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<title>Villa Sans Souci</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/villa-sans-souci/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Maryann Ring Spencer]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 05 Feb 2024 08:15:58 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1930</guid>
<description><![CDATA[CHAPTER FOURTEEN 1856, Balmoral When they arrived in the port of Dover, it was crowded with ships, some of which needed repairs. The area smelled strongly of sulphur from the smelting activities. A coachman and one of the Queen’s messengers were waiting for them. On their faces, their weariness from the journey, the restless nights, […]
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<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Maryann Ring Spencer</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3unua8G" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
<h2 style="text-align: center;">CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h2>
<img loading="lazy" class="style= aligncenter" src="http://1618words.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/Signiture.jpg" alt="" width="327" height="38">
1856, Balmoral
When they arrived in the port of Dover, it was crowded with ships, some of which needed repairs. The area smelled strongly of sulphur from the smelting activities. A coachman and one of the Queen’s messengers were waiting for them. On their faces, their weariness from the journey, the restless nights, and what they had experienced at Scutari were evident. Their memories of the hell they had witnessed in the Crimea were still vivid. Both felt haunted and pursued by things that happened right in front of them. After all this hardship, it was now their responsibility to inform the Queen of these self-evident truths.  The testimony of Florence and Dr Pisani would confirm that the hospital systems were to blame for the high death rate.
They had a long journey from Dover to Birk Hall. To continue the journey, the coachman had to stop at inns to relax and change horses.  Florence and Dr Pisani, on the other hand, delved into their reports, statistics, and correspondence during each stop to ensure that everything was prepared to be presented to the Queen.
Along the way, they would discuss whether to include more notes in their reports; the plan was clear: they would request the establishment of a Royal Commission to investigate the sanitary condition, administration, and organisation of barracks and military hospitals, as well as the organisation, education, and administration of the Army Medical Division.
Colonel Tulloch was to join Dr Pisani and Florence at Sir John McNeill’s home in Edinburgh where they were to stay first. For some time, Florence and Dr Pisani worked in the Crimea with Sir John McNeill, a surgeon, and Colonel Alexander Tulloch, a great War Office administrator who served as the regiment’s captain. They both reported on the setup and administration of the commissariat, the method of keeping accounts, and the reasons behind the delays in unloading and distributing clothing and other stores items sent to Balaklava. Therefore, it was crucial that they all get together before the meeting with the Queen to go through everything that will be presented.
A couple of days later, Florence and Dr Pisani left Edinburgh for Birk Hall, the Highland home of Florence’s longtime friend Sir James Clark.  As a highly respected physician, Sir James Clark was chosen to serve as the Queen and Prince Albert’s Physician-in-Ordinary in 1840, as soon as the Queen ascended to the throne. He was appointed the monarch’s closest medical counsellor. Florence and Dr Pisani once more discussed the presentation to the Queen with Sir James Clark.
They spent two days going over each note and report, the statistics, and the ideas being proposed.  Florence did receive some advice from Sir James regarding the presentation, and he also reminded them of proper protocol when they would meet the Queen.
Sir James Clark escorted Florence and Dr Pisani to Balmoral, in the quiet, tranquil valley of the River Dee in the foothills of the Grampian Mountains, for an afternoon conversation with the Queen and the Prince. In the breathtakingly luxurious drawing room, which was adorned with paintings from bygone centuries, everyone was welcomed by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, a charming couple who were already parents to eight children and two months pregnant.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Florence, bowing her head and curtsying.
Dr Pisani followed them, and they all sat down at the dark-oak dining room table. There, they spread out documents containing information about the hospitals’ structures, notes, statistics, and financial reports.
‘So, what am I to be aware of? Please explain thoroughly what these papers tell,’ uttered the Queen to Florence and to Dr Pisani.
With complete openness, Florence started outlining the statistics and reports on the operations, infrastructure, and systems of the hospital.
This informal meeting lasted more than three hours and was a great success. Florence won the monarch’s admiration. She had laid out all the flaws in the military medical systems as well as the necessary improvements.
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were so impressed by Florence and Dr Pisani that they were summoned to Balmoral on two other separate occasions while staying at Sir James Clark’s mansion. They engaged in a wide range of conversation topics, including war, religion, metaphysics, and the pregnancy of the Queen. A friendly, trusting relationship grew. Dr Pisani and Sir James Clark were given permission to question Her Majesty on the pregnancy’s progress. Dr Pisani felt extremely honoured by this.
In addition, the Queen paid secret visits to Sir James Clark’s home. In the early afternoon, Florence spotted the Queen approaching in her little pony carriage. The monarch invited Florence on walks and afternoon tea conversations. Her bravery won the Queen’s heart.
This was only the beginning, though.  They realised that the Queen, in her position of authority, could only listen and accept, but she couldn’t act. They required the Ministers of the Crown to begin taking action on these ideas and proceed forward.
As it turned out, Lord Panmure was expected at Balmoral. He acquired the nickname of ‘the Bison’ due to his large head, which was covered with dense hair and which he tended to rock from side to side. During the final stages of the Crimean War, Lord Panmure served as the Secretary of State for War. He received harsh criticism for essentially doing nothing. His motto was ‘don’t initiate any action, so no consequences arise.’ Procrastination was his idol. This stolid Scottish nobleman was not someone who would easily be pushed. He was more than willing to accept the need for reform ‘in principle,’ but he lacked any internal driving factors and needed to be physically prodded into action. It was therefore an uphill struggle to overcome Panmure’s procrastination, but the Queen persisted, and she wrote to let him know that they would be meeting in Balmoral. Colonel Tulloch, Sir James Clark, and Sir Sidney Herbert all had doubts about Lord Panmure’s decision to adopt Florence’s suggestions. The meeting was scheduled for October.
Nonetheless, Dr Pisani couldn’t stay in the Highlands until October since Sir William Reid had notified him that his services were urgently required in Malta. During his last informal dinner with the Queen, Dr Pisani presented her with a gold filigree cross of the Knights of St. John as a token of his deep gratitude. It was a touching and unforgettable emotion to be a part of this outstanding initiative for all these health improvements that, hopefully, will be implemented not only in British military and non-military hospitals, but also around the world. In fact, Dr Pisani promised the Queen that once the Royal Commission gets underway, he will make it a priority to ensure that its changes are implemented in the Maltese health sector as well.
Dr Pisani yearned to go back to the Maltese Islands so he could carry out his work mission there. Florence agreed to write to him and notify him of the outcome with Lord Panmure. It was an emotional departure; the proposals they had made so far in the health sector were incredible accomplishments, but the meeting with Lord Panmure would be a watershed moment for what was to come.
The conversation with Lord Panmure took place at Balmoral on the fifth of October. The Queen, Prince Albert, Sir James Clark, and Florence were all present and seated around the table in the drawing room. ‘Lord Panmure.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Lord Panmure said, bowing his massive hair head.
‘I must clarify that the status of our hospitals is impracticable at the moment. Drunken staff members, prostitution, filth, sewage, filthy conditions, a lack of medical supplies, and other deficiencies should all be a thing of the past.’
‘Ma’am, I understand all of this.’
‘I anticipate that you will begin providing me with comprehensive briefings on the hygienic status and general condition of our hospitals in your capacity as Secretary of State of War. The findings of your inspection and opinions, as well as a list of everything that must be done, whether in the form of arrangement, a decrease in the number of patients in the wards, cleaning, disinfecting, or actual construction, in order to secure the major goals of safety and health, must be laid before Lord William Paulet, Admiral Grey, or Lord Raglan, as the case may be, or such individuals as may be appointed by them to that special duty, as soon as possible.’
‘I understand that my responsibility is to succinctly state whatever you believe will contribute to the preservation of health and life and to firmly recommend that it be adopted by the authorities.’
‘There is no more time to be wasted; you may postpone providing me with reports for now and instead provide me with a list of the immediate tasks that need to be completed. You will receive Florence’s statistics and reports so that you may better comprehend the urgent problems that require your attention.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, I will start working right away to address the urgent priorities, remove the inconsistencies, and adhere to the standards. Due to Florence’s extraordinary success, it was decided that the Royal Commission would be established by experts in the health field who had been given the go-ahead to implement the guidelines and regulations that Florence had established.’
Lord Panmure paid Florence a discreet visit in the late evening of that same day, while she was packing her bag to depart Birk Hall by morning. She was given the opportunity to address a report to Prime Minister Lord Palmerston. The first general military hospital was also being built, and Lord Panmure pledged to send her the designs. He also encouraged her to make observations and said he would be happy to make any additional improvements she requested.
All in all, this was a victory for Florence. The incredibly laborious job finally appeared to be paying off. She boarded a hansom cab the following morning to travel south on her own. Her mind was racing with ideas, and her sleepiness had shown itself to the point that it was exhausting for her to clasp her fingers around a pen to write, despite the fact that putting pen to paper in a driven carriage was not an easy chore. Florence did, however, manage to jot down the names of those who would make up the Royal Commission. She had compiled a balanced list of commissioners, civilians, and military personnel. Leading sanitary authorities, surgeons, medical professionals, service members with experience in army welfare work, a pioneer in the field of statistics, and herself were all on the list.
Setting up this Royal Commission still required a lot of work. It was difficult to expect these people to devote their time to a commission that required many additional hours of work on top of their regular jobs. All of them needed to be persuaded to give their consent and share their information, as well as gain knowledge about the reforms that some of them were still unaware of and their significance.
During her travels, Florence continued working to set up the commission. She wasted no time. She understood she had taken a significant stride forward in the health sector in words, but there was still much work to be done to turn those words into action. Florence continued to push forward with her plans.
