# poem
#kr
#review
#everyone
Inertia
I've come a long way,
But I have the same crumbs.
I've chosen the wrong way,
Miseries making me numb.
Fear of yielding what I have
Chains me still to an episode.
I can't choose another path,
Or so it worsens my load:
What I could lose,
Whom I might bruise.
They tie me down tightly,
And it's hard to cut loose.
I need a catalyst
To invigorate my mind.
I need a catalyst...
#kr
#review
#everyone
Inertia
I've come a long way,
But I have the same crumbs.
I've chosen the wrong way,
Miseries making me numb.
Fear of yielding what I have
Chains me still to an episode.
I can't choose another path,
Or so it worsens my load:
What I could lose,
Whom I might bruise.
They tie me down tightly,
And it's hard to cut loose.
I need a catalyst
To invigorate my mind.
I need a catalyst...
#short_story
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price is Paid
Part 2
Hell is here, knocking on the door.
Slide it open and hear it roar.
Brace yourselves, for it's loud and strong;
It's here to stay for very long.
The winter days in Forkale introduce lots of rains and savage winds. The fireplace in Koron's and Saron's house is crackling with fiery timbers, yet Saron is complaining about the cold and how harsh it's getting these days.
"The last winter felt much better," she says, rubbing her hands together. She sits in a cozy armchair about the hearth as Koron pours his darling a mug of hot milk, which he has purchased earlier in the day after he finished working on a car at the garage.
Everyone in the city is somber about the coolness of the winter this year; it's worse than the last.
Koron is a brilliant mechanic who loves his job, although his job contributes small to his pocket, and Saron is a housewife who takes care of the house. Housewives are uncommon in Forkale, but childless people are rare. They have been man and wife for almost four years now, their community knows them well, and they're struggling to become what the city expects of them. Saron wishes if they never lived in this city. She is a housewife who doesn't have a child in four years of marriage; in Forkale, it doesn't get any worse.
Their house has a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The kitchen is part of the sitting room, and Koron is having a hard time, watching his wife freezing--even when she's sucking on the warmth of the flames.
"I know, I know," he says, caring as ever. "This mug will fix you up." He walks across the room, hands her a mug, and drags an armchair to sit beside her.
"This is getting worse," she says. Sips from her mug.
Gazing at the ripples of the fire, he lets out a helpless sigh. He doesn't know how to make it better for her, but tries to think of something. "Why don't you... why don't you warm yourself up all day tomorrow? And you can also--"
"I'm not talking about the cold, Koron," she says, "I'm talking about Thursday."
He thinks hard, but he has no idea what Thursday has got to do with anything. "What about Thursday, love?"
She drinks some more and turns to meet his eyes. "It's our anniversary. This is getting bad, Koron, we're trying and trying but we're hopeless." A trickle of tear springs and travels down her cheek. "I can't live like this anymore."
Neither can he. People at work gifts him with all kinds of hideous comments about his wife, about what she can't give--babies and she's "a lazy bastard who sleeps and eats all day." Fighting for her is his instinct, his second nature, but how can he fight a whole community for her. He is alone in the fight as much as she is.
"...and moving to another city is not a choice for us. Even if we want to, selling this stupid house won't give us a new start--other cities are expensive. And your job can only give so much." He sees her face and the tumult occurring there, but as much as he wants to give her hope in everything, he has nothing to say. He admits that she's right, that they're living in their own little hell, which no one bothers to drop by.
"...maybe... honey, I know you might not like this idea, but... just please say yes."
"I can't say yes to suicide," he jests.
She beams. "I love you." She reaches and kisses him.
"Talk to me. Do you have any plans, love?"
She takes his hand into hers and kisses it. She looks into his eyes. "Lolopi."
Looking away, he claims his hand back. "How can you even think that?"
She sets down her mug and kneels in front of him. "Look at me. Look at my eyes and tell me what you see." She forces his face to hers. "Just look."
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price is Paid
Part 2
Hell is here, knocking on the door.
Slide it open and hear it roar.
Brace yourselves, for it's loud and strong;
It's here to stay for very long.
The winter days in Forkale introduce lots of rains and savage winds. The fireplace in Koron's and Saron's house is crackling with fiery timbers, yet Saron is complaining about the cold and how harsh it's getting these days.
"The last winter felt much better," she says, rubbing her hands together. She sits in a cozy armchair about the hearth as Koron pours his darling a mug of hot milk, which he has purchased earlier in the day after he finished working on a car at the garage.
Everyone in the city is somber about the coolness of the winter this year; it's worse than the last.
Koron is a brilliant mechanic who loves his job, although his job contributes small to his pocket, and Saron is a housewife who takes care of the house. Housewives are uncommon in Forkale, but childless people are rare. They have been man and wife for almost four years now, their community knows them well, and they're struggling to become what the city expects of them. Saron wishes if they never lived in this city. She is a housewife who doesn't have a child in four years of marriage; in Forkale, it doesn't get any worse.
Their house has a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The kitchen is part of the sitting room, and Koron is having a hard time, watching his wife freezing--even when she's sucking on the warmth of the flames.
"I know, I know," he says, caring as ever. "This mug will fix you up." He walks across the room, hands her a mug, and drags an armchair to sit beside her.
"This is getting worse," she says. Sips from her mug.
Gazing at the ripples of the fire, he lets out a helpless sigh. He doesn't know how to make it better for her, but tries to think of something. "Why don't you... why don't you warm yourself up all day tomorrow? And you can also--"
"I'm not talking about the cold, Koron," she says, "I'm talking about Thursday."
He thinks hard, but he has no idea what Thursday has got to do with anything. "What about Thursday, love?"
She drinks some more and turns to meet his eyes. "It's our anniversary. This is getting bad, Koron, we're trying and trying but we're hopeless." A trickle of tear springs and travels down her cheek. "I can't live like this anymore."
Neither can he. People at work gifts him with all kinds of hideous comments about his wife, about what she can't give--babies and she's "a lazy bastard who sleeps and eats all day." Fighting for her is his instinct, his second nature, but how can he fight a whole community for her. He is alone in the fight as much as she is.
"...and moving to another city is not a choice for us. Even if we want to, selling this stupid house won't give us a new start--other cities are expensive. And your job can only give so much." He sees her face and the tumult occurring there, but as much as he wants to give her hope in everything, he has nothing to say. He admits that she's right, that they're living in their own little hell, which no one bothers to drop by.
"...maybe... honey, I know you might not like this idea, but... just please say yes."
"I can't say yes to suicide," he jests.
She beams. "I love you." She reaches and kisses him.
"Talk to me. Do you have any plans, love?"
She takes his hand into hers and kisses it. She looks into his eyes. "Lolopi."
Looking away, he claims his hand back. "How can you even think that?"
She sets down her mug and kneels in front of him. "Look at me. Look at my eyes and tell me what you see." She forces his face to hers. "Just look."
#short_story
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price is Paid
Part 9
The altar smells of fresh body boiling. Lolopi watches the boy with a tremendous smile on his face, both of his hands raised skyward as for worship. Danro's screeches are thin, sharp, and rapid enough to conclude that he has gone mad. The disastrous temperature has driven him insane. His body, unlike a person burning alive, is shivering instead of struggling to get out of the altar, as though drowning in a pond of ice cubes.
Lolopi looks upward and stares at the empty ceiling, uttering words Danro's filled ears could not listen, let alone comprehend. Lolopi's voice competes to dominate the atmosphere over Danro's hideous screams. Every corner of his body, with the exception of his face, melts and unites with the boiling, yellow fluid. The yellow is accepting the red of his blood and is eventually birthing orange.
