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This e-magazine is a compilation of Poems, Short Stories, Short – Story Series, Non – Fiction, Photographs published on Writer’s Ezine. Cover Photo © Babban Jee Image source Google Images, unless mentioned otherwise. The copyright of the work published in this magazine remains with the author of the individual work. Please contact the authors and Writer’s Ezine if you need to use the content. You are free to share the content as long as you retain and respect the copyright. Visit Writer’s Ezine for details Find us on Facebook | Twitter | Send us an email

Administrator & Editor: Namrata Administrator & web-designer: Arti Honrao

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Editor’s Note



Morning Dew



The Love That I Saw



Answers in Questions?



Ah I Wish



Building His Own Luck



I Still Remember



Both Robust Truths



The Green Sun


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Anonymous Confessions






Prophet or Schizophrenic – The Truth in the Sci-Fi of Philip K Dick



Phenomenology of the Soul



It Is What It Is



The Plebeian King



Motherly Love



Of Him and Her



This is Goodbye


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Daddy, It Hurts



The Night After The Storm



The carefree phase of life - 93 Childhood


Author Interview : Ruchira Khanna



Book Review : Choices written by 104 Ruchira Khanna





A Scream



On My Knees For You



What Is Love?


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Eternal Love



The Word ‘No’



Love In Crisis



Will You Cry?



Coming Back



In Or Out?


About Writer’s Ezine


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Editor’s Note “Dreams are the seeds from which beautiful tomorrows grow.” ~Namrata Not very long back Writer’s Ezine (WE) was a seed waiting to be nurtured and to bloom into a full-fledged reality from a dream that you are reading today. It is a moment of pride when dreams come true but it is a moment of joy when you see many dreams come true together through that one dream of yours. WE is one such dream whose coming true will ensure coming true of many other dreams too! When it comes to writing, there is always a sense of freedom that comes along. As it makes us bring out our inner most thoughts and give various shapes to them. But it also brings along a fear of not being able to make it what it could be and end up making it what it should be.

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WE was construed with the intention of bringing out one such place where writing is welcome in every form and the way it could be as WE believes in celebrating the freedom of expression to the fullest. Be it photographs, poems, short stories, thought provoking articles, latest issues that are bothering you, a wonderful book that you have read recently or a simple problem which you want to discuss with us WE wants to hear it all. WE was completely overwhelmed to see the warm welcome that was extended to us when we opened our arms in acceptance to the universe. The likes, the support, the encouragement and the submissions we received for our first issue was something that left us speechless. And WE would like to THANK each one of YOU for that. For YOU make WE what WE is! It is a mixed feeling as this baby of ours is taking its first steps with this issue, a moment of pride for seeing it do that at the same time a moment of fear of the

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unknown. But then just outside the comfort zone is the courage zone which will eventually lead us to where WE wants to be. WE dedicates this issue to all the writers around the world, the dreamers, and the magicians who weave beautiful compositions through their imagination and add more beauty to the world around us. Like it is said, dream a dream which is uniquely yours and wait for the magic to unfold!

~May all your dreams come true! ~

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MORNING DEW BY BABBAN JEE Story Behind the Photograph: This shot was taken during the visit to his native village in 2011. Mid-night of 3rd January 2011, he decided to take final shot of morning dew after a long observation of morning natural scenes. He moved with this determination around 3.15 am in a very cold and foggy night. He reached his farmland and selected his photography object- pea’s flower with the help of torch-light. He saw, on pea’s flower, very minute droplets of dew silently aligned in a row alongside the stalk. He started taking shots of the flower but the final shot was still far from him. However, after 5 hours efforts, he took the final shot around 8 am which is published on Writer’s Ezine for the readers to cherish.

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About Babban Jee: Despite full time involvement in science as a medical scientist and editor, Babban Jee has equally contributed in Hindi Literature and Arts too. He is a very sensitive poet and photographer. His poems on one hand give the voice of under-privileged section of society and tell the truth of our societal inequality whereas on another hand sing the song of heart and love. His first collection of poems “Reet” came in light in 2008. This book was welcomed by a great mass of young people. His first poem was published in Hindi Daily “Aryavarta” a leading newspaper published from Patna. He can be reached at babbanjee_jalma@yahoo.com

Editor's Comment: The beauty of nature could not have been expressed more beautifully than this.

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THE LOVE THAT I SAW – BY ANSHUL GAUTAM The dreamscape was not over yet… Stories within stories were still unfolding, and I was there the protagonist savouring the near perfect life. There were friends, relationships, and the love existed in those relationships. Life was not a cramp to live with in a city of hustle. It was winter, the moon shining white, and the musk floated in the air of a small town called Brotherhood. A colony of people dwelt there who loved to grow affection for others. They cultivated love, they ate love, but they never sold them. They had stored so much of love in their hearts that their chests were bigger than the people on the other side, separated from dreamy episodes by a thin film. ‘Those who rupture the film don’t get roles in our episodes’, he had said. They must cross over it, without tearing apart their own existence as well as that of the film.

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I am not the creator of dreamscape; I am the protagonist playing the role that I wanted. He always insisted me to quench my thirst with Love and gallop on the pavements without the fear of falling down and getting injured. He confirmed, as long as I am in Brotherhood and my wishes are sacred I won’t get injured, although he never guarantees anything for the world on the other side. Everyone calls him Grandfather. Big hearted people say that he is the creator of Brotherhood. I had always thought of love. I imagined that one day I will be at par with them who were loved in the real world. I was in delusion of reality. I was deluded till the night when grandfather explained me the truth. I don’t remember how it happened, but I recollect that he had crossed the film, stepped into the real world, and carried me away to Brotherhood. In that episode, I spent the whole night at Grandfather’s mansion where he lived alone. There we had dinner together; roasted turkey, sausages, and warm milk for me while he had wine for himself. He kept smiling at me in between sips of wine, and through pauses in his speech. He explained

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me how deluding the world on the other side is, and how deluding its inhabitants are. ‘Love is not just between a girl and a boy. Love is so sacred that it exists between every two entities and more. Love is between sand and stones. Love is between air and the mountains. Love is between birds and the sky. Love is between a mother and her kids. Love is between me and you. And don’t forget, that the love is between you and yourself.’ As grandfather spoke, his eyes used to get closed and his right arm swung here and there in air. ‘But do you know what is necessary for the Love to be present? It’s the truth and the honesty. And I doubt they don’t exist anymore on the other side’, his head bowed down, his eyes were still closed. Grandfather sipped some more, and then followed his words. ‘You might get yourself hurt my son. Expectations have been killing people from inside. I have lived my whole life there, and I know how many times I was killed.’

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‘Will I get killed too grandfather?’, I asked hesitatingly. ‘I will not let you. And I have brought here to prevent you from any injury you might incur. Expectations, wishing for love staying on the other side, these are potentially dangerous’, replied he. ‘Come on, give me your hand and let’s go for a night stroll. Let me show you how the Love feels like in its truest form. But I suggest you not to expect the same when you wake up in your world. In Brotherhood we cultivate love, we eat love, but we never sell them. You must know what the true love is and this will prevent you from falsehood and delusions…’ The night was beautiful. Trees were dressed with shimmering lights from fireflies. The twilight was mused in the music of violin coming from a distant hut. I saw the moon through the clouds that were not polluted. I could see people with varying sizes of chest. And I could easily deduce who were more loving. ‘Truth and Honesty’, I was engrossed within depths of my mind with these two words told by the grandfather to an extent that I watched every movement in that episode to confirm that indeed the truth and the

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honesty existed there which made the whole ambience so loving. The truth and the honesty, they existed in families, between friends, and strangers. I was the protagonist, but I was the stranger too. But the showering love never seemed to go lesser on me. I would never free my hand from the grandfather’s. I wish if I could stay here forever… I wish if… I was about to mutter some more but the episode ended. The night full of love came to an end with the warm sun overhead and with the alarm clock proudly at its work. It’s not summer here, but still the heat is killing. I don’t focus on weather reports. I have a different measurement scale like the one that the grandfather used in his life here. I want to learn some more from him. But not right now. I must hurry for the school. I will be the protagonist in the next episode of the dreamscape tonight.

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About Anshul Gautam: Anshul Gautam is a final year student of Computer Science and Engineering at Bengal College of Engineering & Technology, Durgapur. He has been blogging for more than three years now. Other than blogging, he keeps himself occupied with photography, website and software development. While coding is the profession, writing for him is a necessary passion that injects freshness in his life. He can be reached at anshulpui@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: This story has a strange calming effect on the reader every time one reads it and it is enthralling to see such beauty in such few words!

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ANSWERS IN QUESTIONS – RAM GOVARDHAN Isn’t David going to swing from the hangman’s noose within a day? As the halter tightens, aren’t his wriggles and exertions going to fall flat before life gives up? When this voyage ends, is it the beginning of the other? His body would turn lifeless and, after the mandatory minutes, would go taut and, when they remove the hood, untie hands, legs and set them free, will he still be he or it? Like any other inanimate thing, isn’t David more likely to be called it than he? And, isn’t our language profuse enough to call it variously: body, dead body, stiff, corpse, carcass, and cadaver? And, in wellmannered circles, remains? Why should he bother about semantics? Or about the transitory moments between beginning of hanging and the final gasp? Isn’t there a ring of truth to the belief that, just before finality of death, sorts of ‘life review’ blazes through mind in which life-changing moments flash in quick succession?

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Or why should he care about the future of his soul? Isn’t it true that a lifeless body is soulless too? Can soul exist after brain, or its alter ego, mind, had perished? If souls can hang in thin air, why on earth they make our bodies their home? And, if there is indeed an afterlife, how to deal with it when we are no more? Has anyone reaped any benefits of such afterlife after death? Can we access afterlife through yogic reflection or other meditative techniques that are on discounted sale? Has anyone accessed afterlife while being alive, or is it accessible only after death? If yes, wouldn’t we need some sort of contraption like brain to log in? But who on earth is allowed to take one’s brain with him after he has kicked the bucket? If perishing is an inescapable law of nature, why is soul an exception even if it is the vast, all-encompassing, universal consciousness? And if soul is material and tangible enough to measure and, as the western physician claimed, if it indeed weighs 21 Grams, where does it reside in human body? Or, are the 21 Grams distributed evenly undetectably throughout the frame despite being a quantifiable material?