When she finally arrived at the Embley mansion, she was greeted by her parents and sister. Florence, exhausted and falling into her father’s arms, exclaimed that she was pleased with the reforms she was instilling in the minds of the leaders and authorities.
<div align="center"><a class="site-palette-yin-1-background-color site-palette-yang-2-color md-raised md-primary submit md-button md-ink-ripple" href="https://amzn.to/3unua8G" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" style="font-family: Lato, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-weight: bold;padding: 1px 16px 1px 16px;">Read The Entire Book</a></div>
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1930</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>Six Moons, Seven Gods (The Legends of Baelon Book 1)</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/six-moons-seven-gods/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Robert A. Walker]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 25 Oct 2023 08:38:50 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[fantasy]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[new adult]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[young adult]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1920</guid>
<description><![CDATA[“Sit! Sit!” Raggett watched as both men complied, his patience quickly fading as Brock made several attempts to maneuver his broad-shoulders and barrel frame into a comfortable position at the table. All the while, the man’s wild eyes peered at Raggett from behind a tangle of red, shoulder-length hair and like-colored bush of a beard. […]
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]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<div style="background-color:#1d2b38;padding:20px;border-radius:3px;" class="has-background" >
<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/40buumd" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">Six Moons, Seven Gods (The Legends of Baelon Book 1)</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Robert A. Walker</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/40buumd" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
“Sit! Sit!” Raggett watched as both men complied, his patience quickly fading as Brock made several attempts to maneuver his broad-shoulders and barrel frame into a comfortable position at the table. All the while, the man’s wild eyes peered at Raggett from behind a tangle of red, shoulder-length hair and like-colored bush of a beard.
Raggett glared at Alden. “What’s Brock doing here? Where’s Edwyn?” Alden and Brock looked at one another. “I asked you a question. Did I not tell you to bring Edwyn?”
“Uh…” said Alden.
Brock cleared his gravelly voice. “Edwyn won’t be comin’.”
“What? Keep your voice down! Was I talking to you? Why won’t Edwyn be coming?”
“Are you talking to me now?” Brock asked, holding Raggett’s gaze.
“Gods damn you! Yes, I’m talking to you now, Brock, because Alden here appears to have lost his tongue. Why, pray tell, won’t Edwyn be joining us? And keep your voice down!”
Brock leaned in over the table to whisper loudly. “’Cuz he can’t.”
“What d’you mean, can’t?”
“I mean he can’t.”
“I did like you said. I spread word the meeting was canceled.” Alden glanced nervously at Brock. “Only I couldn’t find everyone, so some didn’t get the message.” The young man swallowed. “Brock here, Harolt, Bailey, Lane, and… and Edwyn. I couldn’t find none of ‘em, and so…”
“And so we went to your meetin’,” Brock said.
Raggett’s heart began to pound. “There was no meeting. I told Alden to cancel it.”
“Yes, well, we know that now, don’t we?” Brock said. “Only not everyone got the message.”
“So what? So you showed up. I don’t understand. What about Edwyn?”
“Well, we weren’t the only ones who showed up, were we?”
“What d’you mean? Who else was there?”
“Some giant of a man. Never seen him before. Wouldn’t give us his name, but he sure as shite didn’t just stumble in there. Barged in like he owned the place. Like he knew all along we’d be there. Asked us all our names. ‘Ah,’ he said to me, ‘you and the old man can go.’ So Harolt and I, we lit outta there, but not before the giant cut off one of Bailey’s arms.”
“He what?” The words were barely audible.
“You heard me.”
“And then?”
Brock’s beard swept the tabletop as he leaned further forward. “I told you. We didn’t wait around to see. Harolt went his own way. Said to tell you he’s done. I run into Alden here outside The King’s Inn, and together we headed back to the old warehouse.” Alden’s hands, resting on the table, began to tremble.
“And?”
“Well, the meetin’ was over by then, wasn’t it?” Brock laid a burly arm across Alden’s hands, preventing them from rattling the table. “I don’t think the lad here’s up to talkin’ about it.”
Raggett swallowed hard. “Tell me.”
“Well, Bailey’s dead, ain’t he? Lyin’ there on the ground minus his arm. And your friend, Edwyn, also dead. Only he doesn’t look as tall as he used to, on account of he’s missin’ his head.”
“What?” Raggett’s face contorted. “And Lane?”
“Well, the only good thing we can say about Lane is that he’s not missin’ any parts. But he’s as dead as the rest.”
The three men sat in silence.
“Who was it?” Raggett finally asked. “What was his name?”
“I told you he never said.” Brock’s wild eyes were glistening.
“Well, think, dammit! What did he look like?”
“Big. Almost as big as Edwyn. Dark, shaggy hair. Full o’ piss. No messin’ about.”
“That’s all you recall?”
“Thet’s all?” Brock said angrily. “I was a little busy watchin’ them swords of his.”
“Think, then. Did he say anything else before you left?”
“Did he say anything else? Mm-hmm. Yes, he did.” Brock sat back with a nervous laugh. “He said…‘Blood… will be spilled!’”
Raggett averted his gaze. First Kole. Now Edwyn, Lane, and Bailey! What in Baelon is going on? “The Guild won’t stand for this,” he said.
Not because he believed it, but because that’s what a good boss would say.
<div align="center"><a class="site-palette-yin-1-background-color site-palette-yang-2-color md-raised md-primary submit md-button md-ink-ripple" href="https://amzn.to/40buumd" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" style="font-family: Lato, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-weight: bold;padding: 1px 16px 1px 16px;">Read The Entire Book</a></div><div align="center"><a class="site-palette-yin-1-background-color site-palette-yang-2-color md-raised md-primary submit md-button md-ink-ripple" href="https://joelbooks.com/rawalkerwriting" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" style="font-family: Lato, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-weight: bold;padding: 1px 16px 1px 16px;">Author's Website</a></div>
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1920</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>The Queen of All The Islands: A Clash of Power and Love</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/the-queen-of-all-the-islands/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Milos Petrovic]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 25 Sep 2023 07:30:10 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[kingdom]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[mythical]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1907</guid>
<description><![CDATA[-Yes. Let me answer the previous question, regarding me and my wife. And if I assume that your Excellency is not interested in personal or intimate stories, I think that it is impossible to explain some things to a foreigner in any other way. Besides, we have time until Brad gets back. I was born […]
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]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<div style="background-color:#1d2b38;padding:20px;border-radius:3px;" class="has-background" >
<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3t4i5nQ" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">The Queen of All The Islands: A Clash of Power and Love</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Milos Petrovic</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3t4i5nQ" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
-Yes. Let me answer the previous question, regarding me and my wife. And if I assume that your Excellency is not interested in personal or intimate stories, I think that it is impossible to explain some things to a foreigner in any other way. Besides, we have time until Brad gets back.
I was born the son of a maid/cook – of course a slave and a stable man/horseshoe – of course a slave in the house of an old Mr. Hass’ childless widower. Because of the ownership papers, I, as the property of the house in which I was born, have the surname Haas. Mr. Haas was a middle-class man. So, neither rich nor poor. 
My father and mother lacked nothing and lived practically the same as paid servants. Not very well paid, but a slave with his own salary…? Sir, that man is someone. In the house next to ours one day, new tenants moved in. A family from America. From Portland, Maine. All white people, of course. Even their servants were white, which caused a lot of suspicion in the neighborhood. They brought their servants with them because they didn’t want, as they later said, to part, they were used to each other. The whole neighborhood marveled at these strange settlers. It was the McArthur family. The new Consul of the United States in the Caribbean Kingdom. Bradley’s family. Brad was a year older than me, and we hung out all the time. I mean, that was all day, morning to night. All day long. Beautiful times.
But all good things come to an end. Mr. Haas dies at the age of 87 as the oldest man on our island. Me, my mother, my father with a house, a small merchant ship, and a nearby forest were inherited by some of Haas’s distant relatives. They sold everything that could be sold and took my mother and father to their property on a distant island. They just needed a good cook like my mother and her pies and cakes that were so famous. They needed a good stable man and a horseshoe like my father, but they didn’t need a kid. Like when you need a cat, but you don’t need her kittens. In this case, a kitten. Me.
And what to do with the child, in this case me? They had more slaves than they needed, and they certainly didn’t need another little slave. And of course, they’d sell me at the slave market. Though hardly anyone would buy a small slave: How much he will eat by the time he grows up, and he certainly can’t do much. But the decision was made, so they’d sell me at any price. Oh, my mother was crying and crying. You see, my father and mother had the money they had been saving for all those years of service with Mr. Haas, but slaves couldn’t buy other slaves.
At the last minute, my mother remembered Mr. McArthur, Brad’s father, and ran to tell them what had happened. They’ll sell her only child, and they have a lot more than a little slave costs, but since they are slaves, they can’t buy him. And they beg Mr. and Mrs. McArthur to buy me back with my mother and my father’s money and for the rest of the money, send me somewhere to be a servant. To learn a craft from the master I serve.
Obviously not accustomed to the hard life of slavery Mr. and Mrs. McArthur burst into tears. Not only they would not take a dime from their money, but they would also buy me and educate at their expense. Mr. McArthur ran to our new owners to ask the price for all of us. A child, that was me, he almost bought for nothing, about the price of a pack of two bad cigars, something like that, and my mother and father were not for sale. Namely, the new heir and his plump wife were eager to try again those dishes and famous pies that were eaten at the celebrations of Mr. Haas. Mr. McArthur raised and raised the offer to a really huge sum, but all this was rejected with a smile and a clap on the stomach, saying: -Gold should be had, but you don’t live on gold. But with good food … ugh, living is nice. And not everyone can do that. The “Old Man” lived 87 years with such good food…? There’s no price, sir!