Danro's body is resisting to give in, fighting and thriving. His animalistic instinct to stay alive, to defy death, holds him conscious for as long as it could, even if he sincerely wishes it to be quick. His throat, and around it, turns into mere liquid. Gargling sounds elude his dispersing throat. When the heat becomes too unbearable, his whole body shuts down. The open eyes lose power and lifelessly stare upward. He floats like a dead body would on a surface of water, but only his bones are floating. The rest of him has dissolved.
Lolopi never quits yelling strange words. The torches hanging around the hell increase their lights greatly, and in the dark sky above, a symbolic moon appears. The moon's coloration resembles the orange on the altar. Lolopi's sweaty body glitters orange, the moon shining; the whole hell glows orange. The moon looks like an eye, its iris crimson. Confined in the iris, its lens is white.
"Your parents betrayed their word," Lolopi said, looking away from the eye-shaped moon. His own eyes has begun glowing red, those pleasant, dim burns. "You belonged to me and now they're late for the delivery. Those bastards—the contract must have murdered them by now. I've been needing this for a long time. This energy."
Danro's bones never melted and are still floating over the bubbling liquid, as are his eyes gazing at the moon. The eyes are attached in their sockets, in the skull, and each of the lenses send two thin rays of light at the moon's lens. The lens of the moon shines in white and reflects a blighter, bigger beam that spotlights the center of Lolopi's forehead.
Lolopi exhales satisfaction when the beam lands on him. He inhales through his teeth. "Yes, boy, let go. You are mine now." His hands form a strong pair of fists. The beams from Danro's eyes become too bright for the eye, and Lolopi closes his eyes. Penetrating the forehead, the ray from the moon grows strong, as does Danro's.
He roars when his forehead smokes. "Yes! YOU ARE MINE!"
The rays from Danro's eyes traveling in the moon are no more. The moon's line of light fully jumps in Lolopi's burrowed forehead. Lolopi kneels, invisible force goading him downward. The white beams disappear, the moon is fading in the darkness, and the eyes of Danro melt.
"That's a dinner I have missed for a long while now," Lolopi says; his voice has gotten deeper. He evaluates his hands fisting and releasing, and his muscles have gained better strength and weight. His forehead is a black hole. He stomps on foot, the ground cracking as he stepped.
"UGGGRRRRRHHHHH!"
The owl-faced demons screech their worship, flying in the dark skies, through the dark clouds, as his roar causes turmoil in hell. Facing the pit black sky, he raises an arm to put his new energy to test—
His heart begins racing and aching. A heavy series of cough scratches and pummels his esophagus. The whites of his eyes turn red, and blood is pouring from his ears. He falls to his knees. "What is this? What have you done, boy?"
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price is Paid
Part 9
The altar smells of fresh body boiling. Lolopi watches the boy with a tremendous smile on his face, both of his hands raised skyward as for worship. Danro's screeches are thin, sharp, and rapid enough to conclude that he has gone mad. The disastrous temperature has driven him insane. His body, unlike a person burning alive, is shivering instead of struggling to get out of the altar, as though drowning in a pond of ice cubes.
Lolopi looks upward and stares at the empty ceiling, uttering words Danro's filled ears could not listen, let alone comprehend. Lolopi's voice competes to dominate the atmosphere over Danro's hideous screams. Every corner of his body, with the exception of his face, melts and unites with the boiling, yellow fluid. The yellow is accepting the red of his blood and is eventually birthing orange.
Danro's body is resisting to give in, fighting and thriving. His animalistic instinct to stay alive, to defy death, holds him conscious for as long as it could, even if he sincerely wishes it to be quick. His throat, and around it, turns into mere liquid. Gargling sounds elude his dispersing throat. When the heat becomes too unbearable, his whole body shuts down. The open eyes lose power and lifelessly stare upward. He floats like a dead body would on a surface of water, but only his bones are floating. The rest of him has dissolved.
Lolopi never quits yelling strange words. The torches hanging around the hell increase their lights greatly, and in the dark sky above, a symbolic moon appears. The moon's coloration resembles the orange on the altar. Lolopi's sweaty body glitters orange, the moon shining; the whole hell glows orange. The moon looks like an eye, its iris crimson. Confined in the iris, its lens is white.
"Your parents betrayed their word," Lolopi said, looking away from the eye-shaped moon. His own eyes has begun glowing red, those pleasant, dim burns. "You belonged to me and now they're late for the delivery. Those bastards—the contract must have murdered them by now. I've been needing this for a long time. This energy."
Danro's bones never melted and are still floating over the bubbling liquid, as are his eyes gazing at the moon. The eyes are attached in their sockets, in the skull, and each of the lenses send two thin rays of light at the moon's lens. The lens of the moon shines in white and reflects a blighter, bigger beam that spotlights the center of Lolopi's forehead.
Lolopi exhales satisfaction when the beam lands on him. He inhales through his teeth. "Yes, boy, let go. You are mine now." His hands form a strong pair of fists. The beams from Danro's eyes become too bright for the eye, and Lolopi closes his eyes. Penetrating the forehead, the ray from the moon grows strong, as does Danro's.
He roars when his forehead smokes. "Yes! YOU ARE MINE!"
The rays from Danro's eyes traveling in the moon are no more. The moon's line of light fully jumps in Lolopi's burrowed forehead. Lolopi kneels, invisible force goading him downward. The white beams disappear, the moon is fading in the darkness, and the eyes of Danro melt.
"That's a dinner I have missed for a long while now," Lolopi says; his voice has gotten deeper. He evaluates his hands fisting and releasing, and his muscles have gained better strength and weight. His forehead is a black hole. He stomps on foot, the ground cracking as he stepped.
"UGGGRRRRRHHHHH!"
The owl-faced demons screech their worship, flying in the dark skies, through the dark clouds, as his roar causes turmoil in hell. Facing the pit black sky, he raises an arm to put his new energy to test—
His heart begins racing and aching. A heavy series of cough scratches and pummels his esophagus. The whites of his eyes turn red, and blood is pouring from his ears. He falls to his knees. "What is this? What have you done, boy?"
#poem
#kr
#review
#everyone
Crisis Upon Crisis
I'm hearing some people complain:
"I have nothing to do, I'm not feeling my brain,"
"I've done everything there is, what's left?"
"The quarantine is making me want to jump off a cleft."
You people who feel bored in your home,
Thinking this is worse than memorizing a tome;
What are you complaining about?
First of, the virus is murderous—no doubt.
People, anyway, are out there on the roads,
Making some money, unable to live in safe mode.
They have families to feed, though they might embrace death.
They have to stride around, even when it depends on their last breath.
You have food, shelter, and family.
Social media in your hands, your fridge full of berries.
Be it veggies or barleys, they're stored in your crate.
What is to slouch around and mourn a boring state?
Second, you should know that this phase,
This era which is murdering million's faith,
That is just the beginning of the real horror,
And you're a probable survivor.
Imagine how the world would be afterward.
Who is going to pick up the pieces and move forward?
You are! but you have no plan to open a book.
You prefer feeling prisoned at a nook.
Somebody else is fighting the war for you,
Trying to find you the antidote, hoping to see a clue,
Losing their loved ones in search of light,
Trapped amid death and saving life, day and night.
The people they treat die in their hands.
Their hearts bury the grief; such luxury has been banned.
Some of the heros catch the virus and join the sick band.
They have forgotten what sleep is like.
They miss watching their kids on bikes.
The masks bruise their faces as if terrible strikes.
Aren't they supernatural to maintain a healthy psyche?
Do they deserve complaints about boredom?
Please, watch your mouth; they also long for freedom.
Wash your hands and be ready to receive the future,
A future they're toiling to keep in order.
Besides, you're not enjoying lying prone.
Why not make the best out of being alone?
Brave names might end up on gravestones.
That is when the world will need their clones.
That is when the world will need strong bones,
Strong minds, strong bodies, and strong humans.
Irrelevant complaints at these times are inhuman.
Irrelevant complaints at these times are inhuman.