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Or is it going to be the eternal oblivion where death is the truest end of life and consciousness? Or, is afterlife nothing but a reward and punishment system that goes by Chitragupta’s database? On the eve of hanging day, does it matter as to who appropriates which of his acres, estates and farmhouses that David had passionately accumulated? Why should David expect his wife and children to reach to take possession of his body? Hasn’t he ruined their lives irreparably? Haven’t they abandoned him? Or was it he? Either way, isn’t it over five years since they saw him last? Why should they forgive him now, or posthumously? Does it really matter if his body is dissected for the medicos to know how chain smoking clogs up the tubes? Or how loss of cellular immunity causes havoc? Or how the envenomed malignancy travels through body dismembering limbs, causing recurrent upper respiratory tract infections, and spreading the extent of tuberculosis, toxoplasmosis of brain, candidacies of trachea, and oesophagus?

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What will he gain by declining to meet the few in visitors’ hall waiting to have one last glimpse of him? From the squares of mesh that separates the convicts and visitors, given his failing eyes, can he see them clearly? Why should he be annoyed if the whore he frequented is first in the queue to see him just a day before he goes to the gallows? Should he cry when she laments her gratitude for gifting a swanky bungalow in the heart of the town? What is the point of her tears? Or for that matter his tears? And what if she says she will end this journey and join him in heaven a little later? How charitable it is of her to expect David to be in heaven? Isn’t the woman standing behind the whore very familiar? Isn’t she the woman whose family of four was subjected to rarest of rare crime that David committed in a fit of rage? Why is she here? Does she really want to see someone who had wiped out whole of her family? Or, has she come to spit on him one last time?

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“How can I forget what you did to my family? But I can forgive you,” she said, “Will you pardon me for all the curses I called upon you?” When he doesn’t want to bother about anything now, isn’t she a great soul to have travelled so far just to forgive him? Weren’t her words benevolent enough to move seasoned criminals? Can anyone be more gracious? Will he not be a fool not to believe her even it is for a day? Isn’t such a graceful gesture good enough an idea to have wholesome sleep one last time, even if it is the last night of his life? How courteous were the guards who woke him up, gave him fresh set of clothes, and asked him to have a bath? Aren’t they wasting new clothes just before hanging him? How polite were they since morning while serving him tea, breakfast, and tea again? How merciful of the jailer to have granted him a piece of paper and pen? Or, was the officer so sure that David will never use the pen to kill himself?

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He has a piece of paper to write and the right of last wish; isn’t this having and eating it too in prison parlance? An hour later, the jailer wondered, why did David leave the piece of paper blank? Why did David refuse to say his last wish? How can anyone know when David was already it?

About Ram Govardhan: Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was long-listed for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Asian Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He somehow survives the deadly humidity of Chennai, India. He can be reached at ram.govardhan@ymail.com

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Editor's Comment: A story that will make each one of YOU think about life. Often in our race to be the first, we tend to miss out on many important things around us and the author talks about those things very beautifully in this touching tale.

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Ah I wish I would have never come so far To understand that’s its love So that it would have been less painful Ah I wish I would have never let you go And be together always And living for each other Ah I wish

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I would have never committed Those silly mistakes And never let my ego come in Ah I wish I would have apologized As soon as I realized the mistakes Until it was too late Ah I wish I could go back in time And correct my mistakes When we were together Ah I wish … Ah I Wish I could have learnt that I came alone And will have to leave alone I wish I could have learnt That people cannot be with you Always when you need them

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I wish I could have learnt That a simple lie is much better Sometimes than the dreaded truth I wish I could have learnt That we cannot be together Just because we want it to be I wish I could have learnt To live alone Because I am dying without you I wish I could have been Priceless than to be Price-less Ah I wish ………….. Ah I wish I wish I could make you happy Without doing anything special And still be speaking the truth I wish I could make you understand How much I love you

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And still be silent I wish I could see you smiling at me After every little fight we had And still be with you I wish I could be with you After everything that happened of late And still sleeping in your lap I wish I had not been so stupid To fight with you on silly things And still be yours I wish I could go back in time When we were together I wish I could...

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About Rahul Miglani: Rahul Miglani is the owner of www.MyMagicJobs.com , A Unix Freak, writes tricks and tips for Unix OS and related commands. He is the author of various books and currently he is writing guests’ posts on various websites about Lifestyle, Travel, Real estate, Green life, Parenting and Gadgets .He Also Interviews Prominent International and Indian Bloggers and Authors on Blogger Interviews. You can Contact him at xs2rahulz@yahoo.com.

Editor's Comment: The first thing that strikes about this poem is the emotions that seem to pour out of each and every word. Many times in life we reach a situation where we are left with no option but to just sigh “Ï wish” and reminisce about what could have been. This is one such poem that will remind you of a memory that you would have buried deep down somewhere in your distant past and make it alive once again!

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BUILDING HIS OWN LUCK – AYYAPPAN PILLAI Story Behind the Photograph: This picture was clicked from the top of a hill in Coorg, Karnataka, considered to be the origin of the river Kaveri. It is believed that stacking stones on atop the other brings good luck & the hill is full of this. This kid was busy in arranging the stones and his parents were waiting for him. It seems that they had to go elsewhere and he had to hurriedly build his lucky mountain. (If you noticed, he is ready to get up and run) About Ayyappan Pillai:

Ayyappan is a misfit in the IT world who loves Mozart & Keats more than Jobs and Gates! He can be reached at ayyappan.pillai01@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: HOPE is all that WE are and HOPE is all that WE have.

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I still remember That pleasant rain, which witnessed Our first meeting It was the magic of Charismatic aura…perhaps Charged with attraction Every untouched drop Represented my tender heart That skipped a beat to see you My eyes, like dark clouds,

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Inexplicably, could not Stand your intent gaze Lightening dazzled And ignited a strange spark Between two distant souls With flowing silky breeze, I carried the memories with me Which stay with me till date It’s raining today...again Evoked the feeling of nostalgia Oh, I still remember…

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About Tarang Sinha: Tarang Sinha is a voracious reader, an avid writer and a very active blogger. A science graduate, she is now pursuing Diploma in Creative Writing from IGNOU. She writes short stories, articles, poems, and bookreviews. Some of her works have published in magazines like Woman’s Era and Alive. Her story “Dilemma” has been featured in a bestselling anthology Uff Ye Emotions 2. She can be reached at sinhatarang@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Memories are what make us what we are, this beautiful compilation by the poet will not only evoke some pleasant memories in your mind but will also take you down the memory lane.

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Short, but hot-burstSudden-sandstorm Left us immersed Formless art form (Shall we perform? Instrumental?) Rhythm conform Incremental Strokes so gentle Like smooth cigars Transcendental

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Take two guitars Add sonnets, drums And oddness strums

About Chad M. Horn: Chad M. Horn is currently finishing his fourth book of poetry, to be published in the summer of 2014. He owns a small independent bookstore in Harrodsburg, KY. He can be reached at chad@kentuckylit.com

Editor's Comment: The shortest poem with the deepest meaning is what makes this one an interesting read!

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THE GREEN SUN – AMMEY KESARKAR Two year old Akanksha was amazed by the crayons that left colourful traces on the blank paper. It was the most wonderful gift that she had received so far. She was too young to understand the magic that transmogrified the blank paper into colourful shades. She wanted to use the crayons on walls & furniture. She also wanted to take a bite and eat them too. But here father sitting beside her was keeping a close watch on her intentions. “This is colour BLUE,” said Dinesh stressing on word blue. Akanksha just looked at her father and smiled. “What colour is this Akanksha?” “BLUE,” Dinesh stressed again answering his own question. Akanksha did repeat few colour names, without understanding what is what. She was having more fun

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in scrubbing the colours on paper than repeating what her father was saying. “And this is colour GREEN” continued the toddlers father. Five Years Later… Akanksha was using her water colours elegantly to paint her drawings. She had mastered the colouring skills and was doing a lot better job than other children of her age group. She always took her own time and never painted in haste. She had almost completed her painting when she was interrupted by the sound of the car that drove into the driveway. She dropped the brush from her hand and ran toward the door to greet her father. “So my little princess was painting again,” said her father as he lifted her up in his arms. “How did you knew that?” asked Akanksha innocently “Your hands are more colourful than a rainbow,” they both smiled. “Come let me show you my painting,” said Akanksha as she took her father to her room.

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Dinesh took the incomplete painting in his hands and admired the painting with undivided attention. “It’s beautiful Akanksha. I liked it” told Dinesh. “But, why is the sun green Akanksha?” “The sun is friend of the trees so it is also green,” explained Akanksha “Have you ever seen a green sun?” questioned her father “No,” replied the 7 year old after giving it a thought. “You can paint a sun red or orange or even yellow, but it can never be green or blue,” explained her father. Akanksha nodded in agreement and hugged her father “So what has Akanksha learnt today,” asked Akanksha’s mother who was standing at the door listening to their conversation “You should not paint the sun green or blue” said Akanksha and they all laughed together. Ten years later…

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Akanksha was attentively listening to her professor Thomas, the art teacher whom she admired the most. His painting always had an everlasting impression on her. She would spend hours together studying his paintings. She always dreamed about becoming a person of his calibre. “…to read a painting you need attention to details, tremendous patience and extraordinary ability to empathise the artistic feeling… Never try to figure out what the artist is trying to say, focus on what the painting is saying to you…” Professor Thomas was always motivating and spectacular in his lectures. The students would always end up wiser after attending his lectures “…and when you paint, paint your heart out. Every artist uses the same set of colours. But the shades, the strokes of your brush and most important your creativity makes you unique…” continued professor Thomas. After the lecture, the students surrounded Professor Thomas to ask there last minute doubts. The professor was more than pleased to answer them all.

