their prison, eliciting a thumping, clunking music, shrill, high-pitched, as they sang along with Catherine, in chorus, filling the dank halls and corridors of the asylum with sounds never heard except on that night, every year.

Sister Bettina came out of her office, shaking her head.

“The crazies are at it again! What is wrong with these half-wits?” she muttered, gritting her teeth.

She summoned the other nuns, working under her, involved in running the madhouse, and they split up, going in groups of twos on the various wings of the various levels, trying to hush the inmates, but to no avail.

Because of all the crazies continued to stare out the windows of their cells, bang their fists against the bars and sing the verse which had terrorized Weeping Marsh for more than fifty years, serving as an omen of the catastrophe to strike the residents.

“It’s that horrible song again! How do they know when to sing it?” asked Ruby Singer to her husband Bob, lying beside her on the conjugal bed.

“I don’t know, they just do. Maybe they understand the true meaning of The Fog, being trapped in their own minds and all. I never understood this legend they keep referring to,” Bob replied.

“What legend?”

“You wanna hear it now, hun? I’m sort of sleepy right now.”

“Tell me…tell me what you know…”

“I don’t know the whole story…but some of my buds say that this fog thing…it … it kills people.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Every year, on this every day, the fog rolls in from the marsh. This fog is different than the normal fog…it is thicker, colder and bleaker. Also, when it dissipates the next morning…people are found dead…that’s all I know.”

The Singers just moved in eight months ago…into Bob’s father’s house which was lying locked up in Weeping Marsh for many years.

They had no idea where they had chosen to come, trying to get away from the hustle-and-bustle of the city after their kids left for college. If they knew what Weeping Marsh actually was, they would’ve preferred the city or gone to some other ‘idyllic’ corner of the countryside.

“But how can a fog kill people?”

“God knows. I told you, I never was able to understand completely the mystery behind it. But I did hear them talking about some curse. There is supposed to be a curse on this place, for the last many years.”

“Curse? What curse?”

“I have no idea. My father left this place when I was very young…he told me about Weeping Marsh but never told me why he relocated to the city. My parents never talked about it.”

“Could it have been that your dad left town because of this curse-thing?”

“Maybe. He and my mom never talked about it- in between themselves or with me. So it was never important enough for me to ask him about it.”

“Huh. Well, I find it hard to believe that a simple fog can kill people. So I am going to stop asking you about it now, and we’re going to forget about it. Right?”

“Right. Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Someone is going to die tonight. I wonder who it will be,” Rosie Parker said aloud, staring out the window.

“Again…what is the story behind this fog thing?” asked her cousin Clara, who also lived in the city and was in the town on a visit.

“Well, I know only what the elders have told me. I have no idea how much of it is true…who knows how many of these tales are?” Rosie replied.

“Why would you doubt your elders’ version of the story?” Clara asked, frowning.

“I just think they, more often than not, embellish details of the truth to protect us. I mean, they think they are protecting us.”

“Anyways…tell me the whole story,” Clara persisted.

“Well…this was almost nine decades ago. Across the marsh, there lived a black woman called Ruth Williams. She is said to have been a witch- and brought down calamities on anyone who happened to cross her path, using voodoo and other such black magic instruments. But they could never prove anything. Suddenly, one day, the young girls and boys of the village started disappearing, one by one. Everyone suspected Ruth was doing it. She was killing the young girls and boys of Weeping Marsh and sacrificing their blood to the Devil whom she worshipped.”

“Then?”

“The townspeople went to her house, dragged her out of the house, and burnt her alive at the stake, at the market square. Then they threw her body in the marsh. From that time onwards, every year on this day, Rosie’s vengeful ghost comes back, in the form of that fog, and avenges her death by hypnotizing few of our people to commit suicide in different ways.”

“How does she hypnotize the villagers?”

“She sings a song. Mother tells me it’s a lonely, melancholy tune and has an effect on the townsfolks’ minds, so they do as she tells them.”

“Wow. A black witch coming to haunt the town where she was killed. I wonder who will die tonight,” Clara wondered.