#kr
#review
#everyone
Crisis Upon Crisis
I'm hearing some people complain:
"I have nothing to do, I'm not feeling my brain,"
"I've done everything there is, what's left?"
"The quarantine is making me want to jump off a cleft."
You people who feel bored in your home,
Thinking this is worse than memorizing a tome;
What are you complaining about?
First of, the virus is murderous—no doubt.
People, anyway, are out there on the roads,
Making some money, unable to live in safe mode.
They have families to feed, though they might embrace death.
They have to stride around, even when it depends on their last breath.
You have food, shelter, and family.
Social media in your hands, your fridge full of berries.
Be it veggies or barleys, they're stored in your crate.
What is to slouch around and mourn a boring state?
Second, you should know that this phase,
This era which is murdering million's faith,
That is just the beginning of the real horror,
And you're a probable survivor.
Imagine how the world would be afterward.
Who is going to pick up the pieces and move forward?
You are! but you have no plan to open a book.
You prefer feeling prisoned at a nook.
Somebody else is fighting the war for you,
Trying to find you the antidote, hoping to see a clue,
Losing their loved ones in search of light,
Trapped amid death and saving life, day and night.
The people they treat die in their hands.
Their hearts bury the grief; such luxury has been banned.
Some of the heros catch the virus and join the sick band.
They have forgotten what sleep is like.
They miss watching their kids on bikes.
The masks bruise their faces as if terrible strikes.
Aren't they supernatural to maintain a healthy psyche?
Do they deserve complaints about boredom?
Please, watch your mouth; they also long for freedom.
Wash your hands and be ready to receive the future,
A future they're toiling to keep in order.
Besides, you're not enjoying lying prone.
Why not make the best out of being alone?
Brave names might end up on gravestones.
That is when the world will need their clones.
That is when the world will need strong bones,
Strong minds, strong bodies, and strong humans.
Irrelevant complaints at these times are inhuman.
Irrelevant complaints at these times are inhuman.
#poem
#kr
#review
#everyone
Trapped Heart
It's true: the love I had for you has died,
But how can I tell it to you when yours is inside?
How can I say the words when you keep falling deeper?
How do you ask someone to stop going further?
You're addicted to me, want to be my kids' mother.
I'm not the guy for you, please understand.
I don't deserve to live in your land.
It took me long to understand the death of my lust.
It's taking me longer to turn yours into dust.
To your deceived heart, I send my condolences.
The image of your broken heart weighs huge on my conscience.
You have always craved for my stupid presence;
I feel chained while you drown in satisfaction.
My heart is begging for a taste of liberation.
Am I really gonna break you or live as a broken man?
As painful as it is, you are in none of my plans.
I tell you that I'm yours, hoping you'll smell the lie.
Instead you smile happy—another day goes by.
You keep saying my eyes are so revealing.
Baby, I have a pair of fake eyes that I bring.
I present them to you to hide my true world.
The real pair could hurt you; they're pretty cold.
The real pair shows what I truly feel.
Hell! I need someone to gift me a loving pill;
So to revive my dead love, and hold it still.
I blab about pills because I'm facing a dilemma.
I don't wanna fall for you again, no more of that drama.
I'm tired of playing a character for you.
I'm not even sure why I'm still with you.
Do I still have feelings, or am I just being cruel?
The longer I hide it, the greater your hurt.
There's just no right time to make you feel like dirt.
I have no right to say that this is hard on me too.
I vow that it is, but no one gets the doom.
I don't know how to say it, I don't know when to say it,
But I sense it's coming soon; you'll sink in a hellish pit.
Just promise me to do one thing when the pain hits:
Even if life would seem hopeless, don't you ever quit.
I will sense your tears raining, even from distance.
Although my eyes are dry, I'll get lost in penitence.
To heal your ravaged heart, put faith in the miles between us.
I don't mind if you'll hate me—focus on your recovery.
Just f***king let go of love, I miss being free.
#kr
#review
#everyone
Trapped Heart
It's true: the love I had for you has died,
But how can I tell it to you when yours is inside?
How can I say the words when you keep falling deeper?
How do you ask someone to stop going further?
You're addicted to me, want to be my kids' mother.
I'm not the guy for you, please understand.
I don't deserve to live in your land.
It took me long to understand the death of my lust.
It's taking me longer to turn yours into dust.
To your deceived heart, I send my condolences.
The image of your broken heart weighs huge on my conscience.
You have always craved for my stupid presence;
I feel chained while you drown in satisfaction.
My heart is begging for a taste of liberation.
Am I really gonna break you or live as a broken man?
As painful as it is, you are in none of my plans.
I tell you that I'm yours, hoping you'll smell the lie.
Instead you smile happy—another day goes by.
You keep saying my eyes are so revealing.
Baby, I have a pair of fake eyes that I bring.
I present them to you to hide my true world.
The real pair could hurt you; they're pretty cold.
The real pair shows what I truly feel.
Hell! I need someone to gift me a loving pill;
So to revive my dead love, and hold it still.
I blab about pills because I'm facing a dilemma.
I don't wanna fall for you again, no more of that drama.
I'm tired of playing a character for you.
I'm not even sure why I'm still with you.
Do I still have feelings, or am I just being cruel?
The longer I hide it, the greater your hurt.
There's just no right time to make you feel like dirt.
I have no right to say that this is hard on me too.
I vow that it is, but no one gets the doom.
I don't know how to say it, I don't know when to say it,
But I sense it's coming soon; you'll sink in a hellish pit.
Just promise me to do one thing when the pain hits:
Even if life would seem hopeless, don't you ever quit.
I will sense your tears raining, even from distance.
Although my eyes are dry, I'll get lost in penitence.
To heal your ravaged heart, put faith in the miles between us.
I don't mind if you'll hate me—focus on your recovery.
Just f***king let go of love, I miss being free.
#poem
#kr
#review
#everyone
Together And Alone
What's in my wallet? What's on my feet?
The brand of my jacket, the foods that I eat.
My eyes are here; why do you stare at my bracelets?
You look at my diamonds, but never at my demons.
Look into my eyes and feel what I feel.
Let's permit the day to pass, ignoring the bills.
Can we talk, my friend?
Not to fool around and have a beer.
I have some broken lines I wish to mend;
Your wounds would be nice to hear.
You know what? Never mind.
You'd probably misjudge my turbulent tides.
You're just into what you see and touch.
This is invisible, untouchable; a force that makes the heart clutch.
We're always together but I'm alone.
You care about some new brands; what about my zone?
I sound too emotional, don't I?
My demons and angels are warring inside.
I'm seeking for that rare resource,
But I don't know the right course.
You don't know the rare resource, do you?
One that can hold you through;
One that can guide you in hard times;
One that can stand by your side.
I don't hear about it mostly, but here's your answer.
It's called "friend"; they're very small in number.
A friend has become scarce.
Everyone is cold like polar bears.
It's tough to carry the load on your own;
If somebody is there, the dusks seem like dawns.
If the heart was a king, there are way too many pawns.
Trying to knock those down will make me look too serious—
No one wants to have a real conversation, I guess.
I'd be accused for snooping in other's business.
If they don't call me serious, they'd call me negative.
They'd call me problematic; oh, I almost forgot sensitive.
Let me remind you fellas: sentimentality's in your blood.
You care about what others think, despite it being absurd.
No dress is beautiful, until the society views it so.
Your skills are worthless; people are needed to make it glow.
Pains and skills resemble, you know;
In fear of humiliation, you're afraid to show.
But if you have a friend...
I wish for the resource to rain from the sky.
I'd run for no shelter; I'd soak to never dry.
It'd be warm, it'd be vulnerable.
The drops don't judge; I'd be acceptable.
The drops hum slow, when I tell my story.
The drops warm my soul; there'd be no shame in my misery.
My sins are welcome, acceptance washes it all.
A friend stays when it's the time of your fall.