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“Professor”, said Akanksha “I love the way you inspire artist to be creative” “Will it be creative if I paint the sun blue or green in one of my paintings?” asked Akanksha with a slight hesitation. “There is a very thin line between creativity and insanity; I would suggest you all not to take creativity very leisurely” explained the professor “Paint the sun blue or green? I definitely won’t want my students to do something like that”. The discussion concluded with all students laughing. Akanksha was not very amused. Twenty Five years later… Akanksha, now a 43 year old, was at her cosy home along with the family, friends, relatives and even neighbours. They had all gathered to watch Akanksha’s daughter Asmi on national television. Asmi had won the national art award for her painting – GREEN SUN. “…I give all credit of my success to my mother Akanksha, without her I do not see myself standing here winning this award. She is the one who always inspired me and told me that no matter what happens; one

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should never let your imagination die. So I always painted my imagination, no matter how weird it may look to other…” Tears of happiness rolled down Akanksha’s eyes. Her dream of a green and blue sun was a reality now.

About Ammey Kesarkar: Ammey Kesarkar is a senior SAP consultant, he is a Singapore resident. He is a vivid reader and reads approx. 24 books annually. He is presently learning German. He writes short-stories unrestricted by any genres. He has extremely good sense of humour. He is a simple guy – but ordinary by no means! He is adventurous. He scaled 4,095 meters high “Mount Kinabalu” – 20th most prominent mountain in the world. He enjoyed adrenaline excursion of White water River rafting on grade IV Padas River, Malaysia. He loves traveling around the globe to enjoy the flavours of life. He can be reached at ammeykesarkar@gmail.com

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Editor's Comment: A very touching tale of how dreams are what we are made of and one day those dreams make us what we are!

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ANONYMOUS CONFESSIONS – RACHNA SHARMA Hi, I am a 29 year old, average looking man. I come from a middle class background though now we are doing well. I have a young sister who is settled with her job in Singapore. My parents are happy and have decided to settle in hometown near Darjeeling. I stay in Delhi and work in Gurgaon. I started my career as a developer and now I am leading a team who calls me Project Manager. I have around 6-7 different friend/social circle. I have been on and off in relationships and have had many one night stands. I was an occasional smoker but now it has increased in recent times. I drink socially and mostly prefer scotch, mild!

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I was never a shy being. I used to be a talk of town, way back in college. Getting involved with college events, late night parties, hanging out with new chick on the block were standards of living back then. I was a popular in my teachers and professors. In college times, I avoided falling into relationships considering I had a mountain like career and professional life ahead. Though, it never stopped me from indulging in harmless flirting. I never felt an inclination towards getting along with someone in any way. I encountered my first sex experience when I changed my first job and was stalked by an office chick in one of the parties. She took me to her place and started chatting. She made all moves and I was resulted into a fact that sex is very over-rated. Being a first-timer, I felt no desire or enthusiasm to have sex again. As I started witnessing my male friends getting laid every fort-night, I got concerned and started pushing myself into dating girls every night. I was good till the time date did not reach bedroom. In bedroom, I had to ultra-push myself to get into drive and mood. Something was not happening!

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I was too confident to not consider it medical. No ‘THE’ tool works! One day, cab to office broke down. We had to take bus. I was standing in a crowded bus among all guys. I was immensely worried and was in continuous thoughts of last night. The girl called me a ‘cold murdered body in bed’. I bloody did everything possible to please her. I even watched quality porn to perform the way she could be happy and satisfied. But she weirdly acted saying that she wanted to see me happy for once at least. She said she could not find me *even for one day* happy in making love to her. I thought to myself, is what she saying the truth? I guess I have found my answer. Not happy. Making it worst, I was even avoiding conversation with myself over this. I brought back myself from web of thoughts and started moving my mind elsewhere. Suddenly the bus stopped with a very strong jerk of break on the road. I fell onto a guy standing before me and so did the guy behind me. This took shocked my body utterly. No not the breaks applied by bus, but the thing I felt on my back. I am highly ashamed to accept this in writing that yes, I felt

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eerily nice when a male body touched mine and unknowingly felt me. Since that day, with quiet a shame I admit that I groped many male friends of mine without their knowledge. They thought we are having some fake physical fight after four pegs like guy friends. But I made my moves, felt nice, caught hold of what most I could. They never realized it while I never had a discussion with my inner self over this. Guess, I was totally happy to finally figure out truth with me and my sexuality. Soon, the happiness peak was crossed and parents started suggesting girls for marriage. I was nervous to the core. I had to admit the truth before I ruin some girl. I could never. I was never able to tell this to anybody. I finally lost my battle with myself only. I said yes for a very average looking girl from very remote area of my hometown, onto which my parents were not so happy. But, at least, that guaranteed my secret to be a secret for life. I am now married for almost 2 years. My wife does not even know ‘S’ of sex. She gets happy with whatever

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little I do in bed post dinner. She assumes about my happiness too or maybe she gives a damn about it. Anyways, I plan to have a kid by next year. That will keep her busy for rest of her life. I will make sure she is not unhappy with money and comfort. Meanwhile, I have got to know about this secret club from some of the friends who attended Gay Parade last year. I am joining the club this weekend. Anonymous! Life is good if you play smartly and avoid confrontations when you see mirror in the morning!

About Rachna Sharma:

Rachna is Pun_ditayeen, Workaholic Alice in her Blunder-land. She is a Deputy Manager in Software Company. She writes to nag, pacify & make herself happy. She is @Pun_ditayeen on Twitter. She can be reached at rachnasharm@gmail.com

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Editor's Comment: A story which will shake you up completely and make you think about the very existence we all are sometimes so proud of. It made us wonder how our thoughts are ruled by our hearts but we are ruled by the so called society we live in.

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SILHOUTTE – SHUBHANSHU SINGH Story Behind the Photograph: It is said that 'if you think that the best photograph you clicked is the one that took most of your time, then you're probably wrong'. Shubhanshu believes this photograph to be a perfect example in support of his belief. One fine morning, he stepped out of the house, carrying his simple point-n-shoot camera, taking a leisure walk to a nearby scenic location, with a hope to take few good landscape shots. While continuing with his idea, he clicked few random shots too, and eventually ended up with some silhouettes, which was never planned. This is one of those shots. He was lucky enough to be able to freeze this creature in his frame during its 'moment of solitude' (as the photographer perceives it). This is obviously one of his favourites and one of its kind in his collection.

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About Shubhanshu Singh: Currently, pursuing his studies in engineering, Shubhanshu has an undying love for Photography - a skill he inherits from his father, whose mentorship, paired with his own vision has helped him experiment and excel. He is an amateur, who loves to click for the sake of his own passion, capturing any moment that catches his eye. His Facebook page 'Framed Figments' (https://www.facebook.com/framedfigments), run in association with his like-minded siblings, houses some such clicks. He can be reached at shubhanshu1512@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Tranquillity is what this picture depicts beautifully!

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PROPHET OR SCHIZOPHRENIC-THE TRUTH IN THE SCI-FI OF PHILIP K DICK – ANEESHA MYLES SHEWANI In his time, American writer, Philip K Dick was essentially known as a pulp-fiction writer churning out sci-fi pot-boilers to make a living while hoping of a career in mainstream literature. Conscious of the nature of his writing, he confessed a year before his death, “The core of my writing is not art but truth.” Mostly self-taught, as a student his lowest grade was in Written Composition, although his teacher noted that he "shows interest and ability in storytelling." And stories he did tell, which didn’t improve his cashstrapped bearings but became some of the best cinematized scripts in Hollywood, nearly two decades after his death. If you have watched Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report, The Adjustment Bureau, and Paycheck, you have had your brush with Philip Dick’s fantasia. His theories have influenced the

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Matrix trilogy. Today, Dick’s writings are admired not for their literary value but for a dystopian premise. The central precinct of Dick’s humongous writing career comprising of 45 novels and more than 120 short stories, was that we are living in an unreal world, an illusion, a Maya of sorts! In his own words, "Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." And while he perceived his own existence as an illusion, he professed of writing the truth. He wrote about parallel universe, time travel, extraterrestrial life and inhabitation, intergalactic travel, out-of-body experiences, artificial intelligence, a “Terra” destroyed by nuclear warfare, a human species living underground and on other stars, almost always at war or in conflict zones, under an increasingly totalitarian government. While many examples cannot be quoted due to the sheer volume of his work notable mentions are: In Time Out Of Joint, Ubik, VALIS, and the book that earned him an award, The Man In The High Castle. Dick believed in a time whirlpool or orthogonal time, that is, mankind will return to the past, to a Garden of

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Eden and the future will become the present, manifest as the present truth. Escapism from perceived reality is a recurrent theme. In the short story Exhibit Piece, the protagonist escapes from the future into a parallel universe in the 20th century. Yet the question remains – did he escape from his past existence into the future or was it the other way round. The answer is not clear; the need to escape is, however, pronounced. Piper in the Woods is another beautiful story on a back to nature theme. The Perky Pat cult in The Three Stigmata is both escapism and alternative reality, at play. It is interesting to note that Dick was a man with five failed marriages and a number of phobias, including the fear of crowds. He had a history with prescription medicines and was known to hallucinate. Escapism and alternative realities were definitely the truth of his life but in today’s world haven’t these become the truth in our lives, too! In his visions, he saw a future where technology and machines evolved to become masters of

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man. Eventually, humans succumbed to the power of artificial intelligence and the lines were blurred; people were robots and machines had free will. The Defenders, The Electric Ant and Second Variety are three short works revolving around this motif. Dick also visualized the false reality of technology, such as broadcasted messages and images, state surveillance and quasi-live technologies. He prophesized the misuse of media and technology by those in power! In 1978, he wrote: "We live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups. I ask, in my writing, what is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms.” Technological advancements in our times make the preview of the future based on Dick’s writings, as real as possible! Parallel universe is not just for scientific inquiry on the time-space-continuum, but existent in today’s virtual world. Over time, Dick had extra sensory perception that led to mystic ideas. He believed that God was an artificial

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intelligence in space (VALIS), a theme which he used in the short story, Mr. Spaceship, amongst other works. In this story, we again witness the theme of escapism, of starting all over again, in a new Eden, free from strife and sin. His latter writings were influenced by Christian Gnosticism. He seemed to have read Hindu philosophies. In his final book, Dick had a premonition about his death, “I am terribly frightened of death. Death has destroyed me. It is not Sri Krishna, destroyer of all people; it is death, destroyer of my friends. It singled them out and left everyone else undisturbed.” In the dusk of his life, he seemed increasingly troubled by prophetic visions, and he wondered if he was insane. He tried expunging his troubled thoughts through journaling and produced his largest written work, the Exegesis. He observed that an insane man does not question his sanity, and so he must not be insane. Acquaintances also agreed that he was quirky, unorganized, and reticent, but sane. Dick used the concept of schizophrenia in his work and also wrote at length about it but whether he himself was afflicted, is a matter of psycho-medical investigation.