“Will they ever stop singing that horrible song?” Sister Jude asked, as she and Father McCallis conferred in his office, watching the fog obscure the large, stained glass windows of the church and making it impossible to see anything outside. The church was located on the edge of Weeping Marsh, and the asylum could be seen from there, being only a few hundred feet away.

The chorus rendition of what was known as the ‘Omen of Death’ song in Weeping Marsh had, by then, reached the ears of every family within earshot of the church, just like it happened every year. No one could stop the songsters of St. Aloysius from singing, led by Crazy Catherine…no one could dispel the mad glint in their eyes, no one could possibly know that the ghost of Ruth Williams communicated with them in their dreams. No one could know the truths she whispered in their ears.

“They will stop only when this injustice stops, Sister Jude,” Father McCallis said, shaking his head.

“What injustice do you speak of, Father? She comes back on this day every year and takes away our people. She doesn’t even spare our children. Innocent lives are taken every year and we are unable to lift a finger to stop it,” Sister Jude retorted, her hands on her chest.

“You know what injustice I speak of, Sister. The injustice that was done to Ruth Williams and her family all those years ago. You know that the story about her being a witch and all is pure hogwash. She wasn’t the person she was accused of being. Our children think their parents and grandparents were heroes, having vanquished a murderer like Ruth- which she wasn’t. The fact is, our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents were cowards. They were way too big of cowards to let our children know the truth about what happened that night, almost ninety years ago,” Father McCallis replied, a pained expression on his old, wrinkled face.

“I know as well as you do about what really happened that night. But the children or their parents today have nothing to do with it. Why is Ruth taking innocent lives just to avenge her death?”

Father McCallis stood up from his chair, and banged his fist on his desk.

“Not just her death, Sister, not just her death! She is avenging the deaths of her children and her husband too! When will you understand? We have everything to do with it, Sister! Our children are all descendants of our forefathers who massacred Ruth and her family! That included your family and mine too. Your grandfather and a few others, including mine, raped Ruth, because she was a black woman living in a town where vestiges of white supremacy still remained! When she protested, they called her a witch and accused her of killing innocent children! When the truth is those children were kidnapped and killed by someone else! Ruth’s children and husband were set on fire in front of her, Sister! And then she was burnt at the stake, without being given a chance to speak the truth. We threw their bodies into the marsh like they were pigs or something. We buried the truth all these years, like the cowards we are, and let the wounds of the dead fester till they became like rabid dogs and started taking vengeance. Her children and husband were taken from Ruth, as was her dignity, and now she wants payback! Why don’t you understand?” Father McCallis yelled.

“They…they were protecting us…” Sister Jude started to retort, tears in her eyes.

“Protecting us, Sister? Please do not utter such lies in the house of our Lord! They weren’t protecting us- they were protecting themselves! From our judgment, from having to take responsibility for their crimes and face punishment! Only a few families, including yours and mine, know the truth about Ruth Williams, for all these years! We could have protected our children if we had told them the reality! We could have let them give Ruth and her family a decent burial and punish the culprits. But we preferred to keep mum, and Ruth decided to get her own vengeance. The child is punished for sins of the father, Sister. We are responsible for letting our own children die,” Father McCallis replied, and tears flowed from his eyes too.

“But we have to stop this…this madness…we must stop Ruth…”

“ There is only one way to stop Ruth…and that is to tell the truth about that night, and put Ruth’s angry soul at rest. Are you ready to own up, along with me and the others, for the sins of our grandparents, Sister Jude?”

Sister Jude opened her mouth to reply, and then stopped, all of a sudden. She froze, and her hands fell limp by her sides. Her pupils dilated out of focus, and her face became expressionless like a stone statue.

“Sister Jude?” Father McCallis asked, looking at her with his eyes wide.

But she wasn’t listening to him, because her ears were filled with another sound. The voice of a woman singing a song.

‘I keep the promise I made that night,

When you annihilated my beloved ones,

Your survival instincts you must fight,

Because to my tune of death you will dance.’

Father McCallis’s eyes went wide and his hands went to his chest, to the crucifix dangling there.

“Lord save us!” he whispered, seeing the outline of a human on the glass window right behind Sister Jude, highlighted against the diffused light coming from outside.