Fine days are nice, but they help in hiding true personality.
It's the terrible weather that reveals who's really with me.
Though, I don't wanna moan about the downs.
There are these people whom I owe millions of crowns.
Thank you, and I wish you the best.
You held me down when I faced some tests.
But still you guys are feeling afar.
I'm good, I'm fine; I have the hell behind bars.
#kr
#review
#everyone
Together And Alone
What's in my wallet? What's on my feet?
The brand of my jacket, the foods that I eat.
My eyes are here; why do you stare at my bracelets?
You look at my diamonds, but never at my demons.
Look into my eyes and feel what I feel.
Let's permit the day to pass, ignoring the bills.
Can we talk, my friend?
Not to fool around and have a beer.
I have some broken lines I wish to mend;
Your wounds would be nice to hear.
You know what? Never mind.
You'd probably misjudge my turbulent tides.
You're just into what you see and touch.
This is invisible, untouchable; a force that makes the heart clutch.
We're always together but I'm alone.
You care about some new brands; what about my zone?
I sound too emotional, don't I?
My demons and angels are warring inside.
I'm seeking for that rare resource,
But I don't know the right course.
You don't know the rare resource, do you?
One that can hold you through;
One that can guide you in hard times;
One that can stand by your side.
I don't hear about it mostly, but here's your answer.
It's called "friend"; they're very small in number.
A friend has become scarce.
Everyone is cold like polar bears.
It's tough to carry the load on your own;
If somebody is there, the dusks seem like dawns.
If the heart was a king, there are way too many pawns.
Trying to knock those down will make me look too serious—
No one wants to have a real conversation, I guess.
I'd be accused for snooping in other's business.
If they don't call me serious, they'd call me negative.
They'd call me problematic; oh, I almost forgot sensitive.
Let me remind you fellas: sentimentality's in your blood.
You care about what others think, despite it being absurd.
No dress is beautiful, until the society views it so.
Your skills are worthless; people are needed to make it glow.
Pains and skills resemble, you know;
In fear of humiliation, you're afraid to show.
But if you have a friend...
I wish for the resource to rain from the sky.
I'd run for no shelter; I'd soak to never dry.
It'd be warm, it'd be vulnerable.
The drops don't judge; I'd be acceptable.
The drops hum slow, when I tell my story.
The drops warm my soul; there'd be no shame in my misery.
My sins are welcome, acceptance washes it all.
A friend stays when it's the time of your fall.
Fine days are nice, but they help in hiding true personality.
It's the terrible weather that reveals who's really with me.
Though, I don't wanna moan about the downs.
There are these people whom I owe millions of crowns.
Thank you, and I wish you the best.
You held me down when I faced some tests.
But still you guys are feeling afar.
I'm good, I'm fine; I have the hell behind bars.
CHAPTER-1
HIS DREAMS
Charlie leapt out of his bed earshot the alarm went off. It was approximately 8 am and his school bus would be arriving at about quarter past eight. He rushed off to the washroom to take a bath and wore his outfit speedily. He settled down to eat the breakfast his mom Annie prepared for him.
As he was eating his breakfast he heard the heavy horn of the school bus and rode off to it, leaving half of the fraction of his sandwich behind.
Charlie was a prominent figure in his school, though he was an introvert and didn’t have many pals, thanks to his high ranks and his position as the forward in the football team. He had a high IQ and a well-built body, especially for an 18-year-old. He loved science and while other students found it exceptionally exhausting, he was curious, particularly about outer space. Whether it had aliens? What was holding the universe together? Where do the cosmos end? Etc….
Although Charlie doesn't have many friends, he had one good friend named Tyler. He was Charlie’s
neighbour and was with him right from his
childhood. He was always with him in every adventure of his life. But he wasn't anticipating to be with him in the upcoming one even though they didn't know about that.
Time went as unhurriedly as every common day in the school, soon came his favourite period Science,
And the topic was about time. There arrived the question if an individual can see the past. He forthwith stood up and reacted that if someone notices the stars at night, they are glimpsing years past the present time as the light from the stars take years to reach us. The whole class gazed him as if he was an alien. Even the teacher stood there stunned. But that only added to his dream of exploring the macrocosm
His thoughtful psyche was filled with curiosity, which he can't even get the answers from his school. He asked Tyler about his doubts but he stood there with his face as he doesn't even know a thing. His wonder about the outer space was confusing his mind.
They got out of their school bus and was slowly strolling back towards their respective homes. He began to open the door but it was sealed he unzipped his bag and grabbed the key he had in his possession and opened the door. He took a bottle of orange juice out from the fridge and took a gulp of it to overcome his thirst. He was very weary from the day at school. He immediately climbed to his room and fell down on his couch without even changing his dress.
#review
#novel
#everyone
#kr
HIS DREAMS
Charlie leapt out of his bed earshot the alarm went off. It was approximately 8 am and his school bus would be arriving at about quarter past eight. He rushed off to the washroom to take a bath and wore his outfit speedily. He settled down to eat the breakfast his mom Annie prepared for him.
As he was eating his breakfast he heard the heavy horn of the school bus and rode off to it, leaving half of the fraction of his sandwich behind.
Charlie was a prominent figure in his school, though he was an introvert and didn’t have many pals, thanks to his high ranks and his position as the forward in the football team. He had a high IQ and a well-built body, especially for an 18-year-old. He loved science and while other students found it exceptionally exhausting, he was curious, particularly about outer space. Whether it had aliens? What was holding the universe together? Where do the cosmos end? Etc….
Although Charlie doesn't have many friends, he had one good friend named Tyler. He was Charlie’s
neighbour and was with him right from his
childhood. He was always with him in every adventure of his life. But he wasn't anticipating to be with him in the upcoming one even though they didn't know about that.
Time went as unhurriedly as every common day in the school, soon came his favourite period Science,
And the topic was about time. There arrived the question if an individual can see the past. He forthwith stood up and reacted that if someone notices the stars at night, they are glimpsing years past the present time as the light from the stars take years to reach us. The whole class gazed him as if he was an alien. Even the teacher stood there stunned. But that only added to his dream of exploring the macrocosm
His thoughtful psyche was filled with curiosity, which he can't even get the answers from his school. He asked Tyler about his doubts but he stood there with his face as he doesn't even know a thing. His wonder about the outer space was confusing his mind.
They got out of their school bus and was slowly strolling back towards their respective homes. He began to open the door but it was sealed he unzipped his bag and grabbed the key he had in his possession and opened the door. He took a bottle of orange juice out from the fridge and took a gulp of it to overcome his thirst. He was very weary from the day at school. He immediately climbed to his room and fell down on his couch without even changing his dress.
#review
#novel
#everyone
#kr
That day he didn't eat anything except breakfast. He kept lying on his bed and thought about every element of the dream. He was sure that he had seen that exact visual somewhere else but he doesn't remember them. "I am going through a deja vu" he inquired himself. He got exhausted after a while and fell into sleep
No….. "Where I am going?"…..(light flashes)..."So this is a black hole ". "If this is what I think this is then why am I not dead"…..He arose jumping out of bed. That dream occurred to him again. But it had begun to frighten him. The same thing he adored a day back, now he was terrified by it
What is this dream of mine?…
Is it real?……
He asked himself. What he didn't know was that he was going to get his answers soon enough
---------------------------------------------------
This is just the sample of the first chapter
I need to expand the story to a 10-15 page first chapter
#novel
#review
#everyone
#kr
No….. "Where I am going?"…..(light flashes)..."So this is a black hole ". "If this is what I think this is then why am I not dead"…..He arose jumping out of bed. That dream occurred to him again. But it had begun to frighten him. The same thing he adored a day back, now he was terrified by it
What is this dream of mine?…
Is it real?……
He asked himself. What he didn't know was that he was going to get his answers soon enough
---------------------------------------------------
This is just the sample of the first chapter
I need to expand the story to a 10-15 page first chapter
#novel
#review
#everyone
#kr
#shortstory
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
Eyes show. It is all in them. Kindness, cruelty, love, hatred, relief, pain, courage... fear. How impressive, when a colored eye—be it brown or green, blue or black—seems so colorless when terror cripples it. How magnificent, when a look at yellow, possessive eyes takes one’s fear to a height so tall that swallowing becomes a test to the throat. Danro never remembers seeing other than aggression and bravery in Blacky’s yellow eyes. Affection sometimes; after all, Danro has been its home. Its pair took getting used to. Cross the line and that marks your final sip of life, they warn. And black fur clothing it from head to toe accentuates his need to tear lives asunder.
