Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
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Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
It is always said that the person who holds onto anything tightly in life despite everything that comes his way is the strongest, what most of us forget is that to know when to let go and do that with equal élan is the sign of a true warrior. Holding on and letting go are the two most important actions of one‟s lives and to know what to do when; is where the mastery lies. Many people tend to associate letting go with failure but what no one notices is the amount of
strength it needs. It is not easy to let go of something so close to your heart. You do that because you have had enough of hurt and it is just a way of protecting yourself from further hurt. There is nothing wrong in it. As someone had once told me, the thin line of
demarcation between being selfish and being self entered is the destruction the latter brings. The former just brings you a www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
sense of satisfaction of having done something for yourself. If you observe closely each and every person is selfish around us and yet they will not waste a second in reminding us how selfish we are when we put ourselves first. Remember, according to the Darwin‟s theory of existence being selfish is one of the key factors for survival. To rephrase a famous quote I would say,” It is better to have lived at least for yourself than to have never lived ever and just existed.” When WE started a year back we faced a lot of things, some good enough to be held onto till now and some harsh to be let go of immediately. For a moment then before letting go it did feel bad but looking back at it today it feels alright. That‟s the secret of life, time doesn‟t heal the
wounds it just makes you used to the absence and presence of few things around. Sharing few lovely lines I came across recently: If ever in life you are confused about what to do just toss a coin. It might not help you decide but whatever your heart wishes for when the coin is mid-air is what you want the most! With this issue of WE, we have reached our 11th issue. Feels exciting and very surreal to see the number of authors, the amazing stories and the poems that have been captured in these issues, what is more encouraging is what is in store ahead. The journey has just begun for us and WE invites you to be a part of this amazing journey with us by sharing your works with us.
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The amount of love and effort that goes behind each issue multiplies and comes back to us in abundance, the sole reason we keep chasing the dream of making WE better and better with every issue. As always looking forward your feedback at feedback@writersezine.com Till then keep writing, keep dreaming, keep believing!
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If this is the first time you are reading Writer‟s Ezine do visit our website Writer‟s Ezine to know more. We have tried to make the site as user-friendly as we could. With Navigation tools like Sitemap, FAQ‟s, Table of Content etc. Do check out the Contests on Writer‟s Ezine
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Prompt of the Month WE believes that at times creativity looks for a muse. So here we attempt to give you a muse month on month that will tickle your creative buds and let your imagination take a flight.
The rules remain the same. The prompt remains open till the last date of submission for the next month‟s issue. i.e. till 20th of the month to be considered to the next month‟s. Click HERE for details. www.writersezine.com
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Literati Writer's Ezine presents Literati ~ a bi-monthly column which will bring to you interesting tits-bits about literature starting from authors to their books, everything that you ever wanted to know about it is here now.
Join our columnist Aneesha Myles Shewani as she takes you along on a journey where the smell of books is in the air! Click here to read Literati Articles
the
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Cook-N-Tell Till now Writer's Ezine managed to gather various flavors of romance, suspense, mystery, longing, pain, life, death, thriller... .every chapter a new story and every poem a new song. And that is when we realised WE missed out
on a very interesting flavour - one that adds a zing to it. So here we are, presenting Cook-N-Tell a bimonthly column which will have some amazing, mouthwatering, easy-to-make dishes! Click HERE to read the recipes www.writersezine.com
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Author’s Quill Books are magical and the ones who create them are magicians. Author's Quill is a segment that will bring all those magicians to recreate some of the magic through their quills, as they know it the best!
magic land which only they can create. Read what they have to share with you! Click HERE to read Author's Quill articles
the
As we all love to hear what they have to say, WE brings to you some of your favourite authors in this segment. Month on month WE will invite amazing authors to wield the magic of their quill and take you to their www.writersezine.com
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Becoming One Humanity is Sacred In Black and White The Lost Soul Book Review – I Author Interview - I Squiggle Author‟s Quill The Last Walk… Once Again Thinking of You Dark Saturated Book Review – II Author Interview - II Kifo Nzuri Love Beyond Eternity SOL The Disappointment Ghosts All The Way Home Sunrise or Sunset Set Us Free A Mom‟s Heart Cook „N‟ Tell
Asad Ali Junaid Ndaba Sibanda Poornima Laxmeshwar Manish Purohit Hifi In Bollywood Rishi Vohra Sheri L Wright Sulekha Rawat Natasha Badsha Amita Sri Ashok Samjoth Sashidharan Stories of Hope Kirthi Jayakumar R Khushboo Shruthi Raghunandan Don Kingfisher Campbell Nigharika G David Johnson Lucile Barker Salvwi Prasad Divya Parwani Swati Rainbow Heart Cookies
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Becoming One At that moment, I decided to become one… I had enough of these jilted lovers. And their mojos – like their egos – just not matching up.
I was also fed up with a 9to-5 job. And bosses who did not miss a chance to look down my cleavage. When they convinced me into a bed (or into their cars) the benefits weren‟t as forthcoming. I still needed to be loved. I would rather be loved by someone whose stiffness
drives them – at least until the ATM – to cough up for it. I have been keeping that choice to walk away – like I did from that pan-chewing dhoti wearing gent. So what if a lump was showing on him? Even imagining getting intimate with colored lips on a guy did not go well with my duodenum. I avoid the happily married ones like the syphilis. An unhappy wife showed up one day while the husband was attempting to get some through me. She saw his‟ standing and me trying to cover up. She went straight for the children‟s room. By the time I managed to get out, the only stiffness around was in the wife‟s voice and in the Tendulkar www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
sized cricket bat her hand held. There is unpleasantness in the profession certainly. But, you don‟t want to live with it. You somehow make it go away, like you get rid of indigestion after bad food or like recovering from a hangover. Then there are the interesting ones as well. There was this guy did not know if he “liked” women or men or both. He even had a name for his type – the bi-curious. He needed a working-over. I gave him one and more. He stopped calling himself “bi” or even the “curious” types after a few days with me. He was glad that I helped him find direction and some focus. I told him he was always welcome if he felt he was straying back to his “curious” ways and needed help in re-aligning or for anything else. There wasn‟t
a dull moment when he was around. I don‟t advertise. Contacts have a huge role to play in shaping a career – in any profession. I find enough through references and word-of-mouth – which, by the way, is the best way to recruit. I keep clientele who show no pangs of guilt for doing me or my kind. They help me out by (discretely) spreading the word about my availability for such avocations. But, men can get possessive over such matters. I discourage any such behavior. I reason out with them – I am broad chested, can‟t I expect some broad mindedness in return? At one level, it‟s biology after all. I only needed to avoid the chemistry from happening. www.writersezine.com
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I couldn‟t. Twice!!! I checked within my circle – it was a common occupational hazard. I let pity seep through in the first one – a dead wife and those soft eyes. And his had a curl. I could have paid the second one for his skills. And his stamina! Dravid had a rival in variety and endurance in stroke making – though on a different pitch. But I can‟t be thinking too much about chemistry when I am getting older. For most in my line of work, each year passing by is like watching Tony Jaa ram a butterfly kick into our chests in slow motion – one for each year – while we stand there paralyzed to do anything about it. But, there is hope…
In any occupation, experience will always count for something. One merely needs to have the necessary foresight to discover where and how it would be valued. There always are older males who prefer stable women – outside of their homes. And there are boys who impatiently wait for a turn to be introduced to a world beyond handhelds. We need to catch them young. We need to then dazzle them irrevocably with our female form and function. We subsequently must ensure that they keep coming back for forbidden pleasures and for proficiency. Then there will always be those who need a practical hand (not pills) for getting rid of performance anxiety and such disconcerting www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
symptoms. How is that for social service while keeping the cash register ringing? Also, these days, Curly‟s eyes have been making a deeper impact on me. We see each other often. I don‟t see him only for the money and he doesn‟t come over only when he wants some. He listens. He really does. There aren‟t too many of them I have really opened up to. I am hoping against hope that we last. I have realized that, in him, I would have the best counter to Tony Jaa‟s butterfly kick.
compelling story inside him bursting to get out. HI first novel –And We Remained – started as a story which needed to be told. He joined a three week in residence „Just Write‟ fiction writing workshop to learn the nuances story telling skills from some bestselling authors. It turned into novel with an absorbing storyline and a unique narration style - the story set in the 1990‟s India, is told through emails and first person accounts of events.
Editor's Comment: About Asad Ali Junaid: Asad Ali Junaid is a design professional in Bangalore working in the area of Human-Machine Interaction. Junaid writes whenever there is a
Love in every form is beautiful. This story finds out its beauty from the ugliness it is surrounded with.
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Humanity is Sacred
Humanity has lost the path to peace and dignity and equity As bigotry is given acres and acres Of leverage to break hearts Hearts are pounding as the temperatures run riot
Today‌
And disdain is held back in an exercise of futility
There is a sea of challenges facing humanity
Things cannot be taken for granted anymore
Humanity has gone for convenience Instead of magnificence The sacredness of life Has been thrown out of the window In the false preservation and pampering of self and us
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About Ndaba Sibanda:
Editor's Comment:
Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. He hails from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe`s second largest city. In 2005 he authored an epic, Love O‟clock. He has since contributed to fourteen published books. Ndaba‟s poems, essays and short stories have been featured in many and various journals and magazines like: The Piker Press, Bricolage, The Dying Goose, Lost Coast Review, Magazine ,Whispering Prairie Press, Saraba Magazine,allAfrica.com, Jungle Jim, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine etc.
The poet holds a mirror to each of our faces making us come face to face with reality.