Defeated Mr. McArthur returned to his house and showed us all the paper of my release and said he had done what he could. However, the mother and father were overjoyed that their only child would not go to a mine or who knows where but to a good house as a free man. Their happiness was endless.
And the time came for them to move into their new home. Now I started crying.
Then, my mother said: 
-Don’t look for us, my son. Never. -Promise me!
I made that promise.
-Go your own way and don’t look back. Because as long as you’re doing well, we’re fine. In this world or the next one.
And the father said: 
-Learn a craft, do you understand me? You must learn some kind of craft! Because a free man with a craft in his hands is a king. Wherever he goes, he can earn bread and a roof over his head. Even to the end of the world, and there to…
And they left. And I never looked for them. In addition to law school, I also finished the craft of blacksmithing. Brad’s father gave us math problems as a training, and it was not difficult for me to do more math problems than Brad. To read twice as many books. When Brad went to sleep tired, I used to ask Mr. McArthur to give me another assignment in geography, chemistry or whatever.
Years passed and all that knowledge began to touch each other. To intertwine. Literature began to intertwine with painting, chemistry with physics, history with mathematics, religion with politics. The world no longer seemed too big, unfathomable. It has become to me exactly what it is now. A place where a well-educated man with both feet on the ground can determine where his home is. Where his life will take place.
At the age of 23, I was employed by the U.S. Embassy, whose citizenship I gained without ever having been to America. Plus, as a law graduate, I gave legal advice regarding trade, state law, criminal law, etc. I couldn’t be a lawyer doing litigation because, as a negro, I couldn’t enter the Bar Association, but I could always find a bad lawyer to sit next to me in the courtroom and repeat what I said in his ear. Those puppet lawyers would get 30% of each case because they just parroted what I told them, while I, of course, earned 70%. Needless to say, those puppet lawyers were racing to cooperate with me.
Over time, I won so many cases that both the judges and colleagues on the opposite side of the lawsuit respected me very much. It was funny watching it: the judge was talking to me, I was talking to the “parrot lawyer”, and then the “parrot lawyer” was talking to the other side. But somehow it all worked. I made so much money… and now I earn when I decide to take the case because I find it interesting. I made so much money that I could buy a house. And in a classy neighborhood. In the whole world, there were no more than a few black people owning such nice houses and living in nice streets with white people as neighbors.
Bradley was already married, so it was my turn. Now, what kind of woman should I get for myself? I wondered. According to money and social status, I could have taken a white woman. There would be animosity and raised eyebrows, but I would surely find 5-6 willing, beautiful white girls. But I don’t like them. Just something that I don’t like. What about black women? Almost all of them are slaves…? A slave then. 
And with those thoughts, I glanced around just to see which one I liked. So, on my way back from a party, I noticed a very pretty young slave girl on a farm. She immediately caught my eye and believe; she liked me to. A young black man in a beautiful suit, being driven in a carriage…? When they see a man like that, all the slave girls starts blinking. We quickly met, and I approached her owner, a man I had known for a long time, and told him that I wanted to marry his slave, and that he should set a price for her. I helped that man with litigation over the inheritance of his entire estate, which was brought by his long-lost half-sister. The man was really appreciative of me and managed to keep most of the property. He also said he would give me the woman as additional “Thank you” and could not wait to do so. I didn’t want that, because I was free, rich and self-confident, and I didn’t need anyone’s gifts.
Then the man said:
-Come tomorrow with the guests to pick her up. A glass of wine will be brought out for you, when you drink it, leave it on the tray as much as you think she’s worth and she’s yours. I’m going to sign her sales papers and register you as the new owner. Those papers will be waiting for you tomorrow.
That suited me already, and I was happy to give a lot of gold coins because a man gets married once and I’m a very wealthy man and I won’t spare buying myself a wife. However, I decided to stop by the McArthur’s and share this happy news with them as they were my only family.
When they heard the news, the party started immediately: Bradley opened the oldest whiskey in the house that is kept for such occasions. 
-I am the best man now! -he said. -Don’t even think of someone else.
Mrs. McArthur, Brad’s mom said she was going to make a wedding cake by herself because I, their second son, was going to get married. Mr. McArthur took me by the hand and led me to the library and sat me down in the chair across from him and said:
-Son, someone else has a wedding gift for you.
And he took out from the drawer of his desk a linen red bag, full of coins, and gave it to me. 
It’s the same bag that my mother and my father gave for my freedom, for my education, for my life. I recognized the pattern on that red bag. My mother sewed it and put everything they had in it. I took it out on the table and saw everything they had earned for their entire lives. Coins were so small, so unimportant, so insignificant.
But so holy to me…
I started crying like never before. I just couldn’t stop crying. I just couldn’t stop. Everyone gathered around me, comforted me, but they have guessed what had been accumulating in me during all the past years. All these long years. It just had to come out once. 
We stayed embraced until the morning. At noon, we all went with a dozen carriages to pick up my future wife, a bride at that moment. I had a glass of wine and put on a tray that red bag of money that my father and mother had left me.
They bought me a wife.
With that woman, I have five children. They bought me a family. In the moments when we are all together, when we celebrate children’s birthdays or when it is Christmas and the children open presents, then I feel that my mother and my father are there with us. In this world or the next one…
And do you think, “Mattie boy”, that there is an army of heaven or a power of hell that will make me give my wife her freedom? To make me forget my own, my first family, to give up my parents…?
Not in this world, not in the next one…
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1907</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>No More Tears for Nonna</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/no-more-tears-for-nonna/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Al Esposito]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 28 Jul 2023 08:52:36 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[coming of age]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[feel good fiction]]></category>
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<description><![CDATA[Chapter 1 “Nonna eggs? Come on, Mr. Freddy, what are Nonna eggs? Mr. Ercolano, what are Nonna eggs? I want to make sure you eat, but I don’t know what you’re asking for?” the attendant at the Long Island Center for Senior Care pleaded. Mr. Ercolano, Freddy, stared straight ahead, lost in his thoughts. He […]
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<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3rS6GGY" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">No More Tears for Nonna</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Al Esposito</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3rS6GGY" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
<h2>Chapter 1</h2>
“Nonna eggs? Come on, Mr. Freddy, what are Nonna eggs? Mr. Ercolano, what are Nonna eggs? I want to make sure you eat, but I don’t know what you’re asking for?” the attendant at the Long Island Center for Senior Care pleaded.
Mr. Ercolano, Freddy, stared straight ahead, lost in his thoughts. He hadn’t thought of Nonna eggs in over 70 years.
***
In 1959, in Harlem, New York, two-year-old Freddy was being scolded by his mother, Bobbie. “You’re not leaving this table unless you finish your oatmeal!”
“I want Nonna, I want Nonna, and I want Nonna eggs!” Freddy demanded.
He crossed his arms and clamped his mouth shut.
His father, Fred, navigated his way into the cramped kitchen and whispered to his son, “You know how this will end. Just eat your oatmeal so we can have peace this morning.”
Bobbie snapped at her husband, “You’re no help. He doesn’t listen.”
Freddy Boy cast his eyes down. Bobbie’s jaw clenched, and the veins in her neck bulged.
She glared at her son. “I told you,” she started, “you’re not leaving this table until you finish your oatmeal. Nonna is in bed, she is tired and sad. This is a tough day for her!”
Bobbie raised her hand, and Freddy bolted from the table and darted down the hallway of the railroad apartment. The door crashed against the wall as he burst into Nonna’s room. Nonna was in bed, eyes glazed over, staring at the ceiling. She turned toward Freddy with a weary glance and a forced smile. The room was dark with just a hint of light coming through the tattered curtain. Freddy climbed onto the bed and tucked his head under Nonna’s arm.
She pulled him close and kissed the top of his head. “Ti amo, ti amo, mi amore,” she whispered in Italian.
“Ti amo Nonna, ti amo, I love you too. Come to breakfast, Nonna, I want Nonna eggs. Come to breakfast, don’t be sad.”
Nonna pulled him close, “Sona stanca, mi amore, I’m tired.”
Freddy Boy gasped as he was yanked out of the bed by his mother.
“Mi dispiace, Mama, I’m sorry. He doesn’t listen. I told you to leave Nonna alone! Nonna doesn’t feel well, let her rest! Get out of here, go eat your breakfast before I get the spoon!” Bobbie tossed her son out of the room and turned back to Nonna. “I will bring you your eggs Mama. Now, riposo, rest.”
Bobbie pulled Freddy Boy by his pajama shirt and dragged him down the hallway. Freddy tried to pull free but her grip only tightened. Freddy’s chair almost toppled over as Bobbie shoved him down.
“I told you not to bother Nonna. Eat your oatmeal or you are going to get the spoon!”
Freddy Boy closed his teary eyes, bowed his head, and slumped into his seat, bracing for the wooden spoon.
“Basta, basta, enough!”
Freddy Boy looked up. His eyes widened and filled with light. Nonna entered the kitchen, kissed the top of his head, lifted his bowl of oatmeal, and tossed it in the sink.
Nonna was almost 4’9”, with steel grey hair, pulled back in a permanent bun. She wore ankle-length house dresses and moved with deliberate confidence. Nonna’s left arm was partially paralyzed, and she held it close to her waist. She had come to America in 1918. She had been sent by her family for an arranged marriage to Donato Capasso. Donato was a widowed Italian immigrant living in Harlem. He had two daughters with his deceased wife. After his wife’s death, he sent word to Italy for a wife and a mother for his girls. Nonna, Barbara Corbo, boarded a ship in Naples, Italy to come to America. She was a frightened 18-year-old girl who didn’t know the language or the man she would marry. Between her arrival in 1918 and 1928, she bore seven children. Nonna gave birth to six girls and one boy. Tessie, Angie, Josephine (Jeff), Millie, Susie, Anthony, and Barbara. Freddy’s mother, Barbara, though she went by Bobbie, was the youngest of seven. She saw a lot as the “baby” of the family, and it shaped her views on life.