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Whether he was a prophet, is something that his fans and critics, can start watching out for. We are living in the future that he had envisioned. Most of the technological advancements he wrote about are manifest today. Dick is known to have said, “I was in the mind of God.” It is up to the interested reader to dig into the corpus of Philip K Dick’s work and look at our world and future through his eyes. Maybe the pages hold a warning, may be the pages hold hope, but they definitely hold a lot of reading material for lovers of science fiction.

About Aneesha Myles Shewani: Aneesha Myles Shewani is a full-time IT professional currently employed as a technical editor. She is a voracious reader with a wide foray of reading interests - from historical literature to science fiction. This working mother is also an amateur writer/blogger and her blog - felinemusings.com is a reflection of the various facets of her personality. She aspires to have a published novel, one of these days. She can be reached at aneesha.myles@gmail.com

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Editor's Comment: WE admires the details presented here, the thoughts, the views – everything seems to speak of one thing the beliefs on which this world is based on.

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Where is the soul of man to be found in dreams? A boy prays, struggling with the thought. “What if I should not wake tomorrow, but continue to dream And if I should not wake from that dream, But find myself caught in a perpetual dream-loop, Then what of the real world, father dear and mother?” As a younger child he imagined himself unable to escape his world of dreams.

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Now he believes he is still dreaming when he thinks he might be awake. “Perhaps I've been stuck in this dream for as long as I am able to remember. Perhaps there is no way out.” His heart leaps within him, stirring his soul to doubt God. As a grown man, the former boy dreams of waking from his trance, No nearer to finding God, His only consolation to be found in the music of his dreams, between earth and sky.

About Mark A. Murphy: Mark A. Murphy’s first full length collection, Nightwatch Man & Muse was published in November 2013 from Salmon Poetry (Eire). Murphy’s poems have been published in over 100 magazines and e-zines in 17 different countries worldwide. He can be reached at marcomurcadagh@hotmail.com

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Editor's Comment: The first thing that strikes you about this poem is the depth in which the poet has asked few soul stirring questions of life. The innocence that reflects through those words makes you wonder if it all is what it seems to be it is.

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I cannot write poems In a language I do not speak Or keep pace With the fleeting clouds As they race Above my head I cannot translate The night into day The hours it would take Are beyond comprehension

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It would probably take forever And who knows exactly What eternity means Life is like a coloring book open on a red kitchen table Select the right colors; Stay inside the lines Nobody will believe a maroon sky And for those out of line moments Or rare lapses with incorrect hues Hope they slide by unnoticed Like yesterday’s flower blooms

About R.D. McManes: R.D. McManes is the author of seven poetry books. Mr. McManes has had over 300 poems featured in 100 world-wide publications. He has been a featured speaker, poet, and conducted poetry workshops for the Kansas Author’s Club. Mr. McManes has been writing poetry for 47 years. He currently resides near Scranton, Kansas. He can be reached at mcmanes@yahoo.com

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Editor's Comment: A heart touching description of a poet’s non ability to capture the beauty he is surrounded with.

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The clear, vast sky, above the crown And soft, green grass underneath the muddy feet, The King arrives, with his sceptre in hand, And, his realm ahead, The green pasture, blooming poppy fields, Once ploughed, now derelict, verdure everywhere . Sheep graze, indolently, timidly The King, oversees and refocuses his gaze Over the mountains, beyond the blue, His muddy feet itches, muddling the thorny bushes

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His bare torso, chars, The spiteful sun pours all its blaze over him. He wipes his face with tattered cloth and keeps gazing and counting the timid sheep. The King, unfastens his crown, his shabby turban, and stretches it before him, Opens his worn pocket and brings out Some fruits aloofly, some dried and some rottenSorts them reluctantly, and shifts to the mouth, Half-filled, half-empty stomach, careless lad. There sets the weary sun, tired of walking, Reddened, and melting like hot lava, Covering the sky with blood-red clouds. End of a dayThe Kings walks alone, behind him a flock of sheep, Walk to the country-side, making a way for another new day, another new tale.

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About Sayantini Bhattacharya: Sayantini Bhattacharya is from a small town near Kolkata. She is pursuing her Post-Graduation in English Literature and Language and is a blogger by choice. She loves to transform her feelings into words. She is an avid reader and loves poetry apart from shopping and dreaming. She can be reached at mailme.sayani@gmail.com Editor's Comment: The poet through her words has managed to take the reader time travel and envisage the king as described by her beautifully.

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MOTHERLY LOVE – SAKSHI RAINA Story Behind the Photograph: Love is a language that every creature understands

About Sakshi Raina: Sakshi Raina is a perfectly imperfect person who is comfortable under her own skin. Currently in the first year of computer science engineering. She loves travelling and meeting new people. Nature is her biggest inspiration. She can be reached at imcapturingsunshine@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Love, transcends all boundaries it is said! And so does this picture as it conveys a lot through it making your heart melt.

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OF HIM AND HER – KETKI YENNEMADI It had rained all afternoon. I could see my reflection in the puddle near my feet. I was sitting on a creaky old bench doing what I love to do the most - observe lives. I was at Mumbai's Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, a place overflowing with stories… stories of you and me. This busy railway station has been a witness to many events in its history of over a hundred years. Mumbai expresses itself best through its local trains and railway stations. The place is fraught with people who wait restlessly for the trains which are perennially late. Once the train arrives, all hell breaks loose. Only a seasoned Mumbaikar can board a train at peak hours. Once inide, they fight tooth and nail for the only thing that lacks in Mumbai - space. Despite all its flaws, this place never ceases to amaze me. Looking around at the splendid structure, one finds that every inch of the mammoth railway station is

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covered with intricate patterns of flowers and animals. It is a place where you can measure the speed of your life - with a speedometer. And there I was, observing those millions of countenances eager to listen to their story. Words flowed out of my pen and all the stories struggled to come out of it at once. Stories of all kinds of love, loneliness, hatred, greed, lust, helplessness, dizzying successes and heartbreaking failures, hookups and breakups ; all of them together, just as intriguing! Finally, after a while, a story found its way to me. A young man walked towards me, looked at me and then at the seat hopefully. I smiled and moved a little to the side. He sat down and glanced at his watch. "Has the 8:30 local for Thane left already?" he asked me. "Late as usual" I replied.

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"Yeah... As usual." he replied, more to himself. And he looked at his watch again. "Waiting for someone?" I asked, hoping to start a conversation. "Yeah. My wife" he replied as he looked at the railway clock restlessly. "She works at Nariman Point ... we go home together by the 8.30 local. But we will miss it today, I guess... see it's 8.35 already." The 8.30 train had arrived and all the passengers were inside the train within seconds. It was late by seven minutes and would therefore leave immediately. So it did, mercilessly. "Seems like your wife is really busy today." I said as we watched the train gather speed. "Oh! I am used to this. She handles a huge team at Office and is often held up with work. Today, she might have been tied with replying to hordes of

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congratulatory e-mails. She was awarded 'Performer of the Year' today." "Wow!" I said. "She must be a smart woman! I'll congratulate her too!" I said. He blushed. He then realised he did that in front of a complete stranger. That's one thing about writers... Stories come looking for them. Almost an hour passed. We were chatting more freely now. We chatted about the weather, the crowd, the city and even cricket. He spoke a lot about his wife. He was very proud of her. I could easily visualise her as a beautiful and bright woman. And he loved her very much. We were so engrossed in chatting that he did not notice that we were chatting for a very long time. It was 9.45 and he panicked when he looked at the watch. He called her for the hundredth time. Her phone was switched off. "Her battery might've conked off answering all those congratulatory calls" I said. He smiled and his face glowed. I was really beginning to like this man. It

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started raining. "Oh no! She isn't carrying an umbrella. She'll catch a cold." I suggested that he call her office. "No use." He said. “I tried a hundred times. No one answered." Even I was beginning to worry. The clock struck 10. By now, even I had begun to worry about this woman I hadn’t even met. Suddenly, an old woman appeared out of nowhere. "Oh Ryan..!Here you are! I was looking for you all over the railway station!" She said as she tried pulling him up by his arms. "Mom... I am waiting for Kavita. She leaves Office at 7.30 daily. It's 10.00 and she hasn't arrived yet. Ask this girl how worried I am!" He said pointing towards me. He was now talking like a child who lost his most prized possession. "Oh! I am sorry if my son bothered you." The woman said, turning to me. "Two years ago, on the same day, he lost his wife in the train blasts."