‘Sister Jude, let’s go. To your death.’

Sister Jude nodded her head once, then turned on her heel, and walked up to the window.

“Sister Jude! No!” Father McCallis yelled, pushing his chair backwards and running around his desk.

Sister Jude smashed the glass with three quick punches of her fists.

“Sister! No! Staying alive is important!”

Sister Jude rested her bloody hands on the jagged ends of the smashed glass and put one leg up, ready to step out into the fog.

“Judith! No!” Father McCallis shouted, running towards her.

He was stopped in his tracks. By the specter of the burnt body of Ruth Williams, standing in front of him. The only part not charred being her chocolate brown eyes, staring at him, the pupils burning like Hellfire.

‘No, Father. No. Do not stand in my way.’

Her words rang in his ears.

“But she’s innocent…” he protested.

‘She’s not. Her soul is damned to burn in hell. She will die for her father’s sins.’

Sister Jude stepped outside the window, into the fog. She picked up one of the shards of glass lying on the window.

Closing her eyes, she slit her throat, the wound going deep.

“Judith!” Father McCallis yelled, running up to the window, and getting a spray of hot red liquid right in the face.

He squinted through the fog, trying to locate the nun, tears flowing copiously down his cheeks.

“Judith,” he whispered, wiping the blood off his face.

“Grandpa! Where are you going?” Rosie Parker asked, running after her grandfather.

But he didn’t turn back to reply, and continued walking away from the house, carrying a shovel in his hand, his ninety-eight year old body stumbling side to side. His eyes clouded over, only one song ringing in his ears.

‘I keep the promise I made that night,

When you annihilated my beloved ones,

Your survival instincts you must fight,

Because to my tune of death you will dance’

“Rosie! No!” Clara shouted, pulling her cousin away from the back door.

“We have to go stop him!” Rosie yelled, her hand outstretched.

“Stop whom?”

“Grandpa! He suddenly walked out with a shovel in his hand, without saying anything!”

“What? Where is he going?”

“I don’t know!”

“Let’s go find him then!” Clara said.

But as both sisters reached for the door knob, it shut in their faces with a loud BANG.

“What’s happening?” Rosie asked, shocked.

“I don’t know!” Clara exclaimed, equally shocked.

Rosie tried opening the door, but it stayed firmly shut.

Barney Parker walked on, towards the swamp, a voice guiding him onwards. Staggering through the fog, oblivious to the chill, he entered the thicket of trees which formed the entrance to the swamp. He walked on through the trees, until he reached some sort of a clearing, semi-circular in shape.

Then he started to dig.

                          ***********

Next morning, the fog would clear from the town of Weeping Marsh, only some of it being left in the surrounding swamp.

They would find Barney Parker in the swamp, his brain blown to bits by his own gun, clutched tightly in his one hand. His other hand clutching a note.

My father, Bertie Parker, raped and killed thirty four young children of Weeping Marsh, and stayed silent when they put the blame on Ruth Williams. He also participated in the murder of her and her family.

                                                                                   Barney Parker

                                                                                      

They would find Father McCallis kneeling by the bloody corpse of Sister Judith Brennan, crying, a crucifix held tightly in his hand.

Sister Bettina and her fellow nuns would find the ‘half-wits’ of St. Aloysius Centre for the Criminally Insane sleeping peacefully, their singing having ceased as soon dawn broke over Weeping Marsh and the fog started to recede.

The inmates slept serenely, a smile on their faces, their arms crossed over their chests.

As the ghost of Ruth Williams watches over all of them, unseen, unfelt, reading their minds, selecting her next victims.

Copyright @ Percy Kerry 2014

Book review- IRKADURA by Ksenia Anske

Blurb: My mama became a catfish when I was two, on the day I stopped talking."

Neglected since birth by her mother, Irina Myshko hasn’t spoken a word for most of her short Soviet life. Outcast as a mute idiot and abused by her mother's boyfriends, she escapes into an alternate reality where true natures show and people are revealed as the beasts they are. Pregnant, homeless, and penniless, Irina has to make a choice — learn to live in this splintered world or descend into madness.