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In Black and White
Selfies and smiles How you miss The warm morning hug A loving and proud look Even though you didn‟t do much Less chilli powder
I read your poem
Because you like to eat bland
Word by word
The fragrance of
Loud and clear
Her flowered skin
First I thought
Still in your head
It was about me
How your hands shook
Your sea of love
When you lit the pyre
Expressed in tides and tans
While you thought She was still sleeping
But you talk of The ache of desolation
I felt a lump build up
In a strange city
In my throat
Of fast cars
I swallowed it in silence
Flashy neon lights
While the waters
Endless traffic woes
From my eyes www.writersezine.com
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Flowed like a river Who didn‟t know; To stop or never felt The weight of losing someone I look at you And I read your poem again…
About Poornima Laxmeshwar: Poornima Laxmeshwar resides in the garden city Bangalore and works as a content writer for a living. Her poems have appeared in Kritya, MuseIndia, Writers Asylum, The Aerogram, Stockholm literary review, and are forthcoming in Northeast review and Brown Critique. Her haiku have found space in several magazines like Frogpond, Hundred gourds, BottleRocket, Under the Basho and others. Editor's Comment: The loss of love so poignantly expressed it leaves a reader with a lump in throat.
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The Lost Soul It‟s so surprising to see the similar state of being alone having varied connotations for different individuals – One who experience the pain in it calls it „Loneliness‟ and the one who experience the solace terms it as „Solitude‟. And for the very few who figures in the later, there is some inherent charm in those moments which makes them not only bearable but also gratifying. That is what the magic of the solitary world is all about. There is a parallel world inside which is devoid of any sophistications and baggage of the external world making it as pure as ever. “...the natures of solitary people are apt to have more unmapped country in them than worldly folk imagine. They see and think and do things peculiar to themselves, and
one may turn up buried treasure in them at any moment.” ~ Julian Hawthorne We all constitute a minute part of the infinite cosmos around; perhaps a tiny speck, an inconsequential tinge amidst the colorful canvas that fills the outer world. But none of us are here without purpose…there is a light that chases us and there is a light that we chase throughout. And when these two lights converge, life gets its meaning. My thoughts and heart always find themselves wandering in this limitless cosmos chasing one light or the other in that band of spectrum, contemplating after and while as to which light is mine and to which tinge I belong. There is so much that‟s churning within creating endless ripples of thoughts which www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
form one moment and disappear the other, leaving behind the sensation that remains for long. The moment I step out of my house in the morning, all that I can see is the rushing of faces each in a bit to outsmart the other, to outshine the other. Everywhere there is a mad race with people running here and there to achieve something material. Out of the house onto the roads, there is constant honking of cars not having tiniest of the patience, to get that stretch of road where it can run free of traffic – not realizing that their constant blowing is silencing the chirping of cricket, the fluttering of the wind and symphony of the nature. Consequently, no one actually pays any heed to any of this phenomenon which deserve more than fair share of person‟s
attention. Or is it the other way around, the price of being impatient comes to those folks in form of deprivation from witnessing these miracles. The purpose of their running is not to lead but to leave the other person behind. The world out is really fast paced with the common notion “If you stop, you trail”. Result, no one really has the time to halt and see the beauty, feel the serenity and experience the un-experienced. And the poor souls like me tend to feel lost in this jungle every now & then making me feel an alien out of this world (I still wonder as whether it‟s the world which is running too fast or me who is running too slowly). “And then the vicious circle begins – Begin the journey www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
with the crowd, get lost in the jungle, introspect down the memory lane to search, find a bit of me in the memories kindled, receive nudge from my present, find myself again amidst the crowd, again begin the journey and again get lost
in the jungle.� And then I contemplate in retrospection, remembering those good old days when the pleasure would simply
unfold itself in small little acts. Seeing birds flying in the sky used to fill the heart with much of abundance and soothe; running after them sometimes to chase, sometimes to better and sometimes just to fly them away, would culminate with
the series of laughter. There I find a bit of myself in the echoes of that laughter which remains even long after the laugh has died. Those brief breaks during the cricketing sessions and www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
lying flat on the ground gazing at the light blue sky with cold sweat drenching through the body & the heart pounding furiously fast. That sudden moo from cows attracting my attention and the curiosity aroused while witnessing them ruminating calmly with peculiar movement of the mouth nodding its head sporadically as if enjoying sparing my thought. There again a bit of myself is traced in that curiosity that springs up in the heart and bear innocent smile on the face. Those constant stare in the moon kissed sky wondering about the millions of the stars winking at me as if to stupefy me with their shine and glitter. And the search for the constellations and creating different shapes from the stars which appears like shining pennies scattered in a dark
well – glittering and luring; and not to forget that feeling of victorious pride when some of the times that „special‟ Pole Star gets spotted. There lies another portion of mine in those moments spent glancing up the sky and bringing bewilderment on the face. Those shower in the rains in whatsoever season they pour and playing with the raindrops as they complete their long journey from the water filled clouds to the thirsty crust of the earth. And then jumping on the water cluttered on roads „chapaaaaaak‟, the moment someone comes near it . . . and that puddle play on a rainy day . . . and that intoxicated aroma of wet soil, just after the first rain of the season. There again I find some bit of me in those tiny droplets and amidst that aroma which rinse the dirtiest of the www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
mark on the soul. And the list is just endless with the pleasure being limitless. The muse, then, takes me to those best-loved movies of mine, watching which would transpose me to the different world of dreams, the dreams some broken, some intact, some fresh, some forgotten and some half-asleep. The journey to the world of dreams is the most satisfying experience to anyone and when these have caressed and fostered with so much of passion since existence, this engulfs with a feeling of salvation. There are, then, those warmly preserved pieces of writings, the pages of which contain a portion of me embodying those unfulfilled aspirations and unquenched desires in those loving characters and sequences which I keep on reading and re-reading. And each time these oblige
me with the same sense of freshness and gratification as they did when I first acquainted with them. There I again find some more of me in that world of my dreams and thoughts devoid of any rules where my unfulfilled aspirations are met and where my unquenched desires are allayed. The beauty of the thoughts is such that the more solace you discover in them, the deeper and deeper they penetrate within you. That unbridled horse then takes you to all those silent memories which have been, knowingly or unknowingly, preserved carefully in that hidden corner of the heart. While the search for the self in the memory lane continue to entice me, the sudden nudge of realization pulls me back from those blissful thoughts to this crowd buzzing with all sort www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
of activities…where I, again, gear myself for the next sprint I would undertake only to find myself standing (yet again) in the middle of the nowhere wondering yet again – where is my light, where is my heart, where are my thoughts…the vicious circle yet again plays the mischief.
About Manish Purohit: Manish Purohit is qualified accountant by profession working in a finance domain in private sector struggling & juggling between spreadsheets and slides, to carve out a niche for himself amidst this mechanized world. He blogs his random musings at www.musingsofawandering heart.blogspot.in. He can be reached at camanishpurohit@gmail.co m
Editor's Comment: This piece has LIFE wrapped in those words
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Book Review – I
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:Intro: "AN ASPIRING FILMMAKER. THE DIZZYING HEIGHTS OF BOLLYWOOD. AND A STRAINED FATHER-SON RELATIONSHIP" Rayhan Arora‟s long cherished dream is to be a filmmaker in the Hindi Film Industry but his formidable father has other plans… a successful financial career in Corporate America, and a marriage of convenience with Vanita, a medical student in the US.
journey of self-discovery - a self-proclaimed local goon with a penchant for acting; a powerful local politician who wants to marry Rayhan's part-time domestic help, who in turn covets stardom; an angstridden, homosexual film director; ego-ridden film stars with twisted agendas; and the mysterious Viola who captures his heart. HiFi in Bollywood takes the reader from the streets of Berkeley to the film studios of Mumbai; from red-light areas to police stations, and from reality to dreams and back to reality again! :Book Review:
In a final act of desperation, Rayhan abandons his promising life in California and secretly returns to Mumbai to work as an Assistant Director in Bollywood. The characters he encounters along the way become part of his
1. Cover: The cover is in form of cartoons. Colourful sketch that depicts the true picture of Bollywood with super stylish people dressed in impeccable tasteful www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
clothes with the backdrop of Mumbai. 2. Presentation: The presentation of the book is very casual and that is the strongest point of the book for that makes this book a thoroughly enjoyable read. It is light and breezy with lot of humorous moments. 3. Narration: The narration style of the author is very impressive. He has a knack of writing in a lucid language not making you feel like it is a novel. It feels as if a friend is narrating his experiences to you. 4. Characters: There are many characters in the book and surprisingly each one of them is unique. All of them manage to stand out and leave their impression on you in a manner that you remember them as if you have met them in
person. This is the strongest point of this book. Not for once are you confused with who is who and where did it suddenly crop up from. They are all clearly defined and come together to make a complete picture for a reader. 5. Plot: The plot is a very simple one where one boy aspires to be a movie director and his father opposes it. He decides to run away from home and chase his dream and that is where the simplicity ends. From there the story becomes a roller coaster ride with abundant doses of romance, emotions, action, thrill, suspense etc in every page. 6. Storyline: The storyline depicts the authorâ€&#x;s own experiences to quite an extent but beyond www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
that it gives the readers an insider‟s view of the Bollywood. There are a lot of places where you have a jaw dropping moment when you see the real world. 7. Story flow: The story flow is very enticing; makes a reader feel as if the story is unveiling before his eyes LIVE never for once feeling as if it is a book that is being read. 8. Language: The language of the book is very simplistic and so to speak connectable with complete lingos and slangs intact. The author has managed to retain the local flavour very nicely throughout the book not making it seem over the top and yet making it evident.