The Capasso family lived in the Italian section of Harlem and struggled to survive. Two to three sisters slept in one bed, and the bathtub in the kitchen, covered with old plywood, doubled as the kitchen table. Donato was a laborer for Con Ed. He never learned English. He was a tough, jealous, iron-fisted patriarch. Nonna often took the brunt of his jealousy. Bobbie was a fearless protector of her mother. The stories of Bobbie protecting her mother, from her disrespectful stepsisters, were legendary. They are part of family lore.
Bobbie wanted to attend college and pursue a career as a nurse. Donato would not allow it. “Women don’t go to college,” he proclaimed in Italian.
She took a job as a bank teller and, at age 25, married Alfred (Fred) Ercolano, from the neighborhood. They were deeply in love and considered the ugly ducklings of the neighborhood. Fred suffered from very severe acne and, as was popular in the 1940s, went for sunlamp treatments. Bobbie was rail thin, and people often teased her about being all skin and bones and told her to put “rocks in her pockets” so she wouldn’t get blown away by a strong wind.
Fred was a strong, silent, hard worker with old-world manners. Bobbie was tough with an infectious laugh but a scary strong will and legendary temper. Bobbie and Fred married and started a family late in life, for their generation. Bobbie had two miscarriages before she gave birth to her eldest, Diana, in June 1955. Two years later, in April of 1957, Alfred Jr. came along, better known as Freddy or Freddy Boy.
The instant Freddy was placed in Nonna’s arms, she pulled him close. Her body heaved and she wept tears of joy.
Nonna kissed him and whispered in Italian, “I love you, I love you.”
The family noticed a hint of life and joy return to her eyes. She had many other grandchildren over the past 15 years, but this seemed different, and no one could explain it. Baby Freddy seemed to bring life to her. Nonna had been in a deep, dark depression since that horrific day, September 18, 1942.
<h2>Chapter 2</h2>
September 18, 1942, everyone was gathered to celebrate Bobbie’s 18th birthday. The Capasso apartment was jam-packed with family. The noise was deafening and sounded like 10 different arguments were going on at once. Everyone was talking over everyone else, in a New York slang mixed with Neapolitan dialect Italian and boisterous laughter. Clouds of cigarette smoke filled the air. It was hot for a fall day and all the windows were open. The smell of Italian food was intoxicating. Children were playing on every inch of floor space. Folding chairs were crammed in every corner. It didn’t matter how tight it was—this was a celebration.
Nonna and her daughters were on top of each other, elbow to elbow, in the kitchen.
Her daughters pleaded with her to sit down, “Siediti, Mama, siediti.”
They knew this was pointless, but it was part of the ritual. Commanding the apartment was Donato Capasso. He sat at the head of the makeshift table, sipping red wine and reaching down to pick up and hug any grandchild who scooted by. He was powerful-looking with pure white hair, deep olive skin, and thick, muscular hands, worn by years of hard labor. He had a deep, raspy voice and spoke almost no English.
He pounded his open hand on the table, causing glasses to jump, dishes to rattle, and the apartment to fall silent.
In Italian, he proclaimed, “Quiet before we eat, Barbara will read the letter!”
His face softened and he looked over at Bobbie and patted his lap, “Siediti. Sit, Barbara, read.”
Bobbie hopped over to her Papa with her eyes gleaming and a smile that engulfed her face. She sat down on his lap. They squeezed each other tight and kissed each cheek.
The quiet in the room was broken by a collective “Awe!”
Donato shot the room a steely glance.
“Shhh, shhh,” everyone whispered.
Bobbie pulled a perfectly folded letter out of her apron and unfolded it with care. The letter had arrived in the mail that morning. It was dated three months earlier and was from her beloved brother, Anthony, Tony. Tony was three years older than Bobbie and they were like two peas in a pod. He was the only son of Donato and Barbara Capasso. Tony was in Italy in the Army. WWII was winding down, but the family hadn’t heard from him in over three months.
Bobbie began to read.
Dear Bobbie,
I am very happy to know that you’ve reached your eighteenth birthday, in beauty and health. No brother in this world is luckier than I, to have such a sister to love, cherish, and want. This rainy morning, I’m hoping I can deliver this note of sincerity to my dear sister, and with God’s help, I’ll be saying “Happy Birthday” to you.
A brother like me, who has such great love for his sister, can go on and on with words of kindness and love, but my true feelings remain inside. Words can never be written to explain true love.
I remember the only person whom I looked forward to seeing during my times away from the family was you, Bobbie. The many times my life was endangered, I prayed to be able to see my kid sister once more. These are my exact feelings I had in combat, and they remain with me still. I’ll always hold you in my heart. Nothing or no one can put a scratch on my love for you. Please, Honey, be certain to reach your nineteenth birthday, as well as the others. The many other birthdays of yours to come will surely be great ones. Most likely, we’ll spend them together.
Your adoring brother,
Tony
Bobbie choked back tears as she finished the letter. Tears streamed down Donato’s face and he pulled her close. Nonna was silently crying as she leaned in and kissed Bobbie on the head. The women were using their aprons to wipe tears from their eyes. The men tried not to let anyone see their eyes also fill with tears. Even the children were moved by the letter and overcome by the emotion of the moment.
“Mangia, Mangia, eat, eat” someone yelled, and just like that, noise and laughter once again filled the apartment.
As everyone filled their plates, there was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it, Papa!” Angie, Nonna’s second daughter, yelled over the noise.
Angie opened the door and dropped to the floor and let out a blood-curdling scream. “NO! NO! Papa! Papa! NO!”
Every head in the apartment snapped toward the door. Nonna dropped to the floor, screaming, sobbing, and shaking, without a sound coming out of her mouth. Bobbie screamed but quickly grabbed her mother and began to sob as Nonna disappeared in her arms. Donato banged his head on the table, wailing. The men rushed to grab their wives and children. Standing at the door was Father Dominic, from Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church, Harlem, alongside a Casualty Notification Officer in his dress uniform.
This day would permanently alter the course of the Capasso family.
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1899</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>The Guitar Decoder Ring</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/the-guitar-decoder-ring/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Asher Black]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 24 Jul 2023 09:11:44 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Non-fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[music]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[music artists]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1892</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The Guitar Decoder Ring by Asher Black and Barry Gilman: Meet SIGIL “The Decoder Ring: Unlocking the Guitar and Music Making” is a revolutionary guide for beginners, advanced players, and music instructors alike. The book is a treasure trove of novel tools and techniques meant to demystify the process of learning to play the guitar, […]
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<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3O6ULMV" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">The Guitar Decoder Ring</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Asher Black</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3O6ULMV" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
The Guitar Decoder Ring by Asher Black and Barry Gilman: Meet SIGIL
“The Decoder Ring: Unlocking the Guitar and Music Making” is a revolutionary guide for beginners, advanced players, and music instructors alike. The book is a treasure trove of novel tools and techniques meant to demystify the process of learning to play the guitar, as well as other stringed instruments. Rather than serving as a lengthy narrative, the book dedicates only 5% of its content to stories and anecdotes, with the remaining 95% consisting of groundbreaking pedagogical material, all of which is presented in an easily digestible format.
One of the most significant points the book makes is a critique of the conventional learning method, which often overwhelms students with countless scale patterns. For example, the traditional method involves learning five separate patterns for the major scale, five for the minor, five for each of the five pentatonic scales (bringing the total up to 20), five more for each of the other five modes (now we’re at 70), and then five more for a few other scales such as blues, jazz, harmonic minor, and melodic minor. To say the least, it’s a daunting task, and the author of “The Decoder Ring” calls for a radical departure from this approach. Instead, the book proposes a single, universal pattern that covers the entire guitar. The author encourages readers to tear down the convoluted scale charts from their walls and embrace this new, more streamlined method.
To illustrate this novel approach to learning music, the author introduces the concept of the ‘Decoder Ring,’ drawing upon a sense of childhood nostalgia. The ‘Decoder Ring’ represents those precious moments in our youth when the complexity of the world suddenly unraveled before our eyes, replaced by an exhilarating understanding that enabled us to master new skills. The author likens this process to learning to play the guitar or any other musical instrument, effectively debunking the notion that this task needs to be filled with frustration, endless work, and the memorization of arcane formulae.
The book dismisses two common perspectives on learning music. The first perspective insists that music theory is complicated and abstruse, suggesting learners should resign themselves to a painstaking and arduous journey. This viewpoint often justifies the difficulty of learning music with references to its historical development, the evolution of Western music, and the influence of the piano. The second perspective, on the other hand, is more optimistic but no less misleading. It claims that learners can master music overnight with the right system, only to offer rehashed versions of conventional methods like the CAGED system, which many find confusing and uninspiring.
“The Decoder Ring” suggests that the reason why learners accept the “no decoder ring” theory is rooted in historical practices within the music industry. The book refers to musicians’ roles in earlier times as akin to workers in a pit. Just as pit workers were expected to follow instructions from their superiors without question, musicians were told to play exactly what was on the sheet music in front of them, with no room for improvisation or creativity. This hierarchical setup meant that musicians often had to suppress their artistic instincts and ambitions, focusing instead on delivering a standardized, made-to-order product.
The author highlights that this outdated model of instruction is not conducive to learners who aspire to compose or improvise. Unfortunately, these learners often find themselves bogged down by abstract music theory and massive amounts of rote memorization. The author criticizes several aspects of conventional music theory, such as the seemingly arbitrary order of modes, the non-intuitive nomenclature, and the undue emphasis on the piano as the foundational instrument for all music learning. This emphasis on the piano, in particular, is problematic for guitar learners, as it forces them to navigate their musical journey based on an entirely different instrument that was originally designed to entertain royalty in pre-electricity eras.