As a voracious reader, I have come across many books in life. Some, I read just for a good time and then forgot about. Some, I read and remember for quite some time- books with memorable characters in touching stories which enriched me as a person. And then there are books like IRKADURA, which is not only memorable but also heart-wrenchingly honest in its prediction of the brutality that we humans inflict on each other, and roused me from my long somnolence about the insidious evil that prevails in some of our minds and hearts.
Irina Myshko is a beleaguered teenager in Soviet Russia, grappling with an abusive, negligent, alcoholic mother and a drunkard rapist of a step-father. Constantly sexually abused by her mother's boyfriend and numerous lovers, Irina decides to run away from home one fine morning. Pregnant, alone and helpless in a big, merciless city and at the mercy of a hypocritical, cold and apathetically cruel society, Irina copes with her predicament by resorting to magical realism- she turns all the humans into animals in her head, decreeing each person's animal name by their respective natures and actions. While her mom is a catfish, her rapist stepfather is a boar.

As Irina tries to grapple with the demons in her head, undergoes more torture on the streets and also encounters new people and adventures, she has to walk a thin line between keeping her mind and losing it completely...to carry her story to a shocking, highly emotional conclusion.
IRKADURA is many things all at once. It is the heart-wrenching, gritty story of a young, dumb-mute, physically, sexually, verbally and mentally tormented teenage girl who braves all odds to survive and conquer her horrifyingly brutal past. It is a between-the-lines commentary of the social mores prevalent in Soviet society at that time- the hypocrisy, the misogyny, the harsh judgment on people who happened to be different, the coldness towards people in dire need of help, the apathy, the discrimination. The prevailing attitudes towards women. It is a love story. It is a portrayal of the bitter reality of the human psyche. It is a  possible fairy-tale gone horribly wrong. It is a book that will give you a lesson in facing your demons and healing from your hurts- without proselytizing.
Ksenia has effortlessly combined magical realism with brilliant expositions of the world around Irina along with excellent descriptions of Irina's thoughts, conflicts and struggles- both inner and outer. The story manages to touch the reader's heart on every level because it is sincere, honest and does not mince words or use flowery language at any point. The author has accomplished the rare feat of pouring her heart out and doing it so beautifully and mind-blowingly, making the reader join Irina in her adventures, experience her joy, her pain, her dilemmas and cry with her.
Ksenia is an excellent author in her own right, but I will still say that she can write magic realism like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, beautiful exposition like Markus Zusak and descriptions of scenes from real life like Dostoevsky, because I consider Ksenia's writing to be of that level.
The ending WILL make you cry.
DON'T read this book if you are weak of heart or of mind or like to read stories with happy endings and palaces and lovey-dovey romances.
DO READ this book if you like gritty stories of pain, violence and struggle with strong, tough women protagonists, heavy on emotions and having memorable supporting characters like Sim and Pavlik.
On an end note, I would like to state that I have read other books by Ksenia like Rosehead and the Siren Suicides trilogy- she is an AWESOME author, can write a lot more than just Fantasy- her genre of choice- and her arc of growth as an author has been as interesting as those of the intriguing characters in her intriguing books.
YES, I am very happy with Brand Ksenia :D. You will be too, once you sample her books.

You can find all the links for buying Irkadura here: http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/irkadura

You can find Ksenia's other books here: http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/rosehead; http://www.kseniaanske.com/books/siren-suicides.

Finally, you can connect with Ksenia at her blog: http://www.kseniaanske.com/blog/

Prologue

30^th December, 1610

“They are coming for you, Elizabeth. They are coming… for you,” I say to the Countess, who lies prone on the huge bed.

“Why did you do this, Mihaly? Why, szerelmem? I thought you loved me,” the Countess replies, looking at me with her brown eyes, turned red because of the tears flowing down her beautiful face.

“I do love you, Elizabeth. I love you like I will never… love another woman on this Earth. That’s why… I had… to do this,” I reply, feeling the hot tears flowing down my own cheeks.

“No! You are lying, Mihaly! You are lying to my face! You would never have done this horrible thing if you really loved me! Never!” she shouts in reply, and  then buries her head in her hands.