It is an out and out entertainer, action, drama, romance, emotions, suspense, thrill – everything wrapped up in one, it is Hi-fi for you. It is colourful, laced with wonderful phrases and characters making you feel as if you are watching a movie on the silver screen. The story makes you live it in each and every word. 10. Cons: The con is that at certain places the story loses its pace and becomes a bit dragged but only till a few pages after which it is back to normal.
9. Pros: The pros has to be the mass appeal this book. www.writersezine.com
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Author Interview – I This month WE team had the opportunity to interact with the amazing author Rishi Vohra whose second book Hifi in Bollywood has just hit shelves. Rishi Vohra‟s bio comes across as a very interesting amalgamation of his varied interests and yet tells us nothing about the real him. It reads : Rishi Vohra relocated back to Mumbai after completing a Green MBA from San Francisco State University and a Masters Diploma in Environmental Law, prior to which he had an
extensive Indian Industry.
career in the Entertainment
His debut novel Once Upon the Tracks of Mumbai was a bestseller and awarded a special mention at the Hollywood Book Festival. His short story, The Mysterious Couple, was selected by Sudha Murty for her anthology Something www.writersezine.com
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Happened on the Way to Heaven, published by Penguin Books. HiFi in Bollywood is his second novel.
"AN ASPIRING FILMMAKER. THE DIZZYING HEIGHTS OF BOLLYWOOD. AND A STRAINED FATHER-SON RELATIONSHIP"
He writes for delWine and is a Certified Specialist of Wine (CSW).
Rayhan Arora’s long cherished dream is to be a filmmaker in the Hindi Film Industry but his formidable father has other plans… a successful financial career in Corporate America, and a marriage of convenience with Vanita, a medical student in the US.
The blurb of his book reads:
In a final act of desperation, Rayhan abandons his promising life in California and secretly returns to Mumbai to work as an Assistant Director in Bollywood. The characters he encounters along the way become part of his journey of selfdiscovery a selfproclaimed local goon with a penchant for acting; a www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
powerful local politician who wants to marry Rayhan's part-time domestic help, who in turn covets stardom; an angstridden, homosexual film director; ego-ridden film stars with twisted agendas; and the mysterious Viola who captures his heart. HiFi in Bollywood takes the reader from the streets of Berkeley to the film studios of Mumbai; from red-light areas to police stations, and from reality to dreams and back to reality again! Join us in this interview as WE tries to know the real him: 1. First and foremost, a warm welcome to Writer’s Ezine and thank you so much for sparing your time for us. We would like to
congratulate you for your second book Hi-fi in Bollywood, tell us something about it. Thank you for inviting me on Writer’s Ezine. It’s an amazing platform for authors and in fact, everything about books! HiFi in Bollywood is about an aspiring filmmaker who escapes his life in California, USA, and arrives in Mumbai with the aim of pursuing his dream, all without telling his father who has already chalked out a secure life plan for him. It’s a fastpaced and entertaining read. 2. Even before I read the author’s note at the end of it, something in it told me it is biographical in nature. How much of Rayhan is in you?
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This book is somewhat biographical in nature, but with respect to the protagonist’s personal life. The father-son friction mirrors my own life and like Rayhan, I took up a rental in Chuim Village (a Catholic colony in Khar/Bandra) and the characters I met there inspired the characters in the book. But that’s where the similarity ends. Everything depicted on the film sets is fictional. I have worked as an assistant director with filmmakers Sohail Khan and Shimit Amin, and those years were nothing short of a positive learning experience. 3. Both your books have a decent dose of romance, relationships and family values with a lot of entertainment, making them fall into the category of instant
mass appeal. thoughts on this.
Your
That’s just how the stories progressed. None of those elements were forced into the stories. About the mass appeal part – I have worked in the film industry for many years. During the scripting and marketing stages, we had to keep a mass audience in mind. I guess some of that finds its way into my books. 4. Mumbai is the one key factor common to both the books. Is celebrating your love for the city intentional? I have lived in Mumbai for almost all my life. It’s a place that I have an emotional connect with, so it becomes easy to write about the city. Now I’m writing a story set in Delhi, and it’s progressing slowly www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
since I have to keep researching along the way. 5. Your books talk very strongly about dreams, following your passion and listening to your heart – are you trying to give out a message through them? I have been an underdog all my life (I probably still am) so that aspect of me filters into the protagonist. Yes, I do talk strongly about dreams, following your passion and listening to your heart. Without that, what do we have to keep us going? There is a message, but it’s not overt. The reader has to read between the lines. 6. On a lighter notewhich of the two books is your favourite and why?
Once Upon the Tracks of Mumbai. It was a challenge to write from the point of view of an autistic man and I learned a lot in the process. 7. How different is Rishi Vohra the author different from Rishi Vohra the person? They are both two different people. But it’s the experiences and frame of reference of the person that brings out the author. 8. One advice you would like to give to all those aspiring authors who consider you as an idol. Find another idol. I’m far from role model material :) 9. Do we see you experimenting with genres in future? If yes, www.writersezine.com
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which ones would you like to explore? Drama is my favourite. But I would like to explore comedies and thrillers. I would never delve into murder mysteries. I don’t find it entertaining when someone gets killed.
take a chance on doing what you love.” Thank you very much for your time
10. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on. My next book is set in Mumbai and explores the complex layers of humanity of its residents. This book is very different from the first two. 11. Some words for your readers. A Jim Carrey quote that I’ve used in the book – “You can fail at what you don’t want. So you might as well www.writersezine.com
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Squiggle
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About Sheri L Wright:
Editor's Comment:
Two-time Pushcart Prize and Kentucky Poet Laureate nominee, Sheri L. Wright is the author of six books of poetry, including the most recent, The Feast of Erasure. Wright's awardwinning photography has appeared in numerous journals, including Blood Orange Review, Prick of the Spindle, Blood Lotus Journal and Subliminal Interiors. In 2012, Ms. Wright was a contributer to the Sister Cities Project Lvlds: Creatively Linking Leeds and Louisville. Her photography has been shown across the Ohio Valley region and abroad. Currently, she is at work on her documentary film, Tracking Fire.
On close observation you will find joy in this picture.
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The Writer In Me
There is a writer in each one of us but not everyone puts down their thoughts on paper or on their trusted and reliable electronic devices. Some of us pass through life with our questions unasked, replies unheard and our expressions unshared. When we write, we make the memories tangible and easier to revisit them. My blog Memoirs has a tagline “We live because we remember…memories are precious, treasure them.” My journey of self expression began when I was very young but my
notebooks and journals stayed well hidden, unseen by anyone but me. My family and a few close friends were privy to my secret and encouraged me to submit my writings for publication, which I did after a lot of persuasion and lo and behold, my first article was published in our NWWA (navy wives welfare association) news letter at Kochi. I remember it was in February and the topic was Valentine's Day, so naturally it was about love and relationships. My kids were very young at the time but they were thrilled to see their mother‟s name in print. I experienced the www.writersezine.com
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writer's high when friends and acquaintances started coming up to me and complimenting me on my article, I was excited and petrified at the same time. I feared not being able to write as well as this piece again and failing to retain their interest in my writing, beginners luck, or so I thought at the moment. Emboldened by my maiden attempt, I continued submitting my articles and was happy to see my lucky streak continue uninterrupted; finally the icing on the cake was my prize winning article on the topic „Crime against women‟. I still treasure the Ganesha Idol I bought with the prize money and every time I look at it I am reminded of my sweet victory. It is symbolic, a crossing over of sorts. I had to overcome my mental inhibitions and
fears of putting myself out there, at the mercy of the readers. It was during this time that another article of mine, Chivalry, was published in an exalted and illustrious naval magazine, Quarterdeck. The cheque I received for this article was significantly more generous than my first one but nothing can replace your first love, right? That article still remains my personal favorite. Being married to a naval aviator, I was lucky enough to live in picturesque places in India and the beauty of the locations enhanced the creative spirit in me. I carried the sights, colors and emotions of each place in my heart and they lent their fragrance and vibrancy to my writing. We had good five years tenure in Goa, almost the same in Mumbai and the remaining www.writersezine.com
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ten odd years in Kochi, Kerala. I loved everything about Kochi, the backwaters, the greenery, monsoon, boat rides, idli-dosas and best of all, the Onam celebrations with pookalam and sadhya, after doing the Kaikottikali dance. I learnt Malayalam and wore the half-saree called the pattu-pavada for the celebrations every year; I am a Punjabi with a Malayalee heart. I have an idea for a story; it is about an interesting family based in Kochi, Kerala. It just might be my first fulllength novel, God willing :) My interest in writing brought me in contact with an exceptional writer and friend, Kriti Mukherjee. In 2011, Kriti and I co-founded www.socialpotpourri.com, a social networking website that creates awareness for brands. We are a conglomerate of small
businesses and new talent and also plan to bring emerging writers to the forefront. In keeping with our aim, since SP‟s inception, we have published two books of short stories and poems contributed by the members of our website.