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I looked at my cell phone. It was the 11th of July. "He still hasn't gotten over it. He still thinks that Kavita is alive and will meet him at the station like always." Sanjeev looked at his Mom and then at me incredulously. They left, leaving me behind with the story and feeling that words can never express.

About Ketki Yennemadi: Ketki is a 24 year old corporate trainer who finds her joy in words. Ketki, as she likes to describe herself, is not a writer but only a story teller who has a way with words. She can be reached at ketkiyennemadi@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: A story that gave me goose bumps every time I read it. Heart touching tale narrated with a beauty and innocence that reflects the beauty of love and the ugliness of life together.

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THIS IS GOODBYE – SHAILAJA VISHWANATH So, this is farewell. I can't do this anymore. It's not working. Believe me, I've tried. I met her at the supermarket the other day. She was standing in the middle of the aisle, as the cans of soup tumbled all around her, pushed from the shelf by a couple of rambunctious toddlers. Sensing an opportunity, I moved in, but she ignored me. She swiftly turned her back on me and bent to pick up the cans. There was a smile on her face, as though she was enjoying a secret. In vain, I tried to catch her eye, but she looked through me. Then, it was at the park that we almost crossed paths. I watched from afar as she sat amidst piles of leaves, picking at the fibres of her overcoat. A few hairs escaped from the brown beret that partially covered

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her red locks. Her hands trembled lightly as they clutched the divorce notice from the lawyers. That's my cue, I realised. I leapt out of hiding and hurried towards her, but as I moved closer, she rose abruptly, determination writ large on her face, crushed the paper and threw it at me. Brushing the stinging tears aside, she walked away, head held high. It was two for two, but I couldn't let it go without one last try. She stood by the kitchen sink, shedding silent tears. Next to her, on the counter, the laptop shone an azure blue, displaying that dreaded, apologetic mail. 'We're sorry to inform you that the company is downsizing', it began. She didn't need to read further. Her hands came up to cup her face. This was it, I thought. I raised my hand to knock at the window, but suddenly she threw her head back and laughed - a loud one filled with freedom and rippling joy. She then ran into the parlour, lifted her infant and swung him around, while her toddler danced at her feet. They all hugged Grandpa in his creaky armchair and settled around him, huddling near the warm

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fireplace, as the snow fell in soft flakes around me, creating a veritable winter wonderland. Grandpa told the best stories. Joy echoed through the house and I watched once again. I was unwanted, unwelcome and ignored. It was the end. I had failed. She didn't give in to me, no matter what the situation. Hope and Joy saw me leave and didn't fare me well. Do I stand a chance elsewhere? I don't know. Signed, Despair

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About Shailaja Vishwanath: Shailaja Vishwanath is a freelance content writer and blogger who shares her views on parenting and life lessons while dabbling in creative fiction. She likes to read, teach music, swim and network with other bloggers. She can be reached at dotingmomdiary@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: How would you feel if what you wanted did not happen? Disappointed maybe, but this tale of “not happening” actually makes you smile!

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It’s sad and shocking but still it’s true, The story of my life, how I grew. Stain on humanity, a heart shattering tale The world still believes in the superiority of the male. Oh dear God, please tell me why, No one hears my heart’s cry. I longed for my father’s love all the time, If he just smiled, I was on cloud nine. But never got a chance to make him feel proud,

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The reason being, I was never let out. I was trapped in my house’s four walls Not even allowed to play with the dolls. I was taught to eat, sweep, cook and sleep Though in my mind, I was always thinking deep. Silently watched my brother playing in the rain, While inside the house I worked on the grain. My brother was happy, to school daily he drove When I sat for long just before the stove. In the flames of which burned my dreams I desired to show my plight, shout n scream. Like him I wanted to fly high As free as the birds in the sky. Thankful I should be I was told That they let me live, Though for me never did their arms fold. To get married and serve like a maid was my only aim My father said, “You’re such a shame.” My hands knew no softness, I felt all alone The beautiful world for me was a dark dome Being a girl, seemed never right Wish no girl takes birth for several other nights.

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About Ritika Gupta: Ritika Gupta is a college student doing B.Tech in Mechanical Engineering from HBTI. Writing poems is a hobby. She feels glad to share her work. She can be reached at rtkg0312@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: A very common scenario seen in almost every household in our country depicted through this moving poem brilliantly by the poet.

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Long ago, an efflorescence of life was plank down on earth Since then, mankind came into the existence casting birth A cycle that goes on and on with the promise of cooperation Connects we children to our mother earth with intense adoration As the time changed, people changed and so with them have 'relations'

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The gap contriving in between, both generations fails to built a space for rendition The promising link between the two seems adversely decrepit near to separation It's we, who initiated the route of disguise with the rush of our own greed Too easy for us to let go things, far too insensitive to mother earth's selfless deed There is always a limit of everything beyond which the elasticity turns into plasticity The elasticity of earth was till we were its tenants but soon that turned differently When we, the so called care takers of earth started to display its authority A child cannot be the mother of his own mother that is the restraint reality And thus, a step beyond once taken cannot be recover And finally, like a relationship based on compromises don't go longer The selfless beauty of love bond and the notion of giving and receiving were snapped Time is the mightiest among all and when it associates with nature makes a deadly combination

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Both shows the dual phase of loftiness and kindness, capricious We can't make them run behind us in a long run rather we will be abandon We took the steps unknowingly, knowingly of the consequences The another phase of the nature confronted, this time wild and merciless A wave of destruction once flowed followed by massacre and loss A storm broke out of earth's flasks which proved earth as undefeated The strokes it lash hard over the rival made it hard for the man's survival The storm carried away everything along with it The night after the storm relinquish into gloom, pathetic Beauty in abundance is now getting deficit Lives struggling to reconcile Life It's never too late to correct oneself Need is, think twice act wise

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About Simran Kaur: Simran Kaur, a 17 years old teenage from Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh, believes that simplicity in thoughts, words and behaviour is what makes one beautiful in a true sense. She has a great passion for writing poetry and has inherited this talent from her Grandmother. According to her '' Writing is best way of powerful expressions and only lucky ones are blessed with it''. She can be easily read on her blog 'My Friendship' where she frequently pour down her thoughts and feelings especially about 'Nature, Love, Relations and Friendship'. Besides that she loves doing photography, cooking, art, making friends and travelling. Blog link: http://myfriendshipsimran.blogspot.in/. She can be reached at simrankaur606@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Human race has evolved and so have our thoughts. But with it also has come along things like malice which make us question our survival at times. This poem is one such a cry raising some very valid questions in the reader’s mind.

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THE CAREFREE PHASE OF LIFE-CHILDHOOD – VAISAKHI MISHRA Story Behind the Photograph: The spring of childhood So serene a place; Brimming with innocence of soul Quenching the thirst of eyes Seeking the visage of untainted beauty. The thought behind the click was how we find mirth and satisfaction in the smallest, trivial and seemingly worthless things in life in childhood. That is because we are carefree and not haunted by the complexities of life. If only we could be like and innocent child!

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About Vaisakhi Mishra: Vaisakhi Mishra is a Technical Business Analyst in Deloitte USI, residing in Mumbai. She is a person who loves writing poems and goes "click click" almost anywhere and everywhere when given a chance to escape the mundane life of a software developer. She can be reached at vishvarsha@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Innocence and childhood seem to go hand in hand.... as we tend to lose it as we grow up. A beautiful combo of both these things captured in this amazing click!

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INTERVIEW OF RUCHIRA KHANNA Today we have Ms. Ruchira Khanna the author of the latest book Choices. Ruchira is an author with a beautiful soul whospreads magic through her writings at her blog called Abracabadra. (http://abracabadra.blogspot.com/). Her writings grab a thread straight out of our lives and weave them in such beautiful lessons that they leave an unforgettable impression on a reader’s mind and heart. She has contributed articles in Life hack, Science of Soul, besides being a writer on Hub pages.

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If asked to describe herself she says "I am a dreamer and writing aids me to express those thoughts inside me and help me envision a beautiful world."

The blurb of her book reads: Leonardo is a young man who is standing on a crossroad of life, facing choices. One road leads to a high stress career that brings in big bucks; the other is a chance to make a real difference in lives of others. He has a few questions, questions that all of us have faced when facing choices that can change our lives. Does fate make a man, or do his desires? Do ambitions and desires actually lead a person to true happiness and fulfillment, or does providence and life changing events actually show a person the true path to follow? ‘Choices’ raises these questions, and attempts to answer them. It is a slice-of-life, a book written through the heart. In conversation with her in an attempt to know her more in her own words:

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1. Writer’s Ezine welcomes you. It is a pleasure having you here and thank you so much for your time. Let’s talk about Choices your debut novella. How did it all happen? I joined in the band wagon of many other writers for the NaNoWriMo in November’12. , having no protocol in mind. Just went with the flow. 2. Your book talks about dilemmas one would usually face in life and the choices one makes, sometimes out of own-will and sometimes because there is no other way out. Have you ever faced such a situation where you found yourself on a crossroad? Forced to make a choice? In a way, is this book inspired by your own life? Yes, I have on a personal level come to cross roads and was forced to make a choice. Initially, I was dejected and frustrated but, when changes came along I realized it’s for the better and embraced them. 3. How did your love for writing start? Was it something you enjoyed doing since childhood?