“In a few hours from now they’ll be taking you away, forever. I’m never going to see you again! You think I like this? I don’t. But they know what you did, Elizabeth. They know, and there is no way out for you, but to surrender and take responsibility,” I reply.

“No! Never! I am the Countess Bathory de Ecsed! I never will bow in front of anyone…not in the least those perfidious fools who think they can arrest me and put me on trial!” she shouts again, this time getting out of bed and standing beside it, her beautiful face livid with rage.

“Those perfidious fools are from the highest court in the land, Elizabeth. The court of the King of Hungary. You can’t do anything but accept your fate and do as they say,” I reply.

Immediately there is a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Your Excellency? The Countess Erzsebet Bathory de Ecsed?Kindly open the door!” a man shouts from the other side.

Elizabeth and I look at each other. They have come earlier than I anticipated.

Elizabeth reaches one hand towards me, as if trying to bridge the distance between us- which appears to be more of a chasm.

“Your Excellency? I am Gyorgy Thurzo, and have come here for you. Please open the door!” the same man’s voice came again.

“ Please, Mihaly, please save me...”

Her last words are drowned out by the door of our bedroom flying open.

Leibster Blog Award

Thank you, Dola Basu Singh (http://shiuli.com/2014/10/14/leibster-blog-award/) for nominating me for the Leibster Blog Award. It's both an encouragement and an honor :).

11 facts about myself:

1. I am a pharmacist by vocation, now studying for a post-graduate degree in clinical pharmacy.

2. My three passions in life are reading, writing and research in the pharmaceutical field.

3. I aspire to be a neuroscientist in the future- and make some big breakthroughs in this field.

4. I hope that someday, I can write a good horror novel.

5. I am a consummate foodie, but I also love to cook- I get quite experimental in the kitchen.

6. I love discovering more about the disciplines of sociology, psychology and psychiatry.

7. I love watching Hollywood movies and American TV crime shows- Criminal Minds, Dexter, Hannibal, CSI etc.

8. Secretly, I am a big fan of horror novels and TV shows- American Horror Story, Supernatural, Stephen King, Bram Stoker etc.etc.

9.I have three diaries filled with two unfinished novels lying in my drawer.

10. I write a web mini-series called The Face-Off Killer on this very blog.

11. I wrote two short stories in the eighth grade and a novel in the tenth grade- which I have never shown anyone.

My answers to Dola's questions:

1. What were you like at school?

Ans: An introverted, awkward nerd with her nose always stuck in a book.

2.Were you good in English?

Ans: Yes- I got a proficiency prize every year.

3. Which writers inspire you?

Ans: Dostoevsky, Stephen King, Dan Brown, James Patterson, Agatha Christie, Henry James, Stieg Larsson, Arthur Conan Doyle etc.

4.What genre are your books/stories/unpublished manuscripts?

Ans: All my manuscripts are crime thrillers. Most of my stories are as well, but some are horror, some are slices-of-life types as well.

5.What draws you to this genre?

Ans: Crime fiction allows me to explore the dark recesses of the human mind, the evil lurking within our psyches, and helps me understand the motivations behind some of the most bestial, inhumane acts humans are capable of committing.

6.When did you decide to become a writer?

Ans: I wrote two short stories when I was in the eighth grade. Since then I knew I wanted to become a writer.

7. Where do your ideas come from?

Ans: From science journals, magazines, newspapers, TV shows, books and observing real life people and incidents.

8. What is the easiest thing about writing?

Ans: The 'thinking' and 'planning' about writing is the easiest part.

9. What is the most difficult thing about writing?

Ans: Writing and finishing any piece- whether a short story or a novel- is the most difficult part. And then comes editing, of course.

10. Do you ever get Writer’s Block? How do you overcome it?

Ans: I do get stuck in the middle of a story sometimes. I usually read, continue other writing projects or watch a TV show- all of which help unclog the 'story jam'.

11. What book(s) are you reading at the moment?

Ans: Henry James's collection of short stories, Henri Cherriere's Papillon and The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat by Dr. Oliver Sacks.

My questions for my nominees:

1.What is the ultimate aim of blogging or writing?

2.What is the story behind your blog name?

3.What’s your favorite genre- science fiction, fantasy, romance, comedy, crime…?