The author argues that the crux of the issue lies in the way music learning is structured. Rather than encouraging rote learning, which often leads to rote playing, music instruction should foster a more intuitive approach. The author believes that creating music should be akin to speaking a language, requiring a similar level of understanding and personal expression. Just as we use language to communicate our thoughts and emotions, we should be able to use music to express our creativity and individuality.
In this vein, “The Decoder Ring” calls for a new “language” for music learning, one that values creativity and personal expression over rote memorization and standardization. This new language would enable learners to create their own music, rather than simply replicating existing pieces. As famed musician Eddie Van Halen once said, “We aren’t born knowing how to do this stuff.” We need to learn how to make music just as we learn to speak a language.
The book challenges the conventional belief that understanding the development of Western music is a prerequisite to mastering an instrument, composing, or improvising. This belief often results in learners being bombarded with outdated rules and conventions that limit their creativity and hinder their progress. Instead, “The Decoder Ring” proposes a more modern, accessible approach to learning music that does not rely on historical context or stringent rules. This approach focuses on empowering learners to compose, improvise, and create unique interpretations of songs, thereby enabling them to truly enjoy the process of making music.
“The Decoder Ring: Unlocking the Guitar and Music Making” is a groundbreaking book that calls for a complete overhaul of conventional music instruction. It proposes a new method of learning music that is streamlined, intuitive, and in tune with the needs of modern learners. This book promises to be a valuable resource for anyone interested in breaking free from traditional pedagogical constraints and unlocking the joy of making music.
Excerpt from Interview with Author Asher Black:
Why is it so hard to self-study the guitar?
I keep hearing you can learn a lot from Youtube videos, but ‘a lot’ is relative. I find the process extremely frustrating. Sure, you can learn a lot of songs, or versions of them, but the important stuff is failing. Besides, you can’t ask questions. The videos are full of errors. The approaches are deeply idiosyncratic and not really aligned. I really value instruction, but Socratic in style. People think that means the teacher asking you questions. It doesn’t. It means you asking the teacher questions. That’s what I value: self-study with a facilitator who will focus on what I’m interested in today and the questions I have or problems I want to solve—the things I want to work on. I think of that as a guitar coach.
That said, there are so many crap books out there and so much rehash of other stuff that it’s frustrating and wastes a lot of time and money. But it’s not just the materials. It’s built into the way we learn music at the DNA level.
Even the terminology seems a little nuts. Play a minor third. Go ahead. Do we mean the interval called a minor third, making it part of a minor scale? Or do we mean the third in some scale is minor, meaning that we’re actually in a major scale? Do we mean simply the distance between some note and some other note, like the minor third between a perfect 5th and minor 7th? This is just the beginning of terminological confusion.
Even just limited to the physical guitar, when we say look at the fretboard vertically vs. horizontally, do we mean physically or tonally? They’re opposite things, and we collide over them all the time when collaborating.
What are we ancient scribes with the secret knowledge of how the temples are built and their relation to the stars? That’s cute and all, having it locked up in the academy or in the factory for classical music production, but why can’t the tools for making music be available to everyone?
What is SIGIL?
SIGIL is a language for understanding the guitar. You’ll memorize it in minutes, and see it forever after, even when you look away. It’s not another chart. I got sick of charts. SIGIL is a 5 letter alphabet that forms the basis of a language for navigating the entire fretboard, all strings, all intervals, all modes, and all chord progressions. Once you see it, you won’t be able to forget it. Like any really simple language, it’s contagious. And once you have it, you can begin playing it—yes, playing it, immediately, and the only question is how deep and far you want to go. In Star Trek terms, it’s also the universal translator.
Look, if we were just going to repackage the same mediaeval sh*t you get anywhere else, we wouldn’t be using SIGIL primarily to study, compose, and improvise music ourselves. It would just be a product. We made this, my co-author and I, to use for ourselves. We wrote this book to get it in front of other people as a basis for learning the instrument. It’s frankly Promethean. We wrote the book we wish we had all along the journey, not a flavor of the existing ones. We wrote it so anyone could easily learn this information and these insights.
Why do you call SIGIL a Promethean Moment?
I fully expect to hear criticism about how SIGIL is not the ‘ultimate’ tool and we’re not ‘gods’ of guitar and by the way where are our TikTok videos featuring tasty licks to prove we can rock? First, use it or don’t use it. For me, this is still a Promethean act. In intention (for others) and practice (for myself).
Prometheus, you’ll remember, stole fire from the gods and gave it to the rest of us. That’s what I want to do with guitar instruction and music theory. I want to steal it from the fog of ancient rubrics and the rarified prison of control represented by the academy. I want it liberated from the pulpit and the throne, the pit and the stick, the piano and the composer who sits at it, though of course you can use this for piano too. It’s adaptable to single stringed instruments, horns, whatever. But I want anyone to be able to pick up a guitar and with a little work begin to create something new.
You have a background as educator and storyteller, with study in history and philosophy, but no background in music theory. Did those other things help with this book?
Everything helps. A liberal education helps. Music and history and philosophy helps with storytelling. Philosophy and teaching helps with studying music. I’ve gotten the music theory as I go. What wasn’t there, I tried to invent. Polymaths invent things. Mostly tools.
That’s what SIGIL is for my music practice. It’s a tool that frees me to improvise and compose the way I want to and pursue my art. Hell, martial arts goes into the mix too, man. I dig how learning something in karate, learning music, and learning to write fiction fit together so neatly. Sales, too. My business is helping enterprise sales teams bring home more from the hunt, and that’s an art too.
Bottom line, SIGIL frees someone up to let their feelings fly across the instrument, to express the world as they see it, if they have the heart. For me, it’s an expression of how I approach the world and a tool to express how I see it.
As with many things, I learn by experimenting, innovating, reflecting, teaching, writing and communicating, all of which interact with and order information more effectively. The natural thing is to express that in the form of some conclusions, insights, or a tool. SIGIL is that tool.
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1892</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>Embodied Imaginations</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/embodied-imaginations/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Chidambaram Ramesh]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 12 Jun 2023 10:07:51 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Non-fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[mystery]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[philosophical]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[psychological]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1880</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The Big Magic of Fiction The Greek myth of Pygmalion involves him falling in love with his own creation, a statue of a beautiful maiden. Throughout the process, he worked carefully to avoid bruising the artwork, as if she were made of flesh and blood. Although the sculpture featured a human face, no one sat […]
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<content:encoded><![CDATA[<div style="background-color:#1d2b38;padding:20px;border-radius:3px;" class="has-background" >
<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://www.amazon.in/dp/9357604103" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">Embodied Imaginations</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Chidambaram Ramesh</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://www.amazon.in/dp/9357604103" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
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<h2>The Big Magic of Fiction</h2>
The Greek myth of Pygmalion involves him falling in love with his own creation, a statue of a beautiful maiden. Throughout the process, he worked carefully to avoid bruising the artwork, as if she were made of flesh and blood. Although the sculpture featured a human face, no one sat for the artist or modelled. He carved the now-famous statue entirely out of his imagination. Galatea, Pygmalion’s creation, was adorned with expensive attire and jewellery. After carefully placing soft cushions beneath her, he invited her to share his bed. While kissing the statue, he imagined it was kissing him back. He spoke affectionately to it, and his touch softened her ivory breast. It was the first time he had felt anything like this before. Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, gave Pygmalion the confidence he needed to believe he had been given a gift from God—the power to animate matter. To bring his ivory girl to life, he made an offering to Aphrodite, and the goddess granted his wish. In the end, Pygmalion and his creation led happy lives. This story narrates the process of metamorphosis that took place in the sculptor’s imagination. An artist never stops harboring the dream that his works will someday become a reality.
Much like Pygmalion, who created a statue that became flesh, many writers create characters by the imagination that seem real and have a life of their own. Those who have constructed a character from scratch provide their subconscious with an authentic form of imagination. Therefore, the characters in a writer’s mind take the form of thought. Sometimes, these thoughts will gain concreteness until they have discernible characteristics. Imagination and thinking make the figures of their imagination come to life and establish them wholly connected with themselves and everything they need to manifest and exist. In a book, the characters are not limited by what they can do on the page; they have the ability to alter reality itself. It is not uncommon for them to go beyond fiction into the writer’s personal life. This relationship between the characters and the writer is intriguing. Despite what may seem like a crazy idea initially, it is supported by much evidence.
One of the essential claims of this concept is that human thoughts may manifest as reality. Due to our established theories of reality, we have an innate tendency – what Peter Carroll terms a psychic censor.<a href="#_edn1" name="_ednref1"></a> – to reject this idea.
Although it may seem strange at first, the concept is not new. In 1859, David Masson, a Scottish academician, said that the best thing a novel could do was create “living characters.” He promptly posited that they were real creatures: “In a metaphysical sense, these phantoms of the human imagination are things, existences, parts of the world as it is, equally with the rocks which we tread, the trees which we see and can touch, and the clouds that sail in the blue above us. May they not, then, have a function in the real evolution of the future?”
John Ferguson Nisbet, a Scottish journalist and dramatic critic of the London Times, wrote in 1899, “Minds there are which, owing to excessive sensibility, are able automatically to throw into visible form almost any image or idea occupying them at a given moment. The gifted novelist sees and hears his fictitious characters as if they were living beings.”