My short stories and poems have been published in the following books1. Social Potpourri – An Anthology - The book, „Social Potpourri – An Anthology‟ is a collective effort of some of the finest creative talents in www.socialpotpourri.com (My short story and poem, „Another Time‟, is included in the anthology.) Shiva watched her leave the room reluctantly; some sixth sense wanted him to stop her from going. He www.writersezine.com
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had a sudden urge to sit and talk with her, he wanted to hear her melodious voice and gaze at her angelic beauty. He didn’t want to part with her, ever. “This is such a strange feeling, I know I haven‟t met this girl before today but why does she look so familiar? I want to be with her, why do I feel this attraction towards her?” 2. Lovelets - My poem, ‟My Name on Your Lips‟, is included in this book, „Lovelets‟ – An Anthology of Poems and Short Stories. My name on your lips sounds just right. I fall in love with it every time you say it. I tremble with longing and desire, when your lips caress my name, with a sigh. The cocoon …” 3. The Write Anthology Book 1 -
Tribe
This book is the best of Write Tribe, wherein 36 amazing bloggers have shared their favourite posts. My post, „Lingering Scent‟, is one of them. This eBook has been compiled by the inimitable Vidya Sury. “Clothes have a tendency to retain the perfume even after they are washed. The gown you had worn to the dance reeks of your Hugo Boss woman perfume, post wash. My son‟s school uniforms scream Axe doespray. My Dad‟s shirt has his …” 4. Social Potpourri – An Anthology II My short story, „Zestful Journey‟, is included in this SP anthology; seventeen Social Potpourrians have contributed their stories/poems to this book and made this anthology a wonderful read. www.writersezine.com
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“I am a regular drama queen, and I am not averse to adding a dash of theatrical panache to my everyday performances. Aren‟t we all performers on the stage of life or something to that effect? My father was a showman and the acting prowess has been handed down to us in lineage; it‟s in our genes, so as to speak.” 5. A Patchwork Quilt (The Book of Poems) This book is a collection of poems by the motherdaughter duo, Sulekha and Shloka Rawat. „A Patchwork Quilt was launched in Mumbai on 8th January 2015 by my mother, Mrs Swaran Bakshi. My father, Cdr. Om Prakash Bakshi, has always been my inspiration and this book is dedicated to his memory. We share a very
special bond, a date that is etched on my soul, 8th January. It is my birthday and he chose this day to leave this world, depriving it of a magnificent man, my hero. He believed in me and was my most ardent and boisterous fan, he loved reading my work and would often urge me to publish it. It was his dream to see me succeed as a writer; guess it is too late, but I am sure he is watching over me and feeling a quiet pride in my accomplishment. This one‟s for you dad.‟ The Patchwork Quilt is a collection of poems on relationships, inspiration, life, love, heartbreak and moving on. The poems especially written for dad are under the sub-heading, „My Inspiration‟. Keep writing and dreaming, that’s the way to go… www.writersezine.com
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About Sulekha:
Sulekha is a writer having an artistic mind with a scientific bent. A double Graduate, Bachelor of Science (BSc) and Bachelor of Library and Information Science (BLISc), with a Post Graduate diploma in Marketing and Sales, yet still not satisfied with all the learning, she went ahead to pursue Advanced Diploma in Creative Writing in English to live her dream of being a creative writer. She has a side-kick named Sparky; her 11 year old Dalmatian who listens to her read out the rough drafts and gives her suggestions for improving them with a shake of her adorable head. www.writersezine.com
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The Last Walk … Once Again Pitter Patter… Patter…
Pitter
The rain drops on the window at home always made me sad. I hate the rains, such a gloomy weather. I turn to see my college-going son, watching some game on TV. TV doesn‟t distract me either. Well, partly because a newly retired man can only about watch TV all the time.
And a Sunday doesn‟t particularly mean anything anymore. My son looks back at me and instantly realizes that I'm not feeling like myself. He smiles and says, „Let’s go.‟ I have no idea
where we could go in this rain, but as long as it means we are going to do something, I'm game. We head out for a drive, stop by our favorite place and grab a beer as we discuss the game that's going on. We look at the www.writersezine.com
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young kids around and discuss about their lives, and the current fashion. We laugh, we smile and we bond. The rain has stopped now and my ever-caring son decides we should go for a short walk. “Now that you don’t go to office anymore, your physical activity has gone down… let’s move those rusting joints of yours.” he‟d joke. But he is right. We walk around and look at how fresh and clean everything looks after the rain. We discuss the economy and how different life was in my time and what amazing exposure the kids of today are getting. We talk about the future, we talk about the past and we even talk about girls. We cross a building and he stops for a moment. I ask him what it is and he says that it‟s a new old age home that's opened up. “Oh let me have a better look at it… this is where I have to come in a while.” I
laugh and say. He looks at me all upset and says, “Please dad… don’t say that. A lot of time left for that. And anyway, we still have more of these walks and talks to get done with first!” I laugh and look heavenwards to thank God. I see a man in the window above the first level of the old age home. He looks vaguely familiar. My son has already started to walk forward. I take a few steps and turn back to see the man. He is looking right back at me. He leans forward to get a clearer view. I feel deeply saddened for his state. And I turn back to see my son. But he has gone way too far. I call out to him but he doesn‟t turn back and only keeps walking further ahead. A woman calls out to me, “Sir, it’s time for your evening snack. We’ve got your favorite fruit today.” www.writersezine.com
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But I don‟t turn back to face her. My eyes are glued on the figure in the distance that's my son. He is fading out of my view. I start to panic. She calls out to me again. And I turn saying, “But I just had beer and something to eat with my son… I'm not hungry.” The woman looks back at me innocently. She looks a little guilty. She smiles and touches my hand softly, “Your son left you here 3 years ago sir. This is your home now… Would you like to join the rest in the common hall?” she says. I have no idea who she is and what she is talking about. I look around and see that I'm in the same window I saw with my son 3 years ago, from outside. I strain my neck outside the window to see another man walk with his son. They look at the building and smile. The son puts a reassuring hand around his father‟s shoulder. They
laugh and continue walking ahead. It suddenly hits me and I turn back to face the woman. She is still smiling at me. I smile back at her and sit down on the bed. Almost as if nature could sense the storm in my heart, it started to get dark and it started to rain. I hate this weather, but more than anything, I hate being here. Not the old age home, but this place of abandonment, this place of redundancy. But there is nothing I can do about it. All I can do now is look at my glory days; people walking with their families, walking with their loved ones, holding hands, giggling, talking about the economy, about the game, about girls… living life, before they too will be left alone to exist for the remaining years left in their biological clock. I sit there watching the world outside, living my walk with my son www.writersezine.com
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again, every time I see a father-son walk by. Pitter Patter… Pitter Patter… The rain is coming down hard this time around.
About Natasha Badsha: Natasha Badsha is someone who can‟t be described in a 100 words. She‟s a writer who likes to have her hands in everything. She‟s worked in films, television, the elearning industry and what have you. She loves anything that has to do with words; be it reading, writing or talking. A post graduate in media with a major‟s in physics, she‟s always on the lookout for a new path that‟ll lead to a new color in her life. You can follow her at amordiaries.wordpress.com and can reach her at tashaatwork@gmail.com. Editor's Comment: A very strong portrayal of the harsh reality of life today when most of the old people are left with little but to look behind on their life with pain rather than joy. www.writersezine.com
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Thinking of You I wear woolen even if my day is not that frosty, I drink
You, the part of my blood streams, for all illusions and dreams! Veins, arteries, cells, and all sort of things. You, the part of my body, I cannot see you, I smile within at the mere thought to do so, soon. I cannot feel you, I snuggle within at the mere thought to do so, soon.
water even if my belly is not that thirsty, I refrain from eating that chocolate,
Inside myself, hiding safely, growing day by day, You are my treasure,
I prepare our lunches even if I get so late.
I know you can hear me,
All because of you my dear!
Just want to tell,
I know you can feel me, Maa is waiting to hold you.
You, the part of me, from head to toe,
I love you my baby
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About Amita:
Editor's Comment:
Amita is a doting mother by heart, software professional by profession and a blogger by choice. Some people call her stubborn and harsh because of her practical nature. People close to her call her extremely sensitive and one of the best listeners. She loves reading and dreams to write her own book someday. She believes in live and let live. Her Signature always includes- Keep Smiling! She writes both technical and non-technical stuff at her blogs. She can be reached via her Facebook pages https://www.facebook.com /mydatewithbooks and https://www.facebook.com /bugfinding.
A tender note of love by an expectant mother, one that makes you smile.
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Dark
These secrets barred
Playing with the dragonflies Dirt on hands
No more playing
Counting caterpillars
No more games
Drifting on the sands
Cannot feel my bones The heart in flames
Jumping under the sun
The years that have passed
With dreams so high
I have become
You hunted me
This mess of a person
Don‟t know why
Been with ghosts some
You touched me
Tears don‟t flow
Like no one did
Vacuum doesn‟t fill
From your preying eyes
Lonely hours
I unknowingly hide
Will one day kill!
Unheard my mind
To come out
The words you shared
I am trying hard
Feelings of disgust
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The soul is scarred Need some kindness A voice that sooths A reason to go on Make peace with my truth
About Sri Ashok: Sri Ashok is a prolific writer who writes poems, short stories and articles on just about anything. She believes that good humour can take one through anything in life. You can reach her at srividhya66@hotmail.com
Editor's Comment: The raw pain of the heart expressed beautifully in words.
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Saturated
the restless endure the unflawed affinity.. As I grow slave to an hysteria; of the idea of “you”; you multiplying in me… Oh…it was all…
This moment that minute millisecond the predominant aura the skipped heartbeat
your manifested inclination, and your infinite efficacy… And yes, am saturated with you…!!
the twisted smile the sparkle in your eyes this naughty smirk the stolen glance the sweet nothings the whispers unheard that immense perfection the deadly elegance the magical euphoria
About Poet: Samjoth Sashidharan Editor's Comment: The madness of portrayed beautifully.
love
the symmetric emotion this wild passion www.writersezine.com
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Book Review – II
:Intro: Stories of Hope is a collection of short stories. Each tale narrates the journey of a thin red line of hope that fights through adversity. Right from the heart of Nazi Germany in the thick of the holocaust to the collapse of the regime in
Egypt in 2011, from the story of hunger in the core of Africa to the tale of Palestine's recognition as a state, there are stories that celebrate the resilience of the Human Spirit. From stories of a mother turned out of her house by her son, to a mother who loses her newborn, to the young wife who must face a baffling www.writersezine.com
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truth, and the little girls who face adversities tied to their identity, these are stories that can be anyone's narrative. Stories of Hope is a celebration of Hope and a celebration of the undying human spirit of resilience. :Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover is very poignant, in terms of the colours and design. It is one that will make a reader take a notice of it and wonder what is that hope defines in this book through these stories. 2. Presentation: The presentation of the book is very simplistic in a very heart touching manner, the author focuses more on the emotions and empathy of the characters.