4.Who is your favorite author?

5.Which writers inspire you?

6.In what genre are your books/stories/unpublished manuscripts?

7.When did you decide to become a writer?

8.Who is that one writer you would absolutely want to emulate in your writings?

9. Apart from writing, what are your other interests?

10. Do you have a playlist of songs you like to listen to while writing?

11. Do you believe that consumption of caffeine boosts creativity?

I nominate Ushasri Nannapaneni (http://ushaveera68.wordpress.com/2014/10/14/202/), Aarti Venkatraman, Neelesh Gajanan Inamdar, Devika Fernando (http://www.devikafernando.com/) and Manogna MG. I hope all of these amazing people and authors take up this challenge :).

American Beauty

American Beauty

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Oliver whispered to his best friend squatting beside him, his forehead creased with worry and drenched in sweat.

“Yeah! We are, dude. Why the hell do you have to be such a chicken every time I try to get us to do something new? I think the room has a TV…American Beauty is on!” Gareth replied in a whisper, his gaze straight ahead.

“Because this is crazy, Gary! We’re spying on the Reverend’s daughter, for heaven’s sake! On a particularly warm summer night!” Oliver whispered, squinting to get a better look inside the window of what they assumed was Reverend Morgan’s daughter Angela’s bedroom. Oliver left his glasses behind in his house when Gary had sneaked inside his bedroom and asked him to follow him for a nighttime adventure.

“Why do you wanna do this anyway?” Oliver asked.

“Are you kidding me? Haven’t you seen Angie Morgan? She’s like the prettiest girl in class! What with those blue eyes, and those gorgeous lips…and don’t get me started about that butt of hers…it’s like a peach! I’m not a religious person, but that girl’s beauty is divine!” Gary replied.

“Of course I have seen Angela, and she is beautiful. But still, we are a pair of peeping Toms looking inside a girl’s bedroom. We’re violating her privacy!” Oliver observed.

“Don’t be such a goody-goody, Oliver. And why the hell are you squinting inside her bedroom if…wait a second…what the hell!” Gareth whispered, staring inside the , which was wide open, with his eyes as wide as tennis balls.

“What? What is it, Gary? What’s happening? Tell me!” Oliver whispered.

“What is the Reverend doing in Angie’s bedroom? Where the hell is she?” Gary whispered.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Reverend Morgan just entered Angie’s room…he looks gross in those shorts and vest. He’s watching American Beauty, for God’s sake! What a pervert!” Gary whispered.

“Seriously? He’s the pervert? We’re trespassing inside someone’s property to peep inside a girl’s bedroom and he’s the pervert for watching American Beauty?” Oliver whispered, smacking the back of his friend’s head.

“Stop playing the moral police, you moron! Angie’s the Reverend’s daughter so I can never hang out with her in public or make her my girlfriend. This is my only way to be near her. Plus, the Reverend is a man of God and men of God don’t watch a sexy hot movie,” Gary whispered in reply.

“That’s a load of bullcrap!”

“Shut up! Let me watch, now!”

Five minutes passed with both friends squatting in silence in the bushes, with only the sounds of the insects chirping around them and the cover of darkness for company.

“What’s happening inside?” Oliver whispered.

“Getting bored, huh! Well…the Reverend seems to be enjoying the movie. Ah gross!” Gary exclaimed in a whisper.

“What?”

“He just put his hand inside his shorts. There’s a racy scene going on in the movie. Guy’s a hypocrite. Disgusting!” Gary whispered.

“Yikes. It’s a good thing I didn’t get my glasses,” Oliver observed.

“Yeah…it’s not a pretty site. Wait, what the hell!” Gary whispered urgently.

“What now?”

“Angie just entered the room…wow! She’s wearing…shorts and a tank top! Ummmm!” Gary replied with a whisper, licking his lower lip with his tongue.

“Are you sure you should look?” Oliver asked.

“Cut the crap…wait! Oliver! Something’s going on here. Angie has a gun in her hands!”

“What? What gun?” Oliver asked, squinting inside the window.

“It’s a Colt .45. What the…she’s coming up behind her father…holy crap!”