Hadly, however, possessed a different presence. His faintly gray eyes betray the tender spot within it, friendly and warm. Gray fur, only his legs white like snow, blazes under a shiny sun as if it is going to be a charming day. But by no means do the kind colors and eyes seduce Danro into assuming it calmer than Blacky. His growls are breezes to shiver the marrows of his prey. His gaze glares at their souls.
Who’d have thought those two small puppies he found cuddled behind a mountain of leaves to become his guardians? They were all thick furs, harmless. But the woods shaped them; hours with an empty stomach taught them to hunt, days with hungry beasts taught them to bite. Limited choices are one’s savior, one might presume, but they owe it all to this boy, Danro: a buffy kid with fluffy jawline, big nose, and kinky hair. He took them, fed them, protected them. His cave sheltered the dusks, and his deft hands urged fire from sticks to heat the cold darkness. Rabbits and cats meant their survival, and soon when the wolves’ jaws toughened, deers were added—lots of flesh, and a large kill gags the wolves with lives.
Their faith was tested when he has brought dog puppies to their little pack. Envy. Blacky wanted no more than to flex his teeth in their veins, Hadly even worse. Their bloody desire, though, lasted short; he still fondled Blacky under the ears and tendered Hadly warmly. The twelve dogs now admit Blacky as alpha and fear Hadly no less.
Presumably, more puppies are whining, some abandoned and some lost.
The woods has no favorites; everybody but the strong dies. At night, when darkness flutes owls’ screeches and snakes’ sizzles and crickets’ swishes, he favors a slumber with an eye open. Safety is always in question—it has to be. Though he closes the cave with a huge stone, the circle boulder rolls only once and stubbornly grips the earth, leaving it ajar. Other wolves can slip in and make a pond of his blood. Snakes can skid past his guard of wolves to sneak a fang in, and the unspeakable befall the victims of these slimy predators, he has seen. He fears them most and wonders if a hawk or two will befriend him. Quite the gang he has formed, and their number helps to repel most dangers but in doubt to ensure abundant life.
Even sleeping is sometimes his enemy. When his eyelids shut and doze off, he exists in another world. A smiley, bearded man comes, sticks some sticks together, and rubs them in a way. As the rubbing speeds up, the man’s beam grows strange. Is he smiling or biting his teeth hard?
Smoke then begins, fire following. The fire gnaws all the stick and then the hands. The man keeps rubbing the melting flesh together. The smell resembles a piece of rabbit Danro burns over the flames for dinner. His beaming teeth chitters to the jaws.
Danro flees the spot, his eyes colorless, and a woman meets him. Her curved lips house patience. She curls arms around him, and whispers, "Mami has been bad, please forgive her part..." He exhales at ease at that moment. Her hug then girds him too tight and knocks the air out of his chest.
#kr
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
Eyes show. It is all in them. Kindness, cruelty, love, hatred, relief, pain, courage... fear. How impressive, when a colored eye—be it brown or green, blue or black—seems so colorless when terror cripples it. How magnificent, when a look at yellow, possessive eyes takes one’s fear to a height so tall that swallowing becomes a test to the throat. Danro never remembers seeing other than aggression and bravery in Blacky’s yellow eyes. Affection sometimes; after all, Danro has been its home. Its pair took getting used to. Cross the line and that marks your final sip of life, they warn. And black fur clothing it from head to toe accentuates his need to tear lives asunder.
Hadly, however, possessed a different presence. His faintly gray eyes betray the tender spot within it, friendly and warm. Gray fur, only his legs white like snow, blazes under a shiny sun as if it is going to be a charming day. But by no means do the kind colors and eyes seduce Danro into assuming it calmer than Blacky. His growls are breezes to shiver the marrows of his prey. His gaze glares at their souls.
Who’d have thought those two small puppies he found cuddled behind a mountain of leaves to become his guardians? They were all thick furs, harmless. But the woods shaped them; hours with an empty stomach taught them to hunt, days with hungry beasts taught them to bite. Limited choices are one’s savior, one might presume, but they owe it all to this boy, Danro: a buffy kid with fluffy jawline, big nose, and kinky hair. He took them, fed them, protected them. His cave sheltered the dusks, and his deft hands urged fire from sticks to heat the cold darkness. Rabbits and cats meant their survival, and soon when the wolves’ jaws toughened, deers were added—lots of flesh, and a large kill gags the wolves with lives.
Their faith was tested when he has brought dog puppies to their little pack. Envy. Blacky wanted no more than to flex his teeth in their veins, Hadly even worse. Their bloody desire, though, lasted short; he still fondled Blacky under the ears and tendered Hadly warmly. The twelve dogs now admit Blacky as alpha and fear Hadly no less.
Presumably, more puppies are whining, some abandoned and some lost.
The woods has no favorites; everybody but the strong dies. At night, when darkness flutes owls’ screeches and snakes’ sizzles and crickets’ swishes, he favors a slumber with an eye open. Safety is always in question—it has to be. Though he closes the cave with a huge stone, the circle boulder rolls only once and stubbornly grips the earth, leaving it ajar. Other wolves can slip in and make a pond of his blood. Snakes can skid past his guard of wolves to sneak a fang in, and the unspeakable befall the victims of these slimy predators, he has seen. He fears them most and wonders if a hawk or two will befriend him. Quite the gang he has formed, and their number helps to repel most dangers but in doubt to ensure abundant life.
Even sleeping is sometimes his enemy. When his eyelids shut and doze off, he exists in another world. A smiley, bearded man comes, sticks some sticks together, and rubs them in a way. As the rubbing speeds up, the man’s beam grows strange. Is he smiling or biting his teeth hard?
Smoke then begins, fire following. The fire gnaws all the stick and then the hands. The man keeps rubbing the melting flesh together. The smell resembles a piece of rabbit Danro burns over the flames for dinner. His beaming teeth chitters to the jaws.
Danro flees the spot, his eyes colorless, and a woman meets him. Her curved lips house patience. She curls arms around him, and whispers, "Mami has been bad, please forgive her part..." He exhales at ease at that moment. Her hug then girds him too tight and knocks the air out of his chest.
#kr
#poem
#review
#everyone
Come, Let's Eat
I don't recall which holiday,
But it surely was a big one.
A sheep to kill, a prayer to say,
We only had the latter fun.
Too low on bills to cram the plate;
A gloomy day providing crumbs.
I felt a thrill, a sense of hate;
My tummy moaned, "I want to numb."
By the doorsill, a sheep was slain.
My grumpy stomach craved for some—
I have to fill, or lose my traits.
A baby sheep bled for the feast.
Is there a pill to conjure fate?
I hardly ever heard sheep's bleats
And, without will, needed a taste.
A hungry boy to be elite,
His heart not still, in search of faith.
Dusk had fallen.
My mother returned home, hands empty.
A joyful omen,
A neighbor knocked the door, hands plenty.
Plates do brighten,
A brother to mend the inside, see.
My guts stiffen;
The neighbor invited, "Come, let's eat."
#poem
#review
#everyone
Come, Let's Eat
I don't recall which holiday,
But it surely was a big one.
A sheep to kill, a prayer to say,
We only had the latter fun.