A century ago, Dr Hereward Carrington, the foremost psychic researcher of his time and an eminent American Society for Psychical Research member, recorded a curious case that sheds light on this subject. A clairvoyant was sent to a writer’s home and asked to describe the individual she found there using her psychic powers. She described a person in detail—hair, eyes, build, etc. When the psychic had finished and recovered full consciousness, she was told her description was entirely wrong, and no such person existed in the house. Her report was erroneous throughout. When the facts were stated to the writer (whose home the psychic examined), he replied that although he did not resemble the clairvoyant’s description in any way, it corresponded precisely and in minute detail to a character he was creating and writing about in his book. In other words, his thoughts had taken form and were visible to the clairvoyant.
How did the clairvoyant come to be able to see it? What is the essence of the imaginary character ‘conjured up’ by human imagination? When authors encounter entities during the creative phase of writing, should they consider them as real as physical creatures, exclude them from the realm of incredible imagination, or should they just be treated as pure hallucinations? Is it hinting that some world exists midway between matter and spirit? This book addresses many fascinating topics.
In her best-selling book Big Magic, author Elizabeth Gilbert explores the enigmatic quality of creativity and imagination. Gilbert regards creativeness as a force of enchantment rather than being solely human. “Our earth is inhabited not only by animals and plants, bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas,” she says. “Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us but capable of interacting with us – albeit strangely.” Gilbert says that while ideas have no physical body, they possess consciousness, which means they can decide what they want. Creative energies visit authors like house-elves, she believes. A new idea will visit someone it thinks might be able to lease it into the world and try to get his attention if it believes he can help it. Someone else will make this a reality if he refuses to accept it. Gilbert illustrates her point with an idea that veered away from her toward a friend, Ann Patchett. In the following, Gilbert talks about her unfinished novel.
She came up with the concept for a novel while discussing a Brazilian incident from the 1960s with her beloved, Felipe. He said Brazil’s government conceived of building a massive highway through the Amazon jungle. Brazil invested much money into the grand project at the time. It began raining during the development process, and no project planners seemed to know how the Amazon wet season would affect their project. The team was forced to leave the site without equipment, and months of rain followed. Returning to the construction site, they noticed that nature had destroyed their road project and buried their equipment. This story initially sparked Gilbert’s interest in writing a novel set in the Amazon jungle. She even came up with the storyline for the novel early on: a spinster in Minnesota falls in love with her married boss, who gets embroiled in an outrageous business scheme in the Amazon jungle.
Other priorities diverted her attention for a long time, so she ignored the idea. It was at this point that Gilbert met novelist Ann Patchett. The two of them became good friends and exchanged thoughtful letters. In a letter, Patchett announced she was working on a new novel set in the Amazon rainforest. This naturally aroused Gilbert’s interest. Gilbert said she had previously pondered doing something similar but had decided against it. Gilbert’s novel is about a middle-aged Minnesota spinster who falls in love with her married boss. An operation involving shady business people in the Amazon gets her entangled. The novel has several disappearances of people and money, and one character is sent to investigate. It is a love story.
When Patchett heard that, she was taken aback. The plot of her novel sounded hauntingly similar to Gilbert’s, which followed a middle-aged spinster as she made her way to the Amazon jungle to handle a messy business deal. A person and money disappear, and the protagonist is sent down to find them, leading to chaos in her life. It is also a love story. Both writers were astonished at what they had just exchanged. They were confident that Gilbert had passed the idea along to Patchett, who was eager to give it life.
Gilbert’s theory is remarkably close to what Carl G Jung said about archetypes a century ago. Jung asserts, “The archetypes are the numinous structural elements of the psyche and possess a certain autonomy and specific energy which enables them to attract, out of the conscious mind, those contents which are best suited to themselves.” As Jung noted, archetypal energies have characteristics of their own which surface as personality traits in the individual.
There is more to it than that, however. Often, a character in a story may not behave as the creator intended. Instead, they tend to form their own identities. Ideas, particularly those nestled at a higher level of unconsciousness, can manifest their own physical reality independently. Fictional characters often have their own mind, break away from the plot the author created, and live their lives according to their agendas. Characters in fiction behave in ways that raise the question: Have they got a mind of their own?
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1880</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>Break my Bones</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/break-my-bones/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Michelle Ian]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 05 Jun 2023 08:09:49 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[horror]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[suspense]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[thriller]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1875</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Michael Kerrigan waited for the world to come back into focus. The minutes ticked by as the night rooted its way in from the distance. He checked his watch for the hour, but time itself had become a sinister thing. The macabre images of his youth played out before him in an endless reel, spinning […]
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<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Michelle Ian</h2>
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Michael Kerrigan waited for the world to come back into focus. The minutes ticked by as the night rooted its way in from the distance. He checked his watch for the hour, but time itself had become a sinister thing. The macabre images of his youth played out before him in an endless reel, spinning out of control until, at last, there was only that memory in time. He sat in silence, forced to relive that night over and over while the moving pictures on the screen struck a merciless and bitter blow. Paralyzed, he continued to watch the video project the things he fought for so long to suppress. Unable to deny it any longer, he wept. His eyes fell within the tiny box of the cellphone’s screen.
“I need you to do this. I need you to be a man!” His father towered above him, his skin waxen and his expression half-crazed as the cold, steel handle of the shovel he pressed into the soft tissue of Michael’s shoulder bruised his skin. His father’s face morphed into a contorted mask of both intensity and rage, his eyes locked onto his in a way he’d never seen before.
This can’t be happening. The words fell flat, failing to comfort him. He drew up every ounce of his strength to block the impending panic attack that aimed to consume him. Still, he could do little to stop it. Michael reached inside his bag, his fingers clutching at the cool, hard plastic within. He popped the cap and let the cold, carbonated liquid slide rapidly down his throat as his feverish lips formed a makeshift ring around the outer rimmed top of the bottle. Gritting his teeth against the head rush of pain, he waited with his jaw clenched for the thaw to take hold as it penetrated the back of his skull like a shiv. However, this merely cleared the way for the track to replay itself. There would be no end to this nightmare. It beat down upon him with a harsh but righteous fist, unrelenting in its every swing. Couldn’t be… He held the phone tight in his hand, projecting every thought, every emotion, as it trailed across his cellphone’s screen like a teleprompter. Michael zoned in on himself; panic encapsulated him like a bubble. His voice resonated thick, coming through the speaker like putty pushed through a sieve; it oozed out static, whispering into the night. The fear trapped inside was like a powerful engine, holding him to the body that lay motionless at his feet.
He counted every heave of the shovel as it struck the earth, his love for the person he once was, buried deep within the grave he forged for his childhood friend. He dug into the ground, his courage slipping through his fingers like smooth, crushed gravel. The dirt piled mid-thigh beside him. The years since had brought their share of cold and sleepless nights. His dreams now haunted with a persistence that rivaled time as the reminder of what he’d left behind often spilled out into the days. At last, the shutter stopped, and the video went dead. How long had it been? He wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. A sickness had settled in long ago, leaving him so far gone nothing seemed to make sense. He became lost, lost within himself and in his writing. He didn’t want to be found, to make his way back from the land of make believe. Eventually, he left home. Home at that point was a four-letter word of a different kind. Still, he had always found his way back, returning for those special visits, usually to spend time with his best friend… his only friend. Michael studied his seventeen-year-old self before switching off the screen. Coward. He lowered the phone onto his lap, hearing the word as if he himself had spoken it aloud. Everything around him moved in slow motion, the air itself hazed and full of ripples.
“Come on… Talk to me.” The petition caught in his throat, while his pulse thwacked inside his head. He revisited the text and dumped the video. To no surprise, there appeared to be no other messages or clues, the number itself, private, most likely the recipient of a burner phone. He unclenched his hand and flexed his fingers, instantly feeling the blood circulate as pins and needles burst from beneath his skin. Flashes of his old friend’s body, half buried in the dirt, imprinted its own cigarette burn from inside his mind. The blood, still fresh on his skin, glistened in the moonlight. Was it possible he wasn’t alone? He could make out nothing but a narrowed path that led out past the brush and into a stretch of scantily clad trees. However, now he knew the truth. Someone else was there, watching him. Their face a mystery, hidden behind their camera’s lens. Their eyes focused only on him. Eventually, the images faded, becoming nothing more but a mass of peppered white static skittering out into the night.
Why now? Whoever this was could’ve doomed both him and his father years ago. Why hold on for all this time? Because revenge takes time. The sinister voice flowed deep from within him, as smooth and pristine as silk. Revenge was like the stars aligning in the universe. Each cluster within every house meant something a little different for everyone, but it did indeed mean something. He switched the phone to silent, desperately hoping, at least for tonight, this would be the worst to come. Michael rose from the bench, wiping his face clean with his hand. When had he sat down? He couldn’t remember. His body moved like that of an old man’s, his arms hung down at his sides like slabs of concrete. He stared into the center of the sun, daring it to blind him as the blaze of the autumn fire beamed back from within its core. Yet there could be no solace, no forgiveness, even in the eye of the flames. The voice of his old friend called out to him, the golden days of their youth now so far behind.
What do you think, Sticks? Do you think we can get her runnin’? The sun began its descent, clearing the way back into the present as daylight faded across the city. The air cooled, and he was relieved to see as he circled around, only himself. Gradually, the dusk rolled in and the street lamps, taking their cue, illuminated the park as he peered across the street to the boardwalk.
Every passerby proved suspect, walking along the city’s streets and giving up none of their secrets. I’ve come undone. Michael knew it was true, for he understood what it was to become unhinged. That part of the human condition was like an old friend. The answers were soft to the touch, but paranoia continued to sink its teeth in, clouding his instincts and hardening his edges.