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I actually never penned anything until ~5 years ago. This was more of writing positive memos to me to embrace the new changes. I would create mantras for each day and trudge along with that in mind. Gradually, I started writing on blogger and then hopped to Hub-pages and other platforms. 4. Writing as they say is a lonely journey. What do you think about it? It depends how an individual defines lonely. Because when writing, one’s thoughts keep us company, which enables a writer to pen down the matter that is in his/her mind. However, to have a human body around could be a distraction. 5. The most highly discussed thing between all the writers is the biggest trouble they all face sometime of other – The Writer’s Block. Any such experience that you want our readers to know as to how you dealt with it. I think a big difference amongst writers versus any common individual is Awareness. This Awareness makes a person compose, create. The moment a writer loses perception, he tends to term it as a Writer’s block. Yes, there have been times when I

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have lost my consciousness and that could be when my mind was playing games over some issues. Would sit to write but just stare at the screen since my mind would be places. Realization of what is happening makes the heart and minds communicate and gradually it syncs up to compose. 6. Publishing Industry in India is said to be a very challenging one. How has been your experience regarding the same? Any specific incident that you would like to share with us. I took the self-publishing route for this book since I followed no guidelines in writing this book. As the synopsis says, “Straight from the heart” 7. Having read your work Choices, if given a choice is there is anything that you would like to back and change in the story? I have met so many wonderful people in this journey that started with Hub pages and the road does not seem to have a dead end so far. However, I do sometimes want to go back working in the lab since as my Director said, “I was the first person to see/discover E6 protein that made a breakthrough

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for HPV diagnosis” That thrill awes me when we make progress in science for the development of mankind. But the long hours hold me back. Thus, am happy with the present where I make a small difference in people’s lives by my Reiki practise, blogging and a book release now and then for man to ponder within himself. 8. Is Leonardo, your lead character based on a real life person you know? Or are you like that, one with firm determination and grit to make it there? My book is about immigrants who make it to United States. I wanted to portray a life of migrants. The hardships they endeavour because being away from home. The determination that drives them to pursue their dreams is unbelievable and thus the story came into form with respect to emotions and courage amidst the hardships they endeavour. Leonardo is pure fiction. 9. Any favourite author whom you idealize and why? Many wonderful authors surround our planet. I idolize:

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Deepak Chopra cause his scientific reasoning behind every belief makes it so much simple to understand and transcribe in a foreign land. Nicholas Sparks because he has a message to convey in his novels. 10. If asked to describe yourself in three words what would they be? Had to take help from my family over this!“ Energetic yet Grounded!” 11. We would love to know your future projects or any other books you might be working on currently. I have a Children book coming out this year. I approached a publishing house for this since needed illustrations. These are the stories I used to narrate to my toddler, which has turned into a book. 12. One message that you would like to give to your readers and all those aspiring authors who dream of being HERE someday having the title of author associated with their name.

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Chase your dreams because you have the power to outrun them. Titles are man-made; you go after your goals in life because that is what gives the ultimate contentment. A huge thank you for sparing some of your precious time to be with here today, we would like to wish you all the best for all your future endeavours.

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REVIEW OF RUCHIRA KHANNA’S – CHOICES Writer’s Ezine would like to thank the author Ruchira Khanna for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team for its first very issue and also agree for an interview with us. WE thoroughly enjoyed reading this book and it was a real pleasure interacting with her as WE worked on this. :Intro: Leonardo is a young man who is standing on a crossroad of life, facing choices. One road leads to a high stress career that brings in big bucks; the other is a chance to make a real difference in lives of others. He has a few questions, questions that all of us have faced when facing choices that can change our lives. Does fate make a

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man, or do his desires? Do ambitions and desires actually lead a person to true happiness and fulfillment, or does providence and life changing events actually show a person the true path to follow? ‘Choices’ raises these questions, and attempts to answer them. It is a slice-of-life, a book written through the heart.

:Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover design is a very pretty with a beautiful green forest and two paths depicting the “Choices” that one has to make from those two paths. But WE felt that maybe the cover could have been made a bit better in terms of color combination so that it is eye- catching which could actually compel a reader to pick it up from a shelf to read it further. 2. Presentation: The overall presentation of the book is very neat making it an enjoyable read as flip through those pages.

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3. Narration: The narration is pretty much straight and simple – in other language straight from the heart. The simplicity is what makes this book an enjoyable read. 4. Characters: The character of Leonardo the main lead comes across as a very strong character and very much relatable for almost each one of us as some or the other time we all would have faced in life. The strength of the character is attention grabbing and it also builds onto your curiosity as you get connected to him and want to know what he goes through and what is he going to do next.

5. Plot: The plot is very real life and one that we all can connect to in more than one ways, due to which some might feel there is no novelty in it. However having said that it is this grounded-ness of the plot which makes it more appealing particularly to people who love reading such real life stories. 6. Storyline: Storyline is very straight with no extreme highs and lows which in a way is good for people who enjoy such light reads which touch their hearts.

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7. Story flow: The flow is pretty smooth without any hiccups that would make a reader uncomfortable after having read the book halfway. 8. Language: The overall language has been kept very lucid which can be understood to retain the simplicity of the story and retain the reader’s attention along with it. 9. Pros: A very simple and straight story line which would immediately connect with the reader making him engrossed in this piece.

10. Cons: The simple language at some places tends to feel a bit dragged in between as the narrative loses its grip. Also the tenses in some places were lost making the reader confused for a moment.

:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be a 3.5 on a scale of 5 which declares it as a Good Read and recommended to readers who enjoy such genres with

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light hearted story-lines told straight from the heart, one that would make them think about their life in retrospect. For a débutante the author has done a good job in her first book itself and given a taste of her writings to readers. She has potential as an author and the readers are bound to expect more from her after reading this work of hers. WE actually can foresee her growth with every book that she will write after this. WE would like to wish her all the best in all her future endeavours!

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PSYCHEDELIC – PRIYA ANAND Part 1 of 3 She woke up, stretched out her arm, expecting to make contact with a warm body and encountered empty space. The sheets emanated a musky odour of sex and sweat. She felt her stomach churn and turned over to the other side. The alarm clock had long since fulfilled its duty and now was a lone and silent spectator to her disbelief. “Half past nine …what was Chirag doing? He should have woken her up by now.” She sat up and felt a dull pain resonating in her temples. She should have stopped at two rum and cokes and passed on the vodka shots. “Chirag, can you make me some coffee please?”

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The living room was empty. A crumpled newspaper balanced precariously on the centre table. “How many times have I told you to keep the paper back in the magazine rack after you’ve read it, Chirag? It looks like used toilet paper”. No counter argument; no sounds of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Silence like a shroud enveloped the entire apartment. She got up and went into the kitchen and was surprised to find it empty and clean. No vessels lying around, no coffee decoction spilt on the counter top; milk hadn’t even been boiled that morning. “Where are you, Chirag? Are you hiding in the bathroom?” The bathroom door yielded to the pressure of her fist and her voice ricocheted off the tiled walls, its dry unmarked surface a testimony to his absence. Normally the sight of a clean bathroom would have lightened her mood but not in this case, it only made the veins in her head pulse harder.

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“It is almost 10am and the maid must have come and gone. I’ll have to do the cleaning and prepare lunch,” she said clutching her head which seemed to clang like a bell tower at regular intervals. She cleaned the house with a fanatic fervour and that took the edge off her temper. As she patted the dented pillows on the bed back into shape, she discovered a key beneath Chirag’s pillow. It was an odd shaped key, like a stiletto with serrated edges tapering to a needle like point likely to draw blood. It wasn’t Chirag’s; the key almost looked like it was left there for her to find. It was 12 noon and no sign of him. Worry replaced anger as the overarching emotion and she called his cell phone. “This number does not exist,” said a disembodied voice and she tried over and over again, pounding at the keys with mounting anxiety. “What do I do, whom should I call?” she thought as panic threatened to overwhelm her.

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“Should I call Anju? No, she will immediately come over and harass me with an inquisition about our relationship. I don’t really need this now.” She scrolled down the contact list on her cell phone and was not surprised to find that she did not have Chirag’s colleagues’ numbers saved on her contact list; week end camaraderie was not one of his strong points. She popped a pill into her mouth to calm herself down and almost immediately felt herself slow down as if the driver of a racing train destined to jump the tracks had applied the brakes forcefully and allowed the train to coast to a gentle run. She stretched out on the sofa and surfed channels. The brief bursts of colour and shadow from the TV mingled with the mellow sunlight that diffused the room, and made her feel as if she were a piece of glass in a kaleidoscope. Turn the contraption and a different perspective falls into place. She giggled as she envisaged Chirag peeping out from behind the bedroom door, stark naked except for a towel that barely covered his privates saying, “Now you see me,

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now you don’t.” The medicines were messing up her mind, but she didn't give a damn. She drifted into a twilight zone between deep sleep and dormancy. A distant boom made her wake up with a start. She let out a scream; she was still lying on her sofa, but it was not in her living room. She pinched herself hard and squeezed her eyes shut to make sure she was not in a nightmare. But when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. As far as her eyes could see, all was a wasteland with dry red cracked and parched earth and distant fires that seemed to emerge from the earth for a moment only to vanish the next instant. The desert stretched out infinitely, with towering cliffs coloured in striations of red, pink and orange; no human habitation in sight. To be continued….

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About Priya Anand: Priya Anand is Bangalore based and has recently started writing short stories and poems. Some of her work has been published in Bangalore review and Spark. She is yet to discover her genre, but is having great fun trying to find it. She can be reached at priya7767@yahoo.co.in

Editor's Comment: A truly nail biting read.

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Last night it was a dream Dipped in agony, I heard a scream. A petite form I could see With tiny fingers, Trying to reach me. And it tried hard But it was me, Who failed to guard..

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Last night it was a dream Dipped in agony, I heard a scream. A cry it was That questioned me Why I let the evils pass. And I couldn't retort In response, I just cried my heart out. Last night it was a dream Dipped in agony, I heard a scream. She was my child Before meeting me, Who had died. The barbarity of the human race Being a Girl, She had to face.

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Last night it was a dream Dipped in agony, I heard a scream.

About Srishti Singh: Currently pursuing graduation in Psychology, Srishti aspires to be a writer. Words, she feels have the power both to sooth the heart and rip it apart. Other than investing her time in dreaming, she blogs at Life...as it is. http://srishkuk.blogspot.in/2014/01/a-scream.html She can be reached at itsrishti@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: Being a girl child in a country like ours surely leads to a lot of questions which sometimes have no answers, all that we can hear is a scream – one that the poet has shared with us here.