“What’s happening? Gary? What’s going on?”

“Angie’s aimed the gun at the back of her father’s head.”

“Oh my God! Do you think we should…”

BANG.BANG.BANG.

Both boys were so startled that they fell backwards, their heads hitting the hard ground with a soft thud, their mouths instinctively clamped shut with their hands to suppress their screams of panic.

“Gary?” Oliver whispered.

“Yeah?” Gary whispered in reply.

“Were these gunshots?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Oliver. Angie shot her father. Three times. Oh God,” Gary replied, closing his eyes.

He opened them immediately, because with his eyes closed he could only see the horrible visage of the back of the Reverend’s head exploding like a ripe watermelon and a river of blood gushing out- some of it also spraying on Angie.

“I doubt there is a God if that angel of a girl can shoot her father,” Oliver commented, wiping some sweat off his face. He realized his shirt was drenched too and stuck to his chest.

It was the second time that night he was thankful he had forgotten his glasses at home.

“Oliver?” Gary whispered.

“Yeah?”

“This is our little secret, okay? No one ever needs to know what we just saw.”

“Don’t you think we should call the police and report the crime?”

“And getting caught for trespassing and trying to peep in Angie’s house? No thank you!”

“You’re right. I didn’t think of that eventuality.”

“Besides you just called her an angel yourself. Do you really wanna see her in jail for patricide?”

“No, I don’t. You’re right. We will take this secret with us to the grave.”

“Yeah. Now let’s scoot from here before the whole neighborhood realizes what happened and comes running here,” Gary replied, and tried to think of how to manage sitting up without the top of his head showing above the bushes. If Angela happened to see Oliver and him, he was sure their heads would be the next to explode like watermelons.

“You think the neighbors heard the shots? Angie shot the Reverend point blank,” Oliver whispered, lifting his body off the ground and trying to get his bearings in the dark.

“Yeah, but the sound wasn’t that muted. If we heard it then the immediate neighbors must have heard it too. Shit, someone’s coming. Come on!”

Both boys managed to run away just before the first neighbor knocked on the Reverend’s door three minutes later.

WIP Blog Contest

Thanks to Reet Singh (http://www.reetsingh.in/wip-amitree.php) for nominating me. Here is a fascimile from the first few chapters of my WIP- The Mystery of Stokerville. This is my first foray into the interesting but tough genre of horror.

Blurb: Jenny and her friends go to a cabin, named Stokerville, owned by one of Jenny’s uncle- who mysteriously disappeared in the mansion some years back Things start to go wrong from day one of their stay. The girls feel watched while in the shower or changing clothes, the boys discover mysterious bite marks on their bodies when they wake up in the morning. All of them have terrible, recurrent, vivid nightmares. Something lurks in the basement. Creepy shadows steal across the hallways and rooms, even during the day time. There is also a stunning discovery- the diary of Jenny’s uncle, written in the days before his disappearance. The kids try to escape...but discover they can't, and then they come face to face with the evil that forms the foundation of the house

First chapter: “Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed, running along the long, twisting corridor. The walls had wall brackets with lamps illuminating the passageway, and also some strange drawings on the wallpaper- women screaming, people ripping out other people with knives, the face of The Beast and other such grotesque illustrations.

Second Chapter: “Are we sure we should be doing this?” Jenny asked, looking at the looming edifice towering in front of her. The first seed of doubt had crept into her mind the moment they had turned onto the dirt road, branching off from the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate. The seed had grown into a full-fledged plant of doubt when she saw the abandoned cabin, firmly ensconced in the shadow of the dense canopy of trees looming over and around it, giving it a strangely creepy look. It didn’t help that the place was called as Stokerville- apparently in honor of Bram Stoker.

Third chapter: “I must tell you, Jenny, weird or not, your uncle had a fantastic idea of building a bachelor pad,” Tashi commented, as they had dinner at the glass dining table in the kitchen.

“Yeah! I mean…I’m seriously impressed by his collection of books. I could sit in that study for days on end and read. It’s perfect- volumes of horror anthologies and tomes of horror novels by authors around the world…in a cabin called Stokerville in the middle of nowhere. Just perfect,” Rudy added.