Too low on bills to cram the plate;
A gloomy day providing crumbs.
I felt a thrill, a sense of hate;
My tummy moaned, "I want to numb."
By the doorsill, a sheep was slain.
My grumpy stomach craved for some—
I have to fill, or lose my traits.
A baby sheep bled for the feast.
Is there a pill to conjure fate?
I hardly ever heard sheep's bleats
And, without will, needed a taste.
A hungry boy to be elite,
His heart not still, in search of faith.
Dusk had fallen.
My mother returned home, hands empty.
A joyful omen,
A neighbor knocked the door, hands plenty.
Plates do brighten,
A brother to mend the inside, see.
My guts stiffen;
The neighbor invited, "Come, let's eat."
#kr
#shortstory
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
1
Danro lies in his stone cave, with his two wolves and ten dogs. Dusk has fallen. His bed is small but enough to hold his unusually large, nine-years-old body. The dark blue blankets are growing darker by day; he does not wash them, he does not know washing. His wolf, Blacky, the Alpha of the pack, sleeps alongside him in these hideous situations called “nights,” to which Danro feels sincere gratitude.
He pushes a huge, circle boulder to close the cave, and the boulder rolls only once and then holds a firm grip on the ground, denying to move. Its determined grasp is wonderful for its strength that no outsider has the muscle to push it aside, only the boulder leaves the cave slightly ajar, a gateway to what lurches beyond.
And the nights are very noisy. Owls’ screeches and snakes’ sizzles and crickets’ swishes. Danro stares through the ajar space, looking at utter darkness. The twelve animal friends of his are in deep slumber, and he envies what their faces show—peace. The fire he earlier made is dying rapidly. Soon the darkness that is prowling at the gate will consume the cave. And he hates that his eyelids are tittering to remain apart.
I will be fine; Blacky is with me, he forces his mind to murmur.
Closing his eyes is terrible, although he knows the dreams don’t always come and take him away. They are occasional, and he knows how they favor noisy and thunderous nights. The nights has always been full of voices that it is sometimes hard to tell whether they come from outside or from the back of his head. Blacky can battle a beast from the darkness, and who is to battle what chases him from inside?
But by no means is he less grateful to these two magnificent wolves to aid his survival in the Woods. Who’d have thought those two small puppies cuddled behind a mountain of leaves to become his guardians? They were all thick furs, harmless, just two abandoned puppies whining. He took them, fed them, protected them.
Black fur clothing it from head to toe, Blacky has a pair of yellow eyes full of aggression and bravery and it has grown really large. It is a privilege to have it by his side. And Hadly is a fun and friendly wolf whose gray and white colors of his fur make him seem happy, along with his grey eyes. It sprints back and forth, conjuring joy, when they are hunting, but it is not so cheerful to cross Blacky.
The Woods has taught them all, including Danro, the most important lesson. Though they each vary in intensity, dominance, size, stealth, and strength, deep down there lies the same foundation.
But even having that strong core, Danro is weak to close his eyes. He is helpless to go back there again and see. His thoughts are swirling around, wondering what he can do to not fall asleep, musing what awaits. Although he allows the flow of thoughts to keep himself awake, any minute the thoughts will trick him into it, as they has done many times before.
The fire has died. The moon must be hiding today, since it is too dark that there is no difference between shut and open eyes. Not long after, Danro falls asleep.
His body is still, Blacky’s warmth showering his calves. He remains still, hours running by, until slight voices begin eluding him. A shallow frown is disfiguring his eyebrows, and his head slowly shakes left and right, rejecting. He audibly inhales through his nose and exhales muffled squeals.
It is almost dawn, the songs of birds say so.
#shortstory
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
1
Danro lies in his stone cave, with his two wolves and ten dogs. Dusk has fallen. His bed is small but enough to hold his unusually large, nine-years-old body. The dark blue blankets are growing darker by day; he does not wash them, he does not know washing. His wolf, Blacky, the Alpha of the pack, sleeps alongside him in these hideous situations called “nights,” to which Danro feels sincere gratitude.
He pushes a huge, circle boulder to close the cave, and the boulder rolls only once and then holds a firm grip on the ground, denying to move. Its determined grasp is wonderful for its strength that no outsider has the muscle to push it aside, only the boulder leaves the cave slightly ajar, a gateway to what lurches beyond.
And the nights are very noisy. Owls’ screeches and snakes’ sizzles and crickets’ swishes. Danro stares through the ajar space, looking at utter darkness. The twelve animal friends of his are in deep slumber, and he envies what their faces show—peace. The fire he earlier made is dying rapidly. Soon the darkness that is prowling at the gate will consume the cave. And he hates that his eyelids are tittering to remain apart.
I will be fine; Blacky is with me, he forces his mind to murmur.
Closing his eyes is terrible, although he knows the dreams don’t always come and take him away. They are occasional, and he knows how they favor noisy and thunderous nights. The nights has always been full of voices that it is sometimes hard to tell whether they come from outside or from the back of his head. Blacky can battle a beast from the darkness, and who is to battle what chases him from inside?
But by no means is he less grateful to these two magnificent wolves to aid his survival in the Woods. Who’d have thought those two small puppies cuddled behind a mountain of leaves to become his guardians? They were all thick furs, harmless, just two abandoned puppies whining. He took them, fed them, protected them.
Black fur clothing it from head to toe, Blacky has a pair of yellow eyes full of aggression and bravery and it has grown really large. It is a privilege to have it by his side. And Hadly is a fun and friendly wolf whose gray and white colors of his fur make him seem happy, along with his grey eyes. It sprints back and forth, conjuring joy, when they are hunting, but it is not so cheerful to cross Blacky.
The Woods has taught them all, including Danro, the most important lesson. Though they each vary in intensity, dominance, size, stealth, and strength, deep down there lies the same foundation.
But even having that strong core, Danro is weak to close his eyes. He is helpless to go back there again and see. His thoughts are swirling around, wondering what he can do to not fall asleep, musing what awaits. Although he allows the flow of thoughts to keep himself awake, any minute the thoughts will trick him into it, as they has done many times before.
The fire has died. The moon must be hiding today, since it is too dark that there is no difference between shut and open eyes. Not long after, Danro falls asleep.
His body is still, Blacky’s warmth showering his calves. He remains still, hours running by, until slight voices begin eluding him. A shallow frown is disfiguring his eyebrows, and his head slowly shakes left and right, rejecting. He audibly inhales through his nose and exhales muffled squeals.
It is almost dawn, the songs of birds say so.
#kr
#shortstory
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
2
Structures in Forkale were known for being two stories or less and were mostly made of red clay blocks. The tallest stood five stories high and was a well-known marketplace of the town—Grandtower Superstore. Cobblestones decorated the sidewalks, and trees were in numbers.
Winter in Forkale brought grumpiness upon everybody each year, even harsher this year. The trees were naked, leafless and showing off their intricate branches. From the rooftop of Grandtower, the Woods was packed with hundreds and thousands of those trees. Dead leaves covered the ground; nests housed no birds.
At nights, the winds got angrier, swifter, and harder, and whipped anything along their path, but Saron's face was already full of complaints from what the day had to offer. Even in summer, when the sun lay its cheerful rays on the green trees, Saron had the same, ugly frown, unless her sweetheart was around.
The fireplace crackled with blazing logs as Saron, wearing a blanket, was seated on a cushioned armchair. She put two palms facing the fire, rubbed them together, and warmly exhaled on the rubbing to provide more heat. Their kitchen was part of the living room due to low budget—and also due to Saron's joblessness—and Koron watched her struggling to be warm, while pouring a mug of steaming milk.
She felt his caring eyes on her. He was probably thinking about giving her warmth and a good loving to help her sleep. Perhaps to tender her firmly and tell her that he was there for her. Gazing at the waving flames, she thinks what would become of him, if he knew what her miserable life forced in her realm of imagination. What if she told him what roamed through her mind, while he thrived at the garage to make their living?