3. Narration: The narration of the each and every story is very deep, melancholic at few places. In the beginning of the stories each one of them seems to be dark, brooding with a heavy air choking with emotions and then suddenly as you reach the end the stories suddenly seem so bright and hopeful. 4. Storyline: The author has taken leaves right from our lives by narrating every day tales in a very easy to connect manner making it a believable read. 5. Story flow: The story flow is very smooth in every sense there are no hiccups or strong ups and downs and yet it manages to leave an impact on the reader, a heavy one at that. 6. Language: The author has used day to day www.writersezine.com
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conversational language and has managed to create a deep impact with them too leaving you wondering if there could be any better words than this to capture this story. 7. Pros: The strong pro of the book has to be the quality of writing for a debut author her work is praiseworthy. It is not easy to tug hearts with few words. 10. Cons: The editing lacks at a few places.
:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4 out of 5 for the innovation the author has managed to bring in those stories in terms of making a reader question hope in the beginning of the stories and help him with the answer by the end of the story.
WE team would like to thank the authors for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish them all the best for all their future endeavours.
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Author Interview – II
Well in real life she dons many hats - She is a Lawyer, specialised in
Month on month as WE interacts with authors there is something new that comes out as lesson for everyone – budding authors, readers and ofcourse us too. This month again we have the amazing author of Stories of Hope – Ms. Kirthi Jayakumar with us. She is not only witty but also smart when it comes to her replies making this interview lot of fun.
Public International Law and Human Rights. She has diversified into Research and Writing in Public International Law, Arbitration and Human www.writersezine.com
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Rights, besides Freelance Journalism. Working as a UN Volunteer, specializing in Human Rights issues in Africa, India and Central Asia and the Middle East, Kirthi has worked extensively with grass root organizations that focus on women's rights, and also run a journal, academy and consultancy that focuses on International Law, called A38. Kirthi is also the founder of the Red Elephant Foundation, an organisation that works for the empowerment of women.
The blurb of her book reads: Stories of Hope is a collection of short stories. Each tale narrates the journey of a thin red line of hope that fights through adversity. Right from the heart of Nazi Germany in the thick of the holocaust to the collapse of the regime in Egypt in 2011, from the story of hunger in the core of Africa to the tale of Palestine's recognition as a state, there are stories that celebrate the resilience of the Human Spirit. From stories of a mother turned out of her house by her son, to a mother who loses her newborn, to the young wife who must face a baffling truth, and the little girls who face adversities tied to their identity, these are stories that can be anyone's www.writersezine.com
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narrative. Stories of Hope is a celebration of Hope and a celebration of the undying human spirit of resilience. Without much ado taking you over to the interview, hoping it leaves you with a smile the way it did to us : 1. First and foremost a warm welcome to Writer’s Ezine. Thank you so much for sparing your time for us. I would like to congratulate you for your debut book Stories of Hope which is an anthology. Can you please take us through your journey till here? Thank you Writer’s Ezine, for your time and effort in me and my work. It’s always a two way process, and it’s beautiful how both sides can benefit from the symbiosis! My journey in life has been filled with zig
zag paths. I’ve often joked around about wanting a Marauder’s Map with a big red dot telling me exactly where I am. In the time since I graduated, I haven’t had a one-directional profession – I’ve been a lawyer, a writer, a freelance journalist, an artist and a researcher. I’ve loved every moment of it – I don’t think I can survive if I didn’t have many different things to do. That aside, writing was something I always wanted to be able to do – and putting these stories together was over many months of effort. 2. The title of the book Stories of Hope by a story teller is very simple and yet is something that catches your attention. Was that intentional? I have my publishers to thank for it! I initially www.writersezine.com
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wanted to use three words – Matumaini, Fe and Shakti – which stand for Hope (Swahili), Faith (Spanish) and Strength / Courage (Hindi/Tamil). My publisher thought it might be too outlandish, and decided to keep it simple. In hindsight, I love her decision – it is in simplicity and brevity that one imbibes and grows! 3. As you yourself have written in Author’s Word these stories seem to be dark at first and as you read further you find hope hidden amidst that gloom peeping through. What was the main idea behind writing these stories like this?
and social structures that have seen a lot of trauma. In the process, I was working with survivors of violence of every kind, of cultural practices that were dangerous to the fabric of existence. In many ways, these narratives changed me – and the foremost among these changes was in the form of a realization that we often know the statistics: but we don’t know that these statistics are cumulative records of real life stories. Behind every number, there are as many names with as many stories. Without these stories, we dehumanize the ones who go through what they do – and therefore, history repeats itself over and over and over again.
I work with grass-roots organizations and international organizations across the world, and most of their work is set in conflict zones
4. It is said that a writer finds inspiration from everything and anything that happens www.writersezine.com
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around them. How many stories are fictitious and how many inspired from real life out of all of these in the book? I’d say that the inspiration underlying most of these stories were purely real life incidents. The stories, though, were fictitious – although they reflected reality. 5. The stories have explored a gamut of emotions ranging from trauma, anguish, despair etc. How was your experience writing them? Was it emotionally draining at some point where you felt you wanted to stop and then start when your mind is calm again? Precisely all those emotions you mentioned. Everything I learned and saw
happening in the work environments I was a part of was an experience – at the end of the day, however I perceived them I’d say that they were all learning, eye-opening and jolting experiences, at the very least. When I wrote, I didn’t think about anything – honestly, I was just channeling the story that came from some part of me – and after that, I felt much lighter. 6. If asked to pick can you choose a favourite story from the book? Why? This is such a tough question to answer. Can I have some coffee instead? 7. The cover of the book which is the first look of the book for a reader even before the blurb for this is what will catch his eye in a www.writersezine.com
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bookshelf and make him take it to read the blurb – is very unique. Given the title the book has the cover image is black with a white mosaic flower and a red line running through it. Can you explain the cover to us, as it is very intriguing and we want to know what made you select that as an image for it? Thank you for that. The cover was terribly intelligent – the designer, Abhishek, had a beautiful thought process that showed up on print. The thin red line is a representation of the capacity to hope. The white and black jagged lines are a representation of the many layered struggles in life. The line runs through it as though to depict that hope can make us survive anything.
8. Given the number of anthology contests that are floating in the market what do you think of the readership for anthologies as a whole and how fruitful do you think these contests are for aspiring authors. I participated in an anthology contest myself – and I had the good fortune of being a part of a very classy publishing house that did it. But soon after, there were too many anthology contests mushrooming – it became like the cupcake fad. I am worried about young authors taking to anthologies in lieu of authorship - anthologies are good, great for a reader, in fact – but not the best sole choice for an author if they want to make a mark. By sole choice, I mean that an author should not compromise on channeling www.writersezine.com
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their own writing into a full blown project of their own.
11. Some words for your readers.
9. Do we see you experimenting with genres in future and coming up with a fullfledged novel? If yes which ones would you like to explore?
Thank you very much for your time
Gratitude, and lots of it.
I am exploring genres, yes. I am working on a novel and a non-fiction book now. I also hope to be able to create wordless novels using zendoodling as my medium of choice. 10. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on. I am working on two academic books, one nonfiction book and a novel.
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Kifo Nzuri Part Two Part One
“Sir, you must let her go. She has walked ahead and it’s time, you do too. You must forgive yourself and forgive others. Open up your heart to your Amma
“How the hell do you know about Niharika?” I was intimidated by this woman‟s knowledge about me. “It is written Sir.” She explained sensing panic in my voice. Really? Mr. Murthy, my manager must have let the cat out. I felt anger soaring like an avalanche inside me. How could he give out my personal details like this?
and Appa. Let love flow in to your life again. Mend your relations with them. They long to see their son. Close your unfinished business. Heal yourself. Let guilt move out. Let compassion fill your life.”
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“How the hell on earth do you know all this?” I bellowed at her. “Listen Miss, don’t try to get close to me. Leave and wait at the hotel lobby. I will see you in 6 hours. Now leave.”
last few minutes that I had spent with this African woman I had never seen in my entire life. She had opened my wounds to the world. I felt vulnerable and gullible. Resentment – Forgiveness
“It is written Sir. I just want you to liberate yourself and love your life. It’s precious.” She said as she stood and looked at her book as if trying to read something. Then she continued, “You have a gentle heart.” I turned to her and gave her an angry stare. “What do you want for God’s sake?” I screamed louder than the sound of lightning that struck miles above the place I stood. She wore her jacket and left without responding. I reclined back in to my chair wondering over the
“Malhar, may I?” I heard a familiar voice at the door. “Who the hell is it, now?” I barked like an angry dog waiting to pounce. “Niharika?” came a prompt reply. Was I listening things? Niharika in Cape Town? I pinched myself and it hurt. I was awake, I wasn‟t dreaming. I jumped from my chair and opened the door. There she stood in a simple blue and red salwaar kameez, www.writersezine.com
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her long hair tied in a pony tail, her ear rings shining, her pink lipstick making her lips look fuller, kohl neatly lining up her black eyes. She was just as I had seen her 10 years ago when she abruptly left me. There was no reason given, no arguments, no explanation sought for, nothing at all. Only a hug and a whisper, “Move on Malhar, I will always love you.” “Nihar...I ..I mean Niharika, you in Cape?” I was mumbling. “I never left Malhar. You never let me out of your heart. But I am trapped now. Let me go. I had to leave you because I loved my family more than you. They were against us and I had to oblige. Please forgive me. Let go of the resentment you have for me." Niharika pleaded.