Most likely a psychotic, the maestro of this game had made their move. The plan of attack was an effective one, disarming him in a way that had left him both vulnerable and shaken. The ammunition, until now, hidden away, buried deep for the past thirteen years… or so he had believed. He stuffed his cellphone back into his pocket and headed out for the bookstore. What he needed was time to think, but that was a luxury too far out of reach. He would keep to his business and wait. Fighting the urge to look back, Michael forced his attention forward. Every footstep along the pavement seemed to mimic his own, and though the bookstore was close, he couldn’t help but to feel that danger was that much closer as his own regurgitating dialogue helped steel him along the path.
Don’t turn around. They’ll know you’re looking.
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1875</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>This Is Going To Hurt: The Truth Always Does</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/this-is-going-to-hurt-the-truth-always-does/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Michael Ernest]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 12 Dec 2022 13:16:30 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Non-fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[African American Demographic Studies]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[economics]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1863</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Introduction We cannot cure the symptoms without acknowledging the disease. —Tom Burrell The journey of a Black person in the United States of America can be fruitful like a juicy peach on a hot summer day. On the flip side, it can also be cold and empty, like being at a funeral on a fall […]
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<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Michael Ernest</h2>
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<h1>Introduction</h1>
<blockquote>We cannot cure the symptoms without acknowledging the disease.</blockquote>
—Tom Burrell
The journey of a Black person in the United States of America can be fruitful like a juicy peach on a hot summer day. On the flip side, it can also be cold and empty, like being at a funeral on a fall day in October. So, what exactly does this mean? We are human, right? Life happens!
Black people should be grateful and suck it up and stop complaining about slavery (often said by other races and ethnic groups).
Well, my brothers and sisters, this is a half-truth. Today, many of those Black Americans who are descendants of African American slaves are still demanding the Forty Acres and A Mule with other financial respirations that were promised to be given after the ending of the Civil War. The author of this book says to you and among the homies and sistas, “Hold yourself accountable, don’t pass the buck! Take advantage of the rights and benefits of citizenship in this so-called ‘Land of the Free,’- the United States of America.”
However, keep in mind and your position of influence the 400 plus years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the stripping of your culture, and your native tongue in your inner and outward demeanor. Use that aggression that has been mutated into your DNA from generations ago to facilitate discussion and the advancement of knowledge and history onto your children, family, friends, and the misinformed.
<blockquote>Words are powerful- they lie, they reflect the truth, and they even form something between lies and truth, but mostly they lie. Black people are the people that everybody tries their lies out on.</blockquote>
—Hake R. Madhubuti
Without any doubt, Black people have been pimped all around the globe, up and down the 50 states of the United States of America. Dating back to when their ancestors hopped on and off the slave ships like the infamous Brookes, the model for “Tight Pack” or more viscously jettisoned like the slaves on the Zong (Zong Massacre 1781). Yes, your ancestors were forced to be chained up from neck to ankles! Forced to have sex with their best friend’s wife while the husband was forced to watch. Left devastated while witnessing their child being sold in the “Great Slave Auction,” also known as the “Weeping Time” to Master and live an entire life of bondage.
Society is a repeat offender against the Black race throughout this world. All the lifelines have been used up. The remedies or so-called movements (political, religious) have not appropriately solved the real problems of the so-called post-racial society in America. The election of President Barrack Hussein Obama of 2008 and the re-election in 2012 indicated the hate and resentfulness of how society truly felt with institutional racism and police killings of Black people increased.
Let us consider that in this day and age, with all the so-called liberations and laws throughout the United States to protect all Americans from hate crimes, there is still a manual in circulation looking to enslave Black people. The Making of a Slave was a speech made by Willie Lynch on the bank of the James River in the state of Virginia in 1712. The sole purpose of this speech by Willie Lynch was to give a blueprint to plantation slave owners on how to destroy and separate Black Americans. Unfortunately, Lynch’s strategy was successful in demoralizing the Black man, Black woman, Black child, and their descendants (present day). Captivating their minds to bring a race fully under another’s group control both physically and psychologically.
You, the reader of this book, may have been enlightened to such information, but most Black Americans are still enslaved mentally. This masterpiece, This Is Going To Hurt – The Truth Always Does, is needed in the hands of the same Black men, Black women, Black children, and their descendants (us today) who suffered from those genocidal teachings. Read literature from the scholars who came before you to liberate your mind of centuries of captivity. Only this will kill the roots of those weeds embedded in the dark part of your history, reversing the negative misfortunes that have been done to you and your ancestors.
How much more suffering and mortification do Black Americans have to endure before moving on and escaping the systematic social engineering of the mental scars of slavery? The persistent tendencies of United States citizens (non-Black) to continue to ignore and covertly oppress Black Americans will never change. Unless the psychological and self-study of the African is taught and practiced, the oppressed and oppressor of African slavery has mutated into the offspring of each group. Both the slave master and the slave have their own unique DNA of being either the oppressor or the oppressed.
I have worked many days and nights constructing, mapping, envisioning how to create the best way to decode this curse rooted upon the Black race in America. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired of my race and ancestors. We are a group of people on stolen land punishing one another that look just like each other. If you have eyes, you should be able to tell who is hurting each other in a face-to-face battle—the ones who look just like you. We style for free. Ask the Jordans, Jameses, Jacksons, and Jeffersons. We forgot about the old us (kings and queens) balling off the block for Master. This Is Going to Hurt, and this truth will, with a calculative reactive space of an adversary role.
However the facts are discussed or disputed, Black Americans have to be the sole group to strengthen the Black race character, culture, and heritage. The creation of the African slave had centuries to develop the result we currently see today of Black Americans. A race of people who have been misled, bamboozled, and deceived. The term “made in America” should be applied to all Black Americans just like a barcode on a product.
<blockquote>Telling the truth and making someone cry is better than telling a lie and making someone smile.</blockquote>
—Paulo Coelho
Your average Black American should be classified as well-intentioned but incorrect, erroneously believing that the lives they are living are correct. Determining the morality of actions that they have been instructed to do so by the oppressors, parents, grandparents, tradition, and so willfully choosing to carry them out. This includes but is not limited to spending frivolously on materialistic items, i.e., Nike Air Jordans, designers, cars, jewelry.
Accepting government assistance for decades at a time added with poor food selections passed down from the enslaved ancestors eating the scraps like swine can be interchanged dozens of times. The main message intended is lifestyle choices. Lifestyle choices lead to being first place at the bottom of the social class globally.
More dangerous are the Black Americans that should be classified as the psychopaths of the Black race kamikazes with no intended purpose but their own. The drug dealer sells poison to the people, creating huge pain and substance abuse deficits. The gangbanger uses the codes of the streets (i.e., no snitching, preying off the weak and defenseless) to create a climate of fear and an environment of warfare among Black Americans state to state, coast to coast.
You gangbangers should be eradicated on sight!
You individuals consciously recognize the immoral implications of your actions and decisions and choose to continue an onslaught of nefarious atrocities.
During the unswerving time of being oppressed by the slave master, your ancestors were physically beaten, raped, castrated, and forced to accept a life of bondage. The tongue was forcibly removed out of your ancestors’ mouths for learning to read and write the English language. Later on, in history, the descendants of the slave masters, such as the Allens, Browns, Hamptons, Jacksons, Jameses, Jeffersons, Johnsons, Joneses, Kings, Washingtons, just a few common names to be placed on Black Americans of present-day corporations and banking institutions, should be bestowed with the undisputed championship title of “moral culpable.”
The gold standard of subjugation is to determine that slave masters and their descendants are the ones at fault and are to blame for the enslavement and destruction of Black civilizations globally. Yes, this is the truth, but this upcoming blanket statement is very pretentious. Today in the 21st century, the slave masters and their descendants are not the direct culprits opposing and subjugating Black people day to day with killings, kidnappings, rapes, and thefts. The moral culpability has shifted to ourselves, ultimately at fault for our commissions of harmful actions and losses to one another, bringing those results of pain to the manifestation of Black people’s reality. The oppressors are more morally culpable, but we are also currently morally culpable. Both are to blame. The matter of opinion is up for discussion but will remain at an impasse till results change. Determining this answer is opaque.
The time has come to accept the era Black Americans live in. There is an overwhelming abundance of information available at your fingertips. This truth being ignored is not an option. It’s a willful decision that Black Americans are making, and as a result of this decision, ignorance is here to stay and run amok for future generations to endure. Ignorance in this discussion should be defined as knowing even though necessary information is present because that information has been willfully refused or disregarded. Our truth is present. It’s now a mental war within our minds of receiving the presence of truth by stopping to ignore the truth. To achieve prosperity as a people, we must first address and strategize these several topics here in this book, starting with Economic Sovereignty.
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1863</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>Chiral (The Affix Trilogy Book 1)</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/chiral/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[David Rauenzahn]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 17 Oct 2022 08:38:44 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1854</guid>
<description><![CDATA[It feels as if I’m carrying the weight of the world on the coin that I am balancing by its edge on my thumb. I’ve been holding it there for about a minute now. The pressure of the load has been steadily increasing. It would be even more intense if I had drunk any of […]
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<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3ENYBI2" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">Chiral (The Affix Trilogy Book 1)</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by David Rauenzahn</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3ENYBI2" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
It feels as if I’m carrying the weight of the world on the coin that I am balancing by its edge on my thumb. I’ve been holding it there for about a minute now. The pressure of the load has been steadily increasing. It would be even more intense if I had drunk any of the Thaum in my holster, rather than just using whatever residue has built up in my system.
My face is beaded with sweat that has started dripping down my nose and shaggy black hair, nearly falling into my eyes. The spring’s night breeze washes through the trees that stand along the cliffside I’m sitting on, as well as the edges of the valley below. The wind feels like a cool river even with my black reinforced overcoat on and my cowl wrapped around my neck. I’m grateful for the relief, even though I almost lose my composure as the coin starts to wobble in the breeze. I force myself to breathe calmly and slightly adjust the positioning of my finger so the coin is parallel to the wind, minimizing the chance it will fall.