Forkale was no place for women who couldn't bear children. Having no job was also ill-mannered around here, but if she had a job, it would be impossible to tell her new colleagues that she had been married for five years and all she could give her husband was delightful sounds in bed. Her father had become a drunkard for having a daughter, his only child, so worthless. Her mother suffered his alcoholic rage every night, and who knew what he had done to her so far?
Koron's workmates despised his wife and were plain about it. She had overheard their wives' conversation at a grocery store: "My husband calls her a lazy bastard who's good for nothing, and you can see why, don't you?" "Sure. That poor man ought to kick her out and bring himself a blessed one. She is cursed."
When they conversed, they had known she was shopping behind them on the same aisle, but why they didn't hold back was fathomable. A woman like her had not a place in this world. She knew her worth and never told it to Koron. It would break his heart.
Saron pulled her hair out until her fists were full of it, when the house was empty, Koron at the garage. She broke a glass on the floor and walked on the shards—Koron wouldn't see the wounds there. Her teeth gritted and her jaws shivered to the absurdly deserving agony. Why? Her mind was toxic and drove her to madness. The town folk fathomed her more than she did herself. "She is cursed." ...
Koron brought the mug of milk and handed it to her, intervening her rushing mind. She unplugged her stare at the fireplace, as if waking up just now, and paid a small smile for the mug of milk. Dragging another armchair, he took a seat beside her.
Her mind shouldered too much everyday, and she couldn't take it anymore; she had decided to spill the beans tonight.
"Are you getting warmer?" he said.
"Yes, love. Thank you." She squirmed in her seat.
"Hey," he took her hand. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes slowly moved upward and met his. "I'm tired of this."
"What do you mean?" His smile was fading in bewilderment.
She shrugged. "My life." Life hurts so much that I want to hurt myself, she wanted to say. "I'm tired of it."
#shortstory
#review
#everyone
The Price Is Paid
2
Structures in Forkale were known for being two stories or less and were mostly made of red clay blocks. The tallest stood five stories high and was a well-known marketplace of the town—Grandtower Superstore. Cobblestones decorated the sidewalks, and trees were in numbers.
Winter in Forkale brought grumpiness upon everybody each year, even harsher this year. The trees were naked, leafless and showing off their intricate branches. From the rooftop of Grandtower, the Woods was packed with hundreds and thousands of those trees. Dead leaves covered the ground; nests housed no birds.
At nights, the winds got angrier, swifter, and harder, and whipped anything along their path, but Saron's face was already full of complaints from what the day had to offer. Even in summer, when the sun lay its cheerful rays on the green trees, Saron had the same, ugly frown, unless her sweetheart was around.
The fireplace crackled with blazing logs as Saron, wearing a blanket, was seated on a cushioned armchair. She put two palms facing the fire, rubbed them together, and warmly exhaled on the rubbing to provide more heat. Their kitchen was part of the living room due to low budget—and also due to Saron's joblessness—and Koron watched her struggling to be warm, while pouring a mug of steaming milk.
She felt his caring eyes on her. He was probably thinking about giving her warmth and a good loving to help her sleep. Perhaps to tender her firmly and tell her that he was there for her. Gazing at the waving flames, she thinks what would become of him, if he knew what her miserable life forced in her realm of imagination. What if she told him what roamed through her mind, while he thrived at the garage to make their living?
Forkale was no place for women who couldn't bear children. Having no job was also ill-mannered around here, but if she had a job, it would be impossible to tell her new colleagues that she had been married for five years and all she could give her husband was delightful sounds in bed. Her father had become a drunkard for having a daughter, his only child, so worthless. Her mother suffered his alcoholic rage every night, and who knew what he had done to her so far?
Koron's workmates despised his wife and were plain about it. She had overheard their wives' conversation at a grocery store: "My husband calls her a lazy bastard who's good for nothing, and you can see why, don't you?" "Sure. That poor man ought to kick her out and bring himself a blessed one. She is cursed."
When they conversed, they had known she was shopping behind them on the same aisle, but why they didn't hold back was fathomable. A woman like her had not a place in this world. She knew her worth and never told it to Koron. It would break his heart.
Saron pulled her hair out until her fists were full of it, when the house was empty, Koron at the garage. She broke a glass on the floor and walked on the shards—Koron wouldn't see the wounds there. Her teeth gritted and her jaws shivered to the absurdly deserving agony. Why? Her mind was toxic and drove her to madness. The town folk fathomed her more than she did herself. "She is cursed." ...
Koron brought the mug of milk and handed it to her, intervening her rushing mind. She unplugged her stare at the fireplace, as if waking up just now, and paid a small smile for the mug of milk. Dragging another armchair, he took a seat beside her.
Her mind shouldered too much everyday, and she couldn't take it anymore; she had decided to spill the beans tonight.
"Are you getting warmer?" he said.
"Yes, love. Thank you." She squirmed in her seat.
"Hey," he took her hand. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes slowly moved upward and met his. "I'm tired of this."
"What do you mean?" His smile was fading in bewilderment.
She shrugged. "My life." Life hurts so much that I want to hurt myself, she wanted to say. "I'm tired of it."
A Slave
28 years before Danro's death
The furniture was meticulous. The massive bed, the ebony bedside table, the modern bedside lamps, the electronic curtains, the calm wall paintings, the intense lightings. Anything was within sight under the brightness, and everything was just marvelous. It was a special room.
If a woman was screaming in pain from inside, and if the door and windows were closed, not even the whisper version of the scream would be heard from outside. And that was very important. Every wave of echo should suffocate inside, every wave of shriek must die inside. Everything must be carried out with care, or else the neighbors would hear. Now who would want them involved? Anyone who heard wanted to watch, and it was an unspoken understanding as to what happened to anyone who heard, or watched.
Prashe Cooks had been such a customer to this room. To prove that she had been, one could just go up to her and ask what she knew about it; the proof would be her tears, which would rain the moment she was reminded. No one had ever asked, though. No one knew about the room, except for the customers.
Prashe lay naked on the edge of the massive bed, soaked in tears and sweat... and soon blood—but not yet. Her third visit here, and—boy!—she was panting. Lying supine, her elbows supported her torso, and two tripods stood on either side of her legs. As was the culture, she opened and comfortably propped her legs on each tripods. It was suitable this way.
The door made a key turning sound, clicked, and locked. There. A mark of the start.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
A pair of oxfords alternately clicked the floor and stopped between the tripods. Prashe peeked at him for so long as two seconds and turned away, wheezing. Her heart rate climbed, and her lips formed a worried, straight line.
The man (a man?) sat on a swivel chair amid the tripods. His voice was rough and dominant. "Push."
The muscles about her belly and groin suffered. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the baby was only starting to stretch her limits. The large baby crumpled her back and abdomen. She felt the heaviness tearing her inside apart as it slowly made its way. It crowded her body and tensed her pipe cruelly. The white blankets reddened to the dripping blood.
"Push."
She obeyed with a shrill, which in the end transformed into an animalistic groan. The pain was too unbearable that she wanted to give up halfway and let it kill her. Then he ordered. When he passed an order, it was to be obeyed.
"Push."
The baby safely slipped out and rested into the man's arms. She felt every muscle on her back and groin sighing, truly grateful of the relief. Under the bright illuminations, her body glistened, sweat dripping from her neck and spine and thighs and calves. Her elbows skidded and her back flattened on the bed.
When her baby began crying somberly, she disregarded the aftermath, tracing the man's arms with her eyes, as he walked across the room. Using his other hand, he unlocked the door. Locked door had a meaning, as did an open door. He then took back his seat, wheeled it away from the tripods, and looked at her baby. The baby was out of her field of vision, covered in blankets.