“But?” I felt short of words. I had never got a closure to our relationship. I was scared. And now when she was around and I was getting what I longed for, I couldn‟t speak a word. “Amma and Appa are waiting to see you. They want you to be happy, again. Your resentment towards me has made you a different man.” Niharika was as vulnerable as I was. “You met Amma and Appa?” Sweat beads formed on my forehead. I held the knob of the door tightly. “Yes, they are here. But they can only come when I go.” She informed me as I cried my heart out. I hadn‟t cried for ages. I looked at her, held her hands and whispered, “Go Nihar, I set you free. Go, be a doting www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
daughter.” and I gently left her hand. She slowly walked away. After a few steps I lost her sight. I felt a heavy load off my chest. I could breathe easily. Guilt – Acceptance A few moments later I saw Amma and Appa walking towards me. I had not anticipated them, here. I ran towards Amma like a lonely child and hugged her. They walked inside the room with me. Appa carefully closed the door. “Amma please forgive me for being an unreasonable son. I know I have ignored you and Appa. I never fulfilled my responsibility. I have hurt you both. I was selfish." I felt the sword of guilt hovering over me
cutting through my flesh and bones. Appa lovingly stroked my hair. “Kanna, we know everything. We knew you were heartbroken. We knew you were battling a bigger battle within yourself. We were never angry with you. We wanted to help you. Let the guilt out. We love you.” Appa‟s words soothed my soul. These tiny drops of love fell over my ever thirsty heart. I felt lighter, happier and a sense of relief that I hadn‟t felt for long. “I will be a dutiful son, Appa. I won’t hurt you both anymore.” I mumbled. Amma sang the lullaby I loved and I felt my eyelids drooping. I was asleep in no time.
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Love – Expression “Sir, are you ready?” I heard a loud knock at my door and woke up with a start. 1:00 a.m., I looked at the wall clock. “Sir, are you alright?” I heard the knock again. I rushed towards the door and there she stood the same peaceful look, bright eyes, strange uniform and her little book. “Thank knelt.
you
cabbie!"
I
“Sir?” she was perplexed. “Thank you. Had it not been for you I wouldn’t have realized that I had been wasting my precious life over things that are of no value.”
“Sir, you look younger and happier.” She giggled. “Well, may be because I have shed all the anger, guilt and resentment. May be now you see the real me.” I laughed through my tears. “Great then. Let us have another cup of coffee to celebrate this moment. After that I have to drop you on time. The storm has also subsided. I have other pick up’s lined up as well.” She said and entered the room. “Come and meet parents.” I urged.
my
“Well, they left Sir. Thus, I am here to accompany you. They had to catch an early morning flight.” She informed. www.writersezine.com
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“What? Amma and Appa left? But why?” I couldn‟t understand a word. “Sir, it is your journey and not theirs hence they couldn’t join you.” She explained. “So Sir, you feel better now?” She asked trying to divert my attention.
“Oh! Yes, Swara. The woman who has loved me from the time she understood what love feels like. Amidst all this mess, I left her lingering on a thin line of hope that someday I will marry her.” But how the hell do you know this? I felt scared. ~ To be continued
“Yes I do, cabbie.” I am sorted from within. I smiled. But she still had some questions on her face. She opened her book and read. “But you still have an unfinished business. You have left someone waiting for you.” She exclaimed. Waiting? myself.
I
thought
to
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About Khushboo Singh:
Editor's Comment:
Khushboo Singh is a confused soul. She works as an HR for a software company however her heart longs to write, read,sing, and dance. She finds joy in pottery and her little plants too. She is a Mumbaikar at heart but lost her heart to a Banglorean. Hence, Bangalore is her second home sweet home where she now lives with her beloved husband. She can be reached at waves.khushboo@gmail.co m
Yet another high point where the author leaves us anticipating more from this tale of love and dreams.
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Love Beyond Eternity It was an explosion; though it looked tiny, it had killed everyone aboard. For once, it reminded me of crackers bursting in the azure sky during Diwali. This was different. It was not fun, as the fire splattered the colour of blood. I gazed again through the window, wondering what really was happening, but it had vanished in seconds. Boom! It was all gone, burnt into ashes. The moment I caught hold of my senses, I ran towards the luggage counter to report what my eyes witnessed. So foolish of me, obviously the entire airport was engulfed in the smell of death, shattered, torn into pieces. Saccadic eye movements asking bizarre questions made me nauseous; I too was at the rim of questioning. I asked a passenger who looked
quite lost like everybody else. “What happened to that plane? Was it an explosion? Which plane was it?” On the verge of curiosity, I had forgotten all my friendly manners learnt for years. “Nobody really knows what is happening. Rumours are to be believed then we are still at risk. Terrorists are walking around in this airport right now. I just want to get back to my family as soon as possible. ” he whispered, rigid with fear and some strange longing to be alive. “Do you have any idea which plane was under attack?” I didn't know why that piece of information seemed important, which of course was important! “Looks like, its JA 9w 321. That was the one to departure just now.” he www.writersezine.com
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replied again submerged in the valley of unknown emotions. I couldn't believe the words he uttered, and after reconfirming, I just had to thank God for making me the sleepy head. Like always, I got up at 3 am to catch my early morning flight. Staying at a good three hour drive from the airport, I jiggled in the car unable to sleep. I made myself comfortable on the soft cushiony sofa, only to make up for my deprived sleep. Thank heavens, flight was delayed by an hour. The best part of sleeping in an airport is, nobody wakes you up except the announcement chap, but he seemed to have no effect on me. And when I was finally woken up by an old fellow the kind who intrudes in everybody‟s business- I was
pissed off to be precise. I gazed outside window, still yawning, cursing the old fellow only to see a miniature airplane explode in the sky right in front of me; the same airplane which I had missed due to my torpid sleep. I thanked God, a zillion times for keeping me alive, for delaying the flight by an hour, for making me sleepy and for not hearing the announcements. Considering the lightning speed work of journalists these days, my family would presume I was dead too. Neena! She would be broken. I had to call her at the earliest. But not-sosurprisingly there was no network in my phone and all the paid booths were dead. Damn the jammers, I had to call my family to inform I was alive. After pestering for long,the airport security officials www.writersezine.com
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threatened an arrest for causing a security breach. Growling tiger to a tiny mouse, I let myself into the lounge silently, waiting for the game to lift its curse. Thoughts about Neena began seeping in, making me restless and calm at the same time. I knew she would be worried, but the very thought of her made my lips twitch. I was smiling, in an airport where hundreds of people had died, where my own life had no guarantee, where terrorists were walking like civilians, and where death had invaded our privacy prying into everybodyâ€&#x;s life. Yet, there I was, sitting with frightened, agitated, horror-struck strangers,
smiling silently about my Neena.
thinking
I had first met Neena on the day I was born. We were born in the same hospital, same day and our cradles being placed next to each other made us fall in love
instantly. Nina was not only my birth mate, but also, my classmate, neighbor, distant relative and best friend. We grew up like two bodies cladded in one soul. I had proposed to her in second standard amidst the entire family, literally screaming, that I would marry only Neena and her acting like a www.writersezine.com
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woman already, smiled in consent. I loved everything about Neena and as she grew up, she looked no less than Angelina Jolie. She had a lean and athletic body with naturally thick and pouted lips, which any model would envy upon. With brown eyes, long lashes and a perfect heart shaped face, I let out a deep sigh every time I watched her cross me. But, the best part was her giggling laughter, which pierced my heart rendering a smooth pain, making me fall in love with her every day. That was my Neena, an angel chiseled out of heaven walking straight into my life as if she was born for me. Neena could have done so much better in selecting a groom considering my short and squat body, which made me look shorter irrespective of being taller than her. I wasn't smart looking at all and to Neenaâ€&#x;s standards, I knew,
I could never match. With all the physical irregularities kept aside, we were madly in love. Not since second standard but since our birth, we were born to lighten up each others' lives. And so we obeyed destinies command. We got married right after college unable to bear the distance of two gates. Marriage not only bonded us for law, but eternity. Things never changed after marriage like warned by my friends, but my involvement in family business did. She often complained about my business tours. Having no other options left, I disappointed her each time, leaving her alone for weeks. This time it was going to be different as I had asked her to join me in Dublin, after my meetings were accomplished, for a romantic weekend.