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ON MY KNEES FOR YOU – AMITH P KUMAR Few people are there like you Cheerful as the morning dew, Every time I see you My day becomes fresh and new. Oh, it’s Valentine’s Day today, What would I get for you? Ah, I wish I could only tell How much I care for you… I would have drawn you a portrait Had I known a little art, I would have rendered you a song Alas, I am no Mozart! Life’s great when you are near I wish we would never part I fall on my knees, dear… Come, live in my heart!

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The lips are fumbling to tell what The heart has already told, O Mate! Won’t you take my hand today? For tomorrow might be a day too late…

-The Pen About Amith P Kumar:

The writer is a software engineer by profession and a blogger by choice. He's an active social volunteer, an avid traveller, orator and people-lover. His interests include Theatre, Biking and the opposite gender! He blogs at amithpk.blogspot.com. He can be reached at amithpk@gmail.com Editor's Comment: The beauty of love is not in love but in the person whom you love for it makes them more beautiful and that is exactly what the poet has tried to portray through his words.

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The age old question, what is Love? Isn't it the greatest gift from the holy one above? Is it pure and white like a new born Dove? Does it cuddle you up, like a hand in a Glove? Answer this hard question that what is LOVE?? The force that propels you, through pain and despair, The benevolence, the blessings, from the heavens above, The ray of sunshine that pierces the clouds, a perennial hope, That’s what love is;

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It’s the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, It’s the mirth that ends melancholy's reign, A fountain of glee, the elixir of life, It’s the drug that heals, and cures all the pain; It’s an eternal promise, never meant to be broken, It’s the bond that connects two hearts together, People may die and their stories may end, But their love is immortal, it lives on forever; It’s the river that cuts through boulders and rocks, And the stream that flows through our barren lives, And on its long course, It leaves behind a trail of vivid fragrant flowers, and clear blue skies; Love is felt by the heart, relished by the soul, Blissful like the divine touch of the Gods, I yearn for more ballads and more metaphors, But I fall short of verses, can't bind love in words....

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About Anamika Mishra: Anamika is a girl who is known for strong opinions and the passionate defence of her beliefs. She was born and raised in Kanpur, Uttar Pradesh which is known as the Manchester of North India. Writing is her first love. Apart from it, she is an avid reader too and admires Paulo Coelho as her role model. When not writing, she loves to scribble in her Blog, play with her pet, click photographs and travel across the nation. Being an animal lover, she is also a member of 'People For Animals' NGO. ‘Too Hard To Handle' is her debut novel. Website: www.anamikamishra.com. She can be reached at me.anamika01@gmail.com

Editor's Comment: A wonderfully written to the most oft asked question in the world – a definition of love that will make you want to redefine it for yourself

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Betrothed to arranges, vowed to the seven steps Much to the night’s embarrassment, continuing our tete-a-tete till dawn Fortuitous to find a fore at her doorsteps Leading to the embrace of hearts and souls thereon Beats pace upon receiving a peck on casing Erupting a tsunami of emotions, transgressing the barrier As bodies dance to an intimate tango tantalising Eros’s benediction beaconing azure

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Thy piquantly pleasant luscious smile lure Jejune thou evoking concerns The crack up and tickle grandeur Foremost bless thy camaraderie love earns An enduring union descends in thy noon As winged cupid secures through a cocoon About Rohan Kachalia: A Sagittarian by nature and hence hopelessly romantic by heart (termed by his wife) which he begs to differ, a banker by vocation, a blogger by leisure pursuit and an aspiring writer. Having taken to reading and blogging since last one year and reading and writing romance seems to be his forte, along with poems, haiku and erotica. Success seems to have finally got a direction when within a year of writing; his poems have been published in an anthology called ‘Minds @ Work 2’. He blogs jointly with his wife at: http://ponderingtwo.blogspot.in. His mantra for life is: Cheers, Keep Smiling & Embrace Love. He can be reached at rohan.kachalia@gmail.com

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Editor's Comment: The rendition here is the way love is - pure, innocent and touching. And that is what makes it a soul stirring read for everyone.

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THE WORD ‘NO’ – SANDEEP SHARMA Memories of her came back to haunt him again as he went ahead towards the darkest valley he had ever visited before. He couldn't move on his own, he was not allowed to. He was weeping but nobody cared. He was the murderer and that’s what his identity was. The judge had announced his verdict on him and this was the time to hang him till his death. He loved her a lot and she knew it. She used him as a toy and he couldn't do anything other than to obey her. She was his wife. She was more than perfect for him but the only thing which made her dangerous was her nature of not listening to the word ‘NO’. The word ‘NO’ was her biggest enemy. Whenever she heard a ‘NO’, she became someone else. ‘Hitler’ was her nickname in her office. He was so madly in love that he could see nothing other than her. He ignored the disappearance of his maid, the

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brutal killing of his driver and even his parent’s suicide attempt. He knew where the dark secrets lay but never tried to dig deeper because he was blindfolded by her love just like now as these men are covering his face with black mask so that he couldn't see the approaching death. Things changed when she gave birth to their son, Ayan. That’s when he saw the real face of his wife. He had to do something because he could not loose Ayan. The decision was hard but he had to take it. He still remembered her last words, “You can’t run away from me.” A splash of edge of sharpened knife on her neck was enough to change his fate forever. He could see her laughing at the other end of the dark cave. He was reluctant to go through it but a sudden jerk on his neck made him travel the distance and throw him at her feet. He closed his eyes; she leaned

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low and whispered in his ears, “You can’t run away from me.” About Sandeep Sharma: Sandeep Sharma, a blogger, a book reviewer and also the author of a mathematical thriller, Algorithm of Future, is currently pursuing B-Tech from JSS, Noida. He is from the city of Taj, Agra and had a dream to get lost in an island with an internet connection and courier service (so that he can receive the review copies of novels send by the authors). He can be reached at sandeeplochansharma@yahoo.in

Editor's Comment: Intriguing and captivating are the perfect words that can be used to describe this story!

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LOVE IN CRISIS – RUCHIRA KHANNA Distant sirens wake Sandra up. She is quick to jolt herself up on her bed and her immediate reaction is reaching out to the other side of the mattress. But immediately something inside beckons her, and it takes a couple of seconds for her to register. She nods as if somebody has just whispered the truth to her and focuses on the noise that gave her the quivers of reality. Earlier these kinds of alarms used to make her alert and helped her focus on her goal i.e. to reach out to the victims that have been wheeled into the ER. But, after a nightmare things have changed. Her body tends to tremble giving her spasms that make her stand upright in a very peculiar way. The knowledge and sharpness that would start seeping in, on seeing a patient on a stretcher and shouting out remedies from a distance seemed to have faded away. She now gives stares to them, which makes them apprehensive whether they will make it alive or not?

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What took away her enthusiasm from her job was an ordeal when her friend was wheeled in unconscious. That fateful day Sandra was done with her duty for the evening and passed by the stretcher, which was holding her consort. She did not pay attention since the face was covered with the red body fluid and her thoughts were giving her company. She drove home with that extravagant thinking and started implementing it by putting up a fancy meal for the couple. Amidst the action, she muted her cell phone to avoid any hindrance especially after a long day, which was full of bandaging, stitching with compression of wounds and body parts. The meal prepared and the table set, she stepped in for a quick shower. Minutes were ticking and the music was being replayed again. She pulled out her phone to reach out her mate and saw her mobile screen full of texts, missed calls from a known number and voicemail. Her heart fluttered as she dialed the seemingly known number

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and plopped down listening to the news from the other end. Her eyes were moist and hands were trembling as she hurriedly disconnected the phone, promising to be there as soon as possible. Her driving was chaotic because her mind was playing a riot and her body was fighting the tears; agonizing over her companion being in pain. She reached the hospital and dashed through the hallway into the emergency ward as she saw other individuals for permission to see their beloveds. While doing so, she breathed a sigh of relief as she could avoid that ordeal. Sandra was quick to find her mate’s bed and within a few seconds she was next to her bandaged face and frail body. The nurse on duty updated her condition to which she could not resist her tears. Nurses helped Sandra with her shifts during this transition as she sat through Roth’s recovery and waited impatiently for the final verdict. Then one morning when the bandages were off, doctors came in to examine. Sandra could sense their expressions amidst their professionalism and sneaked out to hear it from their mouth. They described these

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symptoms could be short-lived, thus giving her hope. She was shattered, but she gained composure and helped Roth with the discharge procedure. Silence has become their roommate but yet there was this distinctive closeness between Sandra and Roth as they sipped their coffee on a Sunday Morning. Roth was speaking the language of love via her sign dialect while Sandra was seeing through the eyes of compassion as life listened to them with the ears of tolerance.

About Ruchira Khanna: Ruchira Khanna, a biochemist turned writer, began doing freelance writing. Her love of writing grew and she started working on her own book. After four years of freelancing, Ruchira published her first book, a fiction novel for adults called Choices. In addition to writing books, she also maintains an inspirational blog of daily mantras on Blogspot, called “Abracabadra.” She can be reached at ruchpun@yahoo.com

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Editor's Comment: The flow of the story is very intriguing, making a reader curious with an endearing end hence it has been chosen for the simplicity it reflects throughout and yet touching.

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Will you cry if I smile and wave a goodbye? Days turn into weeks and weeks into months without any sight of change; Time promised to be a healer and yet lived beyond its range. Bits and pieces lie scattered all around, the only remnants of what was; A pinch of truth – a fistful of life I try to gather and suddenly pause… Will you cry if I scream and say no more can I try?