He caught her eyes fumbling to lay a sight at her child.
"Out."
With an unaffected contempt, she glared at him for a fraction of moment and crawled off the bed, silently weeping. Her legs had no strength left in them, and she could only wend out of the room on all four, like a sad, embarrassed dog with its tail between its legs, a nude mother crawling out as rivulets of blood streamed down her thighs.
But the blood wouldn't leak and kill her; so much had she been promised in the contract.
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28 years before Danro's death
The furniture was meticulous. The massive bed, the ebony bedside table, the modern bedside lamps, the electronic curtains, the calm wall paintings, the intense lightings. Anything was within sight under the brightness, and everything was just marvelous. It was a special room.
If a woman was screaming in pain from inside, and if the door and windows were closed, not even the whisper version of the scream would be heard from outside. And that was very important. Every wave of echo should suffocate inside, every wave of shriek must die inside. Everything must be carried out with care, or else the neighbors would hear. Now who would want them involved? Anyone who heard wanted to watch, and it was an unspoken understanding as to what happened to anyone who heard, or watched.
Prashe Cooks had been such a customer to this room. To prove that she had been, one could just go up to her and ask what she knew about it; the proof would be her tears, which would rain the moment she was reminded. No one had ever asked, though. No one knew about the room, except for the customers.
Prashe lay naked on the edge of the massive bed, soaked in tears and sweat... and soon blood—but not yet. Her third visit here, and—boy!—she was panting. Lying supine, her elbows supported her torso, and two tripods stood on either side of her legs. As was the culture, she opened and comfortably propped her legs on each tripods. It was suitable this way.
The door made a key turning sound, clicked, and locked. There. A mark of the start.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
A pair of oxfords alternately clicked the floor and stopped between the tripods. Prashe peeked at him for so long as two seconds and turned away, wheezing. Her heart rate climbed, and her lips formed a worried, straight line.
The man (a man?) sat on a swivel chair amid the tripods. His voice was rough and dominant. "Push."
The muscles about her belly and groin suffered. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the baby was only starting to stretch her limits. The large baby crumpled her back and abdomen. She felt the heaviness tearing her inside apart as it slowly made its way. It crowded her body and tensed her pipe cruelly. The white blankets reddened to the dripping blood.
"Push."
She obeyed with a shrill, which in the end transformed into an animalistic groan. The pain was too unbearable that she wanted to give up halfway and let it kill her. Then he ordered. When he passed an order, it was to be obeyed.
"Push."
The baby safely slipped out and rested into the man's arms. She felt every muscle on her back and groin sighing, truly grateful of the relief. Under the bright illuminations, her body glistened, sweat dripping from her neck and spine and thighs and calves. Her elbows skidded and her back flattened on the bed.
When her baby began crying somberly, she disregarded the aftermath, tracing the man's arms with her eyes, as he walked across the room. Using his other hand, he unlocked the door. Locked door had a meaning, as did an open door. He then took back his seat, wheeled it away from the tripods, and looked at her baby. The baby was out of her field of vision, covered in blankets.
He caught her eyes fumbling to lay a sight at her child.
"Out."
With an unaffected contempt, she glared at him for a fraction of moment and crawled off the bed, silently weeping. Her legs had no strength left in them, and she could only wend out of the room on all four, like a sad, embarrassed dog with its tail between its legs, a nude mother crawling out as rivulets of blood streamed down her thighs.
But the blood wouldn't leak and kill her; so much had she been promised in the contract.
#kr #review #everyone #shortstoryintro
#kr
#poem
#review
#everyone
Fear Works
I see my destination; it's beautiful.
I clearly see my vision; it's incredible.
But which staircase should I take to get there?
Two straircases; I guess I just have to dare.
At a time, you can only take one staircase...
Then that's it for the rest of the phase.
One is right, one is wrong, but which is which?
And after taking one, you cannot switch.
To switch is to quit before learning the truth.
To switch is to kill time, to stop too soon.
I see the top, the dazzling top.
I run up these stairs; I will never stop.
But I don't want to be wrong, or I'll flop.
If the staircase ends halfway and I fall off,
It'll break me—the landing won't be soft.
Lately, my confidence has been stumbling.
For quite a while now, I have been running.
I wonder if this staircase is just a cul-de-sac.
I wonder if I'm wasting life with the wrong track.
The god in my mind speaks to me often.
He makes sure I believe in my only vision.
But I want him to tell me if I'm going right.
Why don't he just sprinkle a little more light?
Going really hard for very long...
Just to discover that you were terribly wrong...
Though, will that be as painful as I think?
Probably yes, I'd shatter on some hard brick.
If I die then, I'd be remembered for trying.
If I don't die, I'd be a bird with broken wings.
I'd be forced to use my legs, the lower limbs.
Falling off has its ironic charms.
Falling off means I now know what harms.
Afterward, only the right staircase remains.
Will the fall consume me or will I step on the staircase?
Fear of falling off has never consumed me,
But fear of staying fallen is ruining me.
If any of the fears win, I become mediocre.
A normal life is too somber for me, too sober.
Well, I have a really good news to this fever.
My deepest and strongest fear is dying mediocre.
I'm not normal. I'm the devil with manners:
I lust with passion, I deceive hours.
I flame in growth, my dreams are fire.
Heart of a person, soul of a monster:
I crunch the minutes, though humble as I tire.
My sins are growing deeper and faster.
I'm too hectic for heaven anyway.
If a dead end is the truth of this staircase,
I'll fall off with a huge smile on my face.
Truly live, or die trying—no other way.
If how great I live doesn't matter,
How long I live doesn't matter.
Breathing is not living, I say.
Bite my teeth and run down the stairway.
All the way through.
All the way through.
#poem
#review
#everyone
Fear Works
I see my destination; it's beautiful.
I clearly see my vision; it's incredible.
But which staircase should I take to get there?
Two straircases; I guess I just have to dare.
At a time, you can only take one staircase...
Then that's it for the rest of the phase.
One is right, one is wrong, but which is which?
And after taking one, you cannot switch.
To switch is to quit before learning the truth.
To switch is to kill time, to stop too soon.
I see the top, the dazzling top.
I run up these stairs; I will never stop.
But I don't want to be wrong, or I'll flop.
If the staircase ends halfway and I fall off,
It'll break me—the landing won't be soft.
Lately, my confidence has been stumbling.
For quite a while now, I have been running.
I wonder if this staircase is just a cul-de-sac.
I wonder if I'm wasting life with the wrong track.
The god in my mind speaks to me often.
He makes sure I believe in my only vision.
But I want him to tell me if I'm going right.
Why don't he just sprinkle a little more light?
Going really hard for very long...
Just to discover that you were terribly wrong...
Though, will that be as painful as I think?
Probably yes, I'd shatter on some hard brick.
If I die then, I'd be remembered for trying.
If I don't die, I'd be a bird with broken wings.
I'd be forced to use my legs, the lower limbs.
Falling off has its ironic charms.
Falling off means I now know what harms.
Afterward, only the right staircase remains.
Will the fall consume me or will I step on the staircase?
Fear of falling off has never consumed me,
But fear of staying fallen is ruining me.
If any of the fears win, I become mediocre.
A normal life is too somber for me, too sober.
Well, I have a really good news to this fever.
My deepest and strongest fear is dying mediocre.
I'm not normal. I'm the devil with manners:
I lust with passion, I deceive hours.
I flame in growth, my dreams are fire.
Heart of a person, soul of a monster:
I crunch the minutes, though humble as I tire.
My sins are growing deeper and faster.
I'm too hectic for heaven anyway.
If a dead end is the truth of this staircase,
I'll fall off with a huge smile on my face.
Truly live, or die trying—no other way.
If how great I live doesn't matter,
How long I live doesn't matter.
Breathing is not living, I say.
Bite my teeth and run down the stairway.
All the way through.
All the way through.