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But the plans got crushed along with the crashing plane. Oh the terrorists!!! Didn't they get any other day for killing people? When I was parading between romance and helplessness, an airport officer pulled me out of my reverie. “Excuse me, sir, you need to come with us for some questions.” I obeyed hoping I could go home soon. They questioned me like I had planted a bomb on the plane, I was supposed to catch and faked my sleep. This is what is wrong with the government; they catch the innocent walking past by the guilty. Anyways, after a lot of questioning, they asked me to wait in the lounge again. The phones were still dead and so looked the people in the airport. I sat again thinking
about Neena as she was only giving me constant hope and much needed support in that valley of unexpected silent death. I sat, slept, prayed, hummed, dreamed, counted hours, minutes and seconds, but we were stranded in the airport. I was repeatedly called in for questioning and was not allowed a phone call. It felt as if I was the prime suspect. Almost after fifteen hours, when the threat abated, they confirmed my identity and allowed me to go home saying “sorry for holding up”. I rushed towards a taxi and jumped in, out of excitement to tell Neena, how I had escaped death. I couldn‟t call her immediately as my cell phone battery had died off. On my way home, I bought some Gerbera flowers and chocolates, just to make her www.writersezine.com
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smile. I knew she would be devastated on hearing my death and I couldn‟t wait to see her smiling face again. A drop silently made its way out of my eye, imagining the beautiful days I had lived with Neena and countless to come. As the driver pressed the brake pedal hard, my heart accelerated anticipating her smiling face. When I reached my house, I was overwhelmed with tears flooding, only to feel how much I was loved. People hugged me, but no one spoke. I hesitantly pushed the crowd, making way into my bedroom to see my Neena. I walked hurriedly towards my bedroom, which was crowded again I wanted to shout, leave me and Neena alone for a while, I am alive – only to find my Neena lying on the bed all alone with eyes wide open and her soft white skin turned blue. They were waiting for the police to
arrive and take her body. I was asked not to touch her. I did not move- stood there watching my beautiful Neena lay motionless- God knows for how long. Her father silence.
broke
the
“By the time we got a call from the airport it was too late. I am sorry.” And handed me her suicide note which read, “Life started with Akash and so will death. I see no life without his presence. I promised to follow him and I will, no matter where he takes me. I am sorry dad and mom for this drastic step, but I am sure you will understand that I can’t survive a single second of my life without My love, My Akash.”
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About Shruthi Raghunandan: Shruthi Raghunandan is a speech therapist by profession and a blogger by passion. She believes writing re-invents and redefines her. She is a happy person often seen writing poignant fictional tales. You can find her personal gibberish on her blog at www.myviewsinmywords.bl ogspot.com
Editor's Comment: Love - in this life and beyond – a perfect ode to this quote!
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SOL
Smoke rising from the temple on the hill I reach to touch The warm branches of the mandarin That crouches with me behind a wall Pull a globe down To taste the storage 10am
Of morning
Sunlit brown field Light drawing lines on nearby twigs
I don't feel the need to visit A priest anymore, I have the sun
Birds twitter In the distance, the gentle rustle Of tall trees Smell fresh fruit Manure mixed with dirt www.writersezine.com
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About Don Kingfisher Campbell: DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL, MFA, multiaward-winning poet listed on the Poets and Writers website, has been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, Los Angeles Area Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, publisher of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, leader of the Emerging Urban Poets writing and Deep Critique workshops, organizer of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.co m.
Editor's Comment: A search for God in everything around us is wonderfully captured by the poet in this poem.
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The Disappointment “May I speak to Mr. Deshmukh?” a voice spoke from behind while Jayant was busy purchasing fruits and vegetable for making dinner tonight as his wife Jaya was annoyed with him that he didn't spend quality time with her .Turning towards the known yet unknown voice Jayant was shocked to see his very own Hitler grand mom. Dadi who once upon time tried to break his love nest .Seeing her here again his mind wandered about the past things which she got from him by doing a sulking drama which he hated at lot . “Sahib...The sum total of all this cost is Rs 100.” looking at him the vegetable vendor said. “Haan kya ...sorry sorry kitna hua ?”
“Sahib please give me Rs 100.”The vegetable vendor irritated said cursing him. After giving him the money for vegetables which he had purchased .He started moving towards his car that which was parked on the other of the road .Dadi too followed him without getting tired even at this age she looked resplendent in the Cotton Sari which she had worn he thought as he reached the car where his wife and Anita were waiting for him. "What happened Jaan, is very thing alright with you?" looking at him Jaya pensively enquires. ''Nothing dear it's Dadi who has come here, for what I don't know.'' Jayant said having disturbed look on his face “Chalo let's go Anyatha our nemesis Dadi will come here and start her usual www.writersezine.com
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drama" he curtly says and started the car. Once after they reached home he sat on the sofa thinking on something for a while, having a cup of tea he reaches out for the news paper which was laying on the nearby stand .He sees his daughter crawling towards him that made him feel good about his daughter's progress and also made him to forget the evening episode with his grandma as he didn't like her at all only because she behaved eccentrically with Jaya and his daughter in a way that made him wry of the world who spoke ill of them especially his daughter . 'Anita' his daughter had speech problem .Whenever she spoke she stammered a lot ,that made her inferior in school and also made her a target of all nonsense which was happening
around in the school .He did come to know about this only after attending one of the PTA meeting. Where her teachers were appreciating her but had an problem with her father (Jayant) as they couldn't understand why he had married Jaya and treated his daughter Anita as a princess .These things were spoken in front of Dadi which he didn't like as she seem to agree with those teachers then . Looking at her, he lifted her and spoke to her loving with Anita trying to communicate fluently with him but Alas! It did not happen. "No crying my child, nothing has happened to you, so stop crying and give me a smile.� he said while he was wiping her tears off her face. After having dinner he went out for while to get some fresh air so that he can get over www.writersezine.com
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the mental disturbances. Mid-night while he was fast asleep he heard some noises outside his apartment. He went out to see from where noises were coming from. To his utter dismay he saw Dadi and Jayanti arguing with the guards outside .The voices increased that made Jaya and Anita get up to see what happened? .They
looked at each other by giving confused glances.
Immediately he called Police and handed over his Dadi to them by saying that she has some illness because of which she is making such noises .Hearing these words Dadi was stunned in disbelief. “Beta what are saying?” Dadi asked looking at him with blank eyes . “Oh! Dadi!” He exclaimed. “How does it feel when somebody hurts you by using accusing language?" He abruptly questions by shaking his head in disappointment . Stunned Dadi is speechless when she hears her grandson's Jayant words as she felt that Jaya had conned him to marry. Seeing Dadi ashen face he continued by saying "Oh www.writersezine.com
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Dear Dadi I am so thwarted to have you Dadi because you do such things like what the Vampires in serials do. Jaya and I were best friends all throughout school and college years so when our parents died in air crash I was completed devastated. Even though her parents died Jaya could manage as she had much more EQ than I had .At that time she only filled my empty places in my heart and made my life more meaningful .So eventually I decided to marry her so as to give what she wanted from me in return for whatever she had given me then .She neither blackmailed me in this nor did she do any drama when you brought Jayanti back into my life. I had felt sorry for you only because you couldn't understand any relationships beyond money .
Henceforth Dadi please stop coming here asking for money or help as I don't want my daughter and wife to feel guilty all throughout their lives just because you hate them from bottom of your heart as I dearly love them. Hearing this words Dadi felt so ashamed that she left the place forever only with an disappointment of not having judged Jayant properly as he was Gem among men and very good father Note from the author: This story I am dedicating it People who have speech problem and to those who support and help them overcome it.
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About Nigharika G:
Editor's Comment:
Nigharika G is from Mumbai and is an Economics graduate, self employed, blogger and avid reader.
A touching narrative of the handicap of the society and not of some people.
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Ghosts
The faster you need the words, the faster they choke. Images overlap. All you get is the almost black of murky waters. An open midnight might have more poetry than these patched links can fish and hold.
About Poet: David Johnson Editor's Comment: A deep melancholic rendering of pain.
Colours never mix to white Like words don't add to love Or distances sink ghosts.
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All The Way Home Miranda watched the old square red Sunbeam clock on the barn wall. It had an unpleasant buzzing sound; fifty years old and wearing out. It had belonged to Claude‟s grandparents, hung over the phone in the kitchen then. Miranda was barely thirty and felt as worn out as the clock and as washed out as her jeans and t-shirt. The buzz was not as nasty a sound as the piglets were making. That was a cry so plaintive that Miranda felt they could think, that they knew what would happen at ten o‟clock when the abattoir truck arrived. “Are you sure this is the only way?” she had asked
Claude a dozen times. He had nodded glumly, and turned away; looking out at the fields they hadn‟t been able to seed with corn this year. “We can barely afford feed for the big ones, can’t afford to raise this year’s batch. The public has to have their cheap pork.” There was bitterness in his voice that belied the sweet smell in the air. It was Kelson‟s Maple Cookies, the smashed and broken bits that they couldn‟t sell to human customers, but that would make sweet pork. She had already fed the chickens, collected the six eggs. Another night of onion omelets, none of the peppers were up yet, and it www.writersezine.com
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had been so wet and dark this summer that she was beginning to think everything would rot in the ground. And we‟re rotting above ground, she said to herself.
“So when are you kids selling up and making these fields into something useful?” the old man Dawson said, lowering himself down from the tooclean running board.
Dawson‟s feed mill truck arrived, even though they weren‟t getting a feed delivery today and all the pigs in the barn started to squeal and whine. Miranda left the dim barn. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, drown out the near human cries. There had been rain the night before; the truck moved in slowly, knowing that the muddy ruts could mean an expensive tow. Knowing how Dawson operated, he would probably add it to the feed bill with a markup. It was the new Dawson‟s truck, shiny bronze with gold printing.