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A bleeding heart and a screaming soul conjuring pain like never before; Ebbs and tides – tides and ebbs perhaps it’s now time to touch the shore. Holding onto all that I have – having no other choice; I stride ahead into the unknown with a slight rejoice. Will you cry if I smile to hide my tears feeling shy? Looking for an answer to every question that comes to my mind; I hug tightly all that I have right now memories of every kind. Stumbling trembling I walk on the path that life drew; And look behind one last time to ask a question to you ~ Will you cry if I leave it all and just die? About Namrata: An investment banker by profession Namrata romances life through her writings. Her stories have been published in various anthologies like 25 Strokes of kindness, Time’s Lost Atlas and Stories for your valentine. She can be reached at privytrifles@gmail.com

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COMING BACK – ARTI HONRAO She lay in bed, exhausted. She was tired after what she had just gone through. Yes, it was exhausting but she was happy. She smiled and looked around. The room was clean. Climbing up and down the ladder had given her back pain but it was worth. All the cobwebs gotten rid of. She closed her eyes and thought about him. He had called her the previous night and told her that he was coming home tonight. She fell asleep. She woke up with a jolt when the sunlight fell straight on her face through the windows. She saw the time; she had slept for almost two hours. She climbed out of the bed and straightened the bed-sheet. She smiled again. She took her purse and walked out of the flat. She had planned something special for him. She walked into Archies Gallery and bought Wind-chimes and a greeting card for him. She then went to the florist and bought

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flowers, lots of red roses. She walked to the local Crafts shop and bought red ribbons. She returned to the flat and set to work. She stuck red roses on the walls of the bedroom with the help of cello-tape. She climbed on the bed again and tried to reach the fan. She sighed. She got down and went to the living room and got a stool. She climbed onto it and tied red ribbons to the fan and then she slipped and fell on bed, her head almost hitting the headrest of the bed. She remembered how he had once held her in his arms when she had slipped and fell while cleaning the cobwebs. She sighed and got up and stuck the other end of the red ribbons around the bed with cello-tape. She then scattered the red rose petals on the bed-sheet, of course after straightening it first. She wanted it to look unused when he entered the bedroom. She blushed.

It was four years ago that they had met for the first time. She still remembered the day when he rang the doorbell and she was in kitchen kneading the dough.

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She wiped her hands clean and opened the door and he stared at her. “There’s dough in your hair” he had said. No hi, no introduction. Straight to the point. She pulled out the napkin she had tucked in at the waistline in her Sari and got rid of the dough. “Who are you?” she questioned, frustrated on being disturbed and being pointed out about how untidy she looked. “Raj. I saw an ad that mentions this address.” He said as he pulled out a newspaper from the back pocket of his jeans and she looked. She could not believe she literally looked at his behind as he took out the paper; he followed her gaze and cleared his throat. He showed the paper to her. She could not stop herself from smiling at the thought about how he had managed to fold the entire sheet of newspaper and make it fit in the back pocket of his jeans. “Excuse me!” he exclaimed. She looked at his face, embarrassed to be caught (yet again) staring at his behind. “This is the wrong address.” She said and handed over the newspaper back to him. "It’s the flat opposite to this one."

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“Oh, I am sorry” saying so he turned around and she laughed out loud. He turned to look at her, wondering what was so funny. She stopped laughing and closed the door. She could not stop herself from looking at the bulge of the wallet he had kept in the back pocket. She never understood why guys kept their wallets in the back pockets. “So that girls can look at it.” He had teased her. This was after they had become friends. A few days after their first meeting he shifted to the flat opposite to hers. He had seen the ad for a paying guest put up by her neighbour. A widower in his mid-fifties. He needed the company, she had thought then. She needed his company, she realized later. They became good friends and she fell in love with him. He moved out of the apartment two years later and flew abroad for his job. They kept in touch through emails. She could never tell him how she felt about him. And tonight, she was going to meet him after all these years. Her neighbour died months after Raj left and the apartment keys were handed to her as per the neighbour’s wish. He had left the flat in her name. She was standing in the neighbour’s flat, getting it ready for Raj.

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She looked around for the last time and when she was sure everything was just the way she wanted it to be, she walked out of the apartment. She entered her apartment and walked straight to her bedroom. She walked to the desk and stared at the email she had left open on the computer screen. She never liked to put her computer in standby mode or even use a screensaver. She read the email he had sent her couple of months ago telling her that he is getting married. She closed the email and Raj’s smiling face stared back at her. It was her favourite wallpaper; they were together in it, his arm around her shoulder. Both of them smiling. She shut down the computer. He was coming back with his wife. Though it was not exactly his first night, it was his first night in the flat and she wanted it to be special for them. She smiled. She was happy for him, yes she was. Yet, there was something deep inside her heart that felt otherwise. She decided to make love to that weird feeling as he made love to his wife.

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About Arti Honrao: Author of fiction books titled 'My Life story' and 'Is This Love & Autumn - The Last Leaf' and novel 'Resemblance - The Journey of a Doppelganger' Arti enjoys writing short stories on Relationships. She has attempted writing different form poems but most enjoy writing Prose poems where she get to express without the limitations of words or rhyming. Most of her writings depict human feelings and emotions, which she tries to bring onto the page and into the minds of the reader. She believes that essence of writing lies in not only entertaining the reader, but speaking to them through words. She can be reached at contact@artihonrao.net

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WHISPERED WORD – IN OR OUT? What is Whispered Words? We all want to be heard. We all have tales to tell, secrets to share, opinions to ask and advice to seek. We all need an unknown friend, who would listen to us and give us unbiased opinions. This feature is being introduced to the readers of Writer’s Ezine with the same intention in mind. At Whispered Words WE makes an attempt to hear all that you want to tell us and understand even what you don't. It is quite understandable that not everyone would be comfortable sharing personal details on the Internet, definitely not in any (online) magazine. WE wants to assure you complete confidentiality in terms of your personal matters, no information will be divulged publicly. Through this column we are making an attempt to reach out to more people who might be sharing the same woes as yours but would be unable to

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even reach out and seek an answer. By telling your story we want to let them know they are not alone and that there is at least one soul on this earth that is willing to listen to their heartbeats exactly the way they listen. As the first step of opening up and sharing, this person has willingly agreed to allow publishing of the ‘whispered words’ discussed with the Relationship Advisor/Expert. This article has been selected from the Whispered Words feature that appears on the blog of one of the Administrators: Yesterday I had a whispered words chat with a woman who is in a relationship that has reached a stage where she has to take the most important decision. The decision which would change her life and more importantly, the life of her child. It is a huge responsibility when someone like her approaches seeking advice. Sometimes people need a third person’s perspective on the matter and as that third person I try my best to give my opinion. I would not go into the details of her problem but I really wanted to share this (of course with her permission).

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Due to various factors she is not happy in the relationship. Her husband does not want to say anything or do anything for the relationship, it is entirely her decision what she does. She can either end the relationship or continue being in it without any attachment. I asked her a few questions: 1. Has your husband ever cheated on you? Answer: No. 2. Compatibility issues? Answer: Yes. 3. Love Marriage or arranged? Answer: Arranged 4. Does your husband smoke and drink? Answer: Sometimes. 5. Does your husband hit you? Answer: Never. 6. Are there any chances that being in the relationship you would be able to mend it over a couple of years? Answer: No. If I stay in the relationship it would only be for my son. All my emotional attachments with my husband would be gone.

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7. May be, you are reacting to something right now and after you clear your head and think again after a couple of days or weeks you might feel otherwise? Answer: I have been thinking about this for more than six months. The only factor holding me back is my son who is four years old. 8. Since when did the relationship start being affected? Answer: After my son was born. I made sure to confirm whether there was a chance of mending the relationship but she said there was no chance at all. She could never love her husband the way she did, ever again. She was worried what affect the divorce would have on her son. I told her that I believe it is better for her son at an age of four to face the harsh effects of divorce rather than grow up in an unfavourable environment to see his parents behaving coldly towards one another for, maybe, rest of their lives. In the end, I also suggested that she should give some more time to the relationship. Walk out for some time and let the distance between her husband and her decide whether she really wants to move away or come

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back. Most importantly, she should not let her son be the excuse for the decision she takes. I wanted to share this here because I have heard about so many cases where the woman continues to be in marriage only because of a child. Does that make any sense?

(Post comments have been disabled. Please email your comments (if any) to feedback@writersezine.com.) If you have something to share with WE, please feel free to write to us at whisperedwords@writersezine.com

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About Writer’s Ezine: When Alfred Hitchcock said “Ideas come from everything” little did he know that everything would mean literally everything in this world. Taking inspiration from him, two fellow bloggers and friends – Namrata and Arti debated one day the exact meaning of Freedom of Expression and its rightful usage is today’s times. And so was born Writer’s Ezine, a monthly literary online magazine (E-zine) with the intention of providing platform to emerging as well as established writers from around the world. Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place where writing and creativity come together to ensure a wonderful experience to the reader. As you read along and turn a page you will find your mind wandering into places you never thought of before, making you sit up and question the biggest mystery of all times – LIFE. This is one place where readers, writers, poets,

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photographers, idealists, thinkers, atheists, believers and story-tellers all will be in sync with creativity. We accept submissions in poetry, short-stories, non-fiction, author interviews, book reviews etc. (Please read Submission Guidelines for details). So what are you waiting for, unleash the artist within and paint the palette with colours of your choice! About the Administrators We are readers and writers madly in love with the written word. To know more about us please visit us at: About Namrata About Arti Honrao Submissions for the May issue of Writer's Ezine are now open. Please do read Submission Guidelines before Submitting your entries using the submission form. The closing date for Submissions is 20th April.

Designed by Arti Honrao

Writer’s Ezine – Volume I April 2014 Issue

Profile for Writer's Ezine

Writer's Ezine - Volume I April 2014 Issue  

Writer's Ezine is a monthly literary online magazine started by Namrata & Arti with an intention of providing platform to emerging as well a...

Writer's Ezine - Volume I April 2014 Issue  

Writer's Ezine is a monthly literary online magazine started by Namrata & Arti with an intention of providing platform to emerging as well a...