He had been after Claude for five years, wanted to build another subdivision, even though the buyers of his earlier ventures were in the process of suing him. “And what will people eat then?” Claude asked. “Can’t grow anything on those patches of lawn you left on Clover Hill, can you?” The old man smirked, and Miranda hoped he wouldn‟t lose his temper. He grew money, the whole town knew that. And if Clover Hill eroded in twenty years, it was an act of God. “Could move into town, we could arrange that,” Dawson said, looking at her, not Claude. “Nice old www.writersezine.com
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brick Victorian block from the Square. Jobs open in the library, too.” “Mom’s old job.” she said, and closed her eyes. Miranda could almost taste his cologne, remembered how it had permeated her childhood, along with the dust from the feed mill that had been a cloud clinging to him. Wilton‟s truck pulled up, a two man crew in the cab. A lit unfiltered cigarette hung from Hank Wilton‟s lower lip. Miranda had been at parties with him in high school and he had smelled of death and failure, even then. He had chased her, mostly because of who her father was. He hadn‟t improved much. Dawson decided to make himself useful and walked over to the gate to the pen. He had only loosened it a
bit when one of the boars pushed forward and rammed through. Two others followed, and then the smaller sows, which had been separated from their piglets the previous night. Dawson was pinned back by the gate, still smirking, and the piglets screamed in the background. At least they stayed put. Claude stood helplessly, looking down at his straw-covered boots. “Maybe we should come back another time.” Hank said, the cigarette falling into some mud soaked straw at his feet. The helper had already retreated into the passenger side of the cab and was fiddling with the radio. After everyone had gone, the adult pigs rounded up, an appointment for the next day for the Wilton boys made, yet another lowball offer from Dawson, www.writersezine.com
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Miranda stood looking down at the fifteen doomed piglets, who had calmed down a bit. The barn phone rang. It was Dawson again. “I’ll give him a job,” he said. “Now that I know he loves you and he’s a worker.” “No, Dad.” she said, and hung up softly. “This little piggy!” she whispered, and turned away. All to market, whee whee whee all the way home to the butchers. And she and Claude would have none.
About Lucile Barker: Lucile Barker, a Toronto poet and writer, coordinates the Joy of Writing workshop at the Ralph Thornton Centre. Poetry publications include Linden Avenue, Decades Review, posters and the 2013 Digging to the Roots Calendar. Fiction has been published in The Quotable, Memewar, Mixitini Matrix, Danforth Review, and Green Briar Review. She can be reached at lambarker@yahoo.com Editor's Comment: A moving narrative of what can be called a perfect slice of life.
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Sunrise or Sunset
It‟s serenity.
What I see is bright,
Some things, best not described,
I know not if it's right,
'cause the effect gets inscribed,
Sunrise or Sunset?
A rising sun has to set,
But it's beauty, nature's subset,
For the moon to attend its date,
Why the hue goes so orange
There goes a romantic verse,
When the sun arrives or goes out of range?
It could be for him or hers,
I could question so much, but;
If I could, I would
Why add "why" to this beauty?
A necklace of words,
When it‟s so blissful;
go on stringing, But it‟s time to return home, So say the birds.
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About Salvwi Prasad:
Editor's Comment:
Salvwi Prasad is born and brought up in the silver city of Odisha (India) called Cuttack. She had a humble upbringing and that is why loves the simplicity in life. After completing BTech she has been working as software professional. Happily married to my dearest friend, currently she resides in Bangalore. Writing is an interest she follows and poetry is the form that she naturally and without much conflict, pen downs at her bloghttp://poeticbug.blogs pot.in.
What‟s in a name when there is just beauty all around?
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Set Us Free 'I am me. I'm unlike the rest, a true being to self and others. No veil to cover my true self.' This is an illiberal society where you are judged. If you do it your way, you‟re
people ask you to be yourself and at the same time expect you to do ordinary things and act 'normal'. And normal here is referred as what society thinks is normal. And that's the root cause which makes people double faced and untrue. Being a woman, the protocol is exponentially high as compared to men.
wrong. If you do it their way, you are in demand. If you follow the trend you are updated and if you carry yourself with whatever you are comfortable with, you are undesirable. These
I live in a world where a girl talking about periods, talking about sex, talking about a similar content is considered moral-less, where a girl has to maintain her and her family‟s dignity by carrying herself gracefully and maintain the protocol of certain social www.writersezine.com
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norms like being humble and soft spoken, where a girl with many friends, of opposite sex is considered as a slut, where a girl frankly, openly justifying herself is considered ill mannered. Despite of living in 21th century social norms exist. And they say there is no progress which is true. How can there be, when the people are still so conservative and closeminded. Why isn't one accepted as the way they are, carry one‟s own identity, do whatever they loves to do and be respected for their choices? Why can't the society set us free from the confined norms we are living with since ages? Why can't an individual be accepted the way he/she is?
We all do read n number of articles in newspapers and magazines like this and what do we actually do? Sell it after reading to the raddiwala. Yes, that‟s an ugly truth. Because honestly there is nobody who has enough courage to change the mind sets of our orthodox and doctrinaire Indian society and the ones who have, are resisted by the ones who don't want the change to happen. Can we have a better society to live in, where people like us are set free from the ropes we are recklessly tied into? : A sincere note to the dogmatic people in the society: Live and let live. We are who we are. Please don't judge us. Let us be our true self. This world ought to change for better. Don't hinder it. www.writersezine.com
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About Author: Divya Parwani Editor's Comment: A cry of despair from a heart that wants to just be and not become.
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A Mom’s Heart
Because you had all the love to show I remember you supporting me When whole world seemed to be accusing me I remember you wiping my tears When I faced my deepest fear
I remember wonderful days
those I remember when you shout at me
When you wrapped me tightly in your arms, close to your heart
Because you wanted best for me
I remember when you helped me
Mom, I wish I have you by my side
In every decision of life because that‟s the toughest time,
I love you and thank you for all you did for me
I remember your tight hug when I am feeling low
And hope someday I make you proud for whatever comes to be www.writersezine.com
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I wish you were here, mom I miss you so much No one knows what I would give for just one touch.
About Swati: Swati is a MHA (Master's in Hospital and Health Management. She also has Health Blog, "Health Info" i.e. hospital amanagementinfo.blogspot. in. She likes to read poems and sometimes also pens it down. Editor's Comment: Mother‟s love has a beauty beyond words.
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Rainbow Heart Cookies
This is not exactly my recipe. I prepared these cookies following instructions from Eugenie Kitchen making some modification of my own.
I would call these cookies the 'vegetarian' version of the cookies prepared on Eugenie Kitchen. To make it easier for the readers, in addition to the written recipe, a video of the original recipe has been included in this post. www.writersezine.com
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Pinch of salt Prep Time: 4 hours Cook Time: 11 minutes Yield: 30 cookies
Ingredients: ¾ cup unsalted (170g), softened
butter
3/4 cup milk (1/2 for dough and 1/4 for brushing between the
colored dough sheets) [Original recipe uses 3 egg yolks for dough and 1 egg white + 1 teaspoon water (egg wash)for brushing between the colored dough sheets.]
1 1/4 cups confectioners‟ sugar (155g)
2 ½ cups cake flour (310g) or substitute.
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Food colors Sprinkles www.writersezine.com
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Procedure:
For making heart roll.
For making the cookie dough:
1. Roll out red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet cookie dough. The thickness of each cookie dough sheet should be adjusted to the size of your cookie cutter.
1. Soften the butter and wisk until creamy like mayonnaise without lumps. 2. Mix in confectioners' sugar. 3. Stir in vanilla, salt, and milk. 4. Fold in cake flour.
rainbow
For a cookie cutter of 2 cm height:
5. Transfer to clean working surface and knead.
Each layer is 5 mm thick.
Divide the dough in two parts:
Height of heart is 3 cm
1/3 for vanilla dough and 2/3 for rainbow colors. 6. Make rainbow color dough. Divide the dough for rainbow colors into six equal parts. 7. Chill the vanilla dough and colored dough balls in the refrigerator for 1 hour.
color
2. Pile up six rainbow sheets brushing milk between the sheets. Lightly press the sheets using a rolling pin and let set in the refrigerator for 1 hour. 3. Slice the rainbow sheet after cutting out the rough edges. The width should be www.writersezine.com
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smaller than the height of your cookie cutter. (equal slices of 1.5 cms) 4. Turn each rainbow cookie dough brick, so that you can see the rainbow layers. And make rainbow hearts with a heart cookie cutter. And let set in the
Finishing roll:
the
cookie
1. Now carefully cover the rainbow heart cookie roll with small pieces of vanilla dough and make a cylinder. And let set in the refrigerator for 1 hour. 2. Brush the dough with milk and roll in the bed of rainbow sprinkles.
Bake: refrigerator for 1 hour. 5. Pile up the rainbow hearts applying milk as a glue between the hearts. And freeze for 1 hour.
1. Slice the dough and let set in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Then bake for 10-11 minutes at 335 F. (170 C.), or until light brown. 2. Let cool on the pan for 5 minutes. Then transfer to a www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
wire rack and completely cool.
Tips: 1) Butter should be softened at room temperature. It should be like creamy mayonnaise. 2) Whenever the dough gets too soft to handle, store in the refrigerator for 1 hour. 3) For perfect shape of heart, store the rainbow heart in the freezer for 1-2 hours before pasting vanilla dough. 4) Cake flour substitute can be made with all-purpose flour and corn starch. Procedure: 1 cup all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons corn starch from one cup of all-purpose flour take out 2 tablespoons of flour then add 2 table spoons of corn
start in the flour and sift the flour and corn starch together 3-4 times. Corn starch and flour get incorporated and aerated through sifting. Link to Video About Mayura Chetan Honrao: It is said; 'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach' Mayura Chetan Honrao loves cooking various cuisines for the family. May it be from a recipe book, television or facebook, she loves trying new recipes sometimes, even making changes herself to add a special touch. She loves decorating her house in her own way. Different Warli paintings made by her adorn the walls of her house and festivals bring out the artist in her, her art shining through the colorful Rangoli she makes. www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
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 (Ezine) 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, photographers, idealists, thinkers, atheists, believers and story-tellers all will be in sync with creativity. We accept submissions in poetry, short-stories, nonfiction, 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! www.writersezine.com
Writer’s Ezine – Writing one word at a time
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 > http://www.privytrifles.co m About Arti Honrao > http://www.artihonrao.in Submissions for the March issue of Writer's Ezine are open. Please do read Submission Guidelines before submitting your entries using the submission form. The last date for submission for the entries for May issue is 20th April.
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