A few seconds later, I feel like I can’t hold the load anymore.
“Heads,” I say, and flip the coin in the air.
The coin disappears into the night sky, and for a brief moment I worry about whether or not I have to catch the damn thing for this to work. Then, I see the coin shimmering in the moonlight as it falls back down to me, spinning so fast it looks like a miniature moon.
I catch it slightly to the right of where I had flipped it and slap it down onto the back of my left hand. Trembling, I move my right hand back to reveal the coin.
Tails.
“Slag me,” I curse under my breath.
“Ha!” Breth laughs as he sits next to me. My cousin is also sweating in his overcoat and cowl, the top part of his undercut brown hair plastered to his broad face. Even though he’s smiling, his brow is twisted in concentration as he holds two magnets just apart from one another. “Told you that wouldn’t work.”
“Fifty-fifty chance, boyo,” I say as I pretend to roll my tight shoulders and stretch behind me. As I do so, I partially open the switchblade clipped to the back of my belt and run my forefinger along the edge, creating a shallow cut. I quickly clean the blade on the inside of my overcoat and then reach out and touch one of the two rocks resting on the edge of the cliff in front of my cousin and me. I make sure to press my blood to the side of the stone Breth can’t see, and I immediately feel my mental connection to the stone amplified to be even greater than during my previous attempt. Once I feel my focus anchored there and have directed the stone’s potential energy out over the cliff, I sit back, re-balance the coin on my thumb, and channel a little more Thaum into it.
Breth snorts. “You must be desperate, if you’re actually bloodmarking it.”
“Hardly,” I reply. “You’ve bloodmarked your flips innumerable times. I’m just evening out the playing field.”
“Mmm. Fair enough. I still say it’s crazy to use a ‘flip’ that you actually flip,’ Breth says and narrows his brown eyes, intensifying his focus between the magnets and the rock in front of him, causing the air to almost crackle with the tension. For a few more moments, the pressure continues to build in the air, as if the world were starting to bend ever so slightly toward the line between his flip and the stone.
Then, Breth lets the magnets click together.
The stone in front of him arcs into the night, shooting out over the cliff. It takes about seven seconds before I hear it thump onto the dirt road near the middle of the valley below.
“Not bad,” I say as I continue to focus on the coin. The first attempt took a lot out of me, but that will just make the look on Breth’s face all the more satisfying when I succeed.
“Not bad,” Breth repeats. “I just shot that thing a few hundred meters, and you say ‘not bad’.”
“Cuz it wasn’t,” I reply. My hand is shaking more than last time and the wind is starting to pick up. I wait as long as I can, and just as the coin starts to tip over, I flip it and call, “Heads.”
Once again, the coin disappears out of sight until it tumbles back close enough to reflect the light of the quarter moon. I catch the coin again and flip it onto the back of my left hand.
Nothing feels different, except for a slight tingling running across my skin. But that could just be from carrying a load for too long.
“Let’s see it, then,” Breth says as he leans back on his hands.
I struggle to maintain my intention of having the rock shoot out over the cliff without releasing it, waiting until the tension is at the breaking point. Then, I lift my hand to reveal the coin.
As I see the Queen’s face shining in the moonlight, I realize the tingling is my body resisting the pressure of the heaviest load I have ever felt.
“Ha!” I yell, but in my excitement, I lose my concentration. The rock in front of me suddenly glows and explodes upward at an angle instead of going straight out as I had intended. It soon looks like a star in the sky before disappearing into the inky void.
“Slag me sideways,” I mutter as I lean backward to rest my hands on the ground. My thickly woven and multi-layered overcoat designed to disperse the force of a bullet usually makes me feel safe, but right now the multiple layers are suffocating. Steam rises from me into the air, and my button-up shirt, vest, overcoat, and holster feel like an oven. I pull the first few buttons of my shirt loose as I breathe in the rich smell of rain carried on the wind. The armpits of my shirt are soaked through, and the wind now cuts through me like winter’s chill.
“You better hope you didn’t just give away our position,” my uncle says as he monitors the road from an overhang a few meters to our right. His black overcoat, hat, and mask make him seem more a gargantuan shadow than a man. He doesn’t look at us with his eyes that glow ever so slightly from the small dose of Thaum he took to enhance his senses. “But I admit, that’s a creative way to exponentiate potential. Glad you’ve been paying attention in school. Now save your energy. You’re gonna need it.”
“I doubt we’re gonna be much use, Uncle Rawk,” I say as I pocket my coin and lay back in the damp grass to stare up at the cloudless sky. Glittering stars wink back at me. “You’re leading Father’s best and brightest. We’re just gonna get in the way.”
“Your experience, or lack thereof, isn’t the point,” my uncle says, pulling down his mask and looking at me with cold, glowing gray eyes. “We need all hands on deck.”
Father is getting too used to having his Creeps do his killing for him, I muse to myself with a smile. Though I doubt anyone here has half his body count. Except maybe Uncle Rawk. “If this smash-and-grab is so important, Father should have just come here himself instead of to that slagged party.”
“He’s being watched tonight,” Uncle Rawk says as he pulls his mask back up and continues watching the road in the valley below the cliff we wait on. “We need to at least keep the appearance of being at peace with the Pulsers. You two are only here because you’re supposed to be asleep and getting ready for finals tomorrow.”
“You better grade us on a curve, old man,” Breth says with a yawn.
“How about for every box of Thaum we loot, you spike our grade a color,” I suggest. “Ten boxes and we get gold.”
“I’m going to be just as tired as you proctoring the exam, if not more so,” Uncle Rawk replies. “Besides, we’re not just going after vials tonight.”
I groan and rub my eyes with my hands which are wet from the dew in the grass. “If we’re not lifting Thaum, then why the-”
A loud crack sounds off behind me. Breth and I bolt to our feet, and I pull out my coiler and magknife from my holster. Magnets in both handles hum apart, and coils in the barrel and blade begin to glow, casting light only slightly brighter than the moonlight falling on the grass and trees around me. The coiler only has five shots resting in the clip jutting from the bottom of the barrel, but each shot is more than enough to punch a hole through someone not wearing protective gear. Even so, it takes time for each shot to charge up with the coiler’s magnets, and I would need to drink some Thaum to make any use of the quick-charge modifications. With my knife hand, I reach into my coat to my holster and rest my hand on a row of small vials filled with the glowing blue-green liquid. All around me, men and women under my father’s payroll, all clad in shadows, appear throughout the copse of trees and raise their own coilers.
The sound only came from a few feet away, and the first step forward I take sends a chilling pulse through me.
“Raign, wait,” Uncle Rawk hisses as he quickens his pace toward me.
I continue walking, taking careful steps and scanning around with my coiler raised in front of me. Even though I can’t fire rapidly, I have to make whoever is out there believe I can fire as many rounds as it takes.
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<post-id xmlns="com-wordpress:feed-additions:1">1854</post-id> </item>
<item>
<title>The Gods Are Not Dead</title>
<link>https://1618words.com/the-gods-are-not-dead/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Abhaidev]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Tue, 16 Aug 2022 08:19:35 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[metaphysical & visionary]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[philosophical]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[sci-fi]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://1618words.com/?p=1847</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Eternity is a mere moment, just long enough for a joke. –Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf Prologue I am God. But that is not my name. I was there before the beginning. I will be there after the end. In between, I manifest myself into various forms, living or non-living. I am one yet many. Some people […]
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<h1 style="font-size: 22px; font-weight:700;padding-top: 0em !important;"><a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3Ppu2K7" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffffff; font-family: abeezee">The Gods Are Not Dead</a></h1>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">by Abhaidev</h2>
<h2 style="font-size: 18px; color: #FCFAF5; font-family: lato;line-height: 1em !important;">available on <a class="button-behaviour" href="https://amzn.to/3Ppu2K7" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="color: #edb305; font-family: abeezee">Amazon</a></h2>
</div>
 
<blockquote>Eternity is a mere moment, just long enough for a joke.</blockquote>
–Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf
<h2>Prologue</h2>
I am God.
But that is not my name. I was there before the beginning. I will be there after the end. In between, I manifest myself into various forms, living or non-living. I am one yet many.
Some people wonder whether I exist. Well, I am existence itself. Some people wonder whether I am all-knowing. Well, I am knowledge. And some wonder whether I am all-powerful. Well, they should know I am power. I am it. That’s it.
I am neither good nor am I bad. I am neither masculine nor am I feminine. I am neither indifferent nor am I concerned. I am both gross and divine. I am in pleasure and in pain. I am in joy as well as in suffering. I am what you like to believe I am.
People sacrifice themselves in my name. People hurt others in my name. Neither makes me glad. Nor does it make me sorrowful. Neither do I rejoice nor do I despair.
Humans like to worship me. Humans also like to loathe me. But howsoever they regard me, it is of no consequence. There is no one who is in my good books. And there is no one who is in my bad books, either. Heaven and hell are something humans create for themselves. Evil and good are people’s way of making things interesting.
I don’t want people to fear me, nor do I have anything to tell them. Those who can listen to me, hear not the words, but absolute silence. It is this silence people turn into expressions and sayings, and attribute them to me, trying their hard to describe me in totality, but always in vain.
I am not looking for a messenger, nor do I wish to save humans from anything. Yet, these saviours spring up from time to time on the timeline of eternity.
Some of these messengers mislead, including themselves, thereby prolonging the journey. Some of them bring people a step closer to me. But no matter how different these saviours are in their views and approach, they all agree on one point – I am not dead, and I will never be.
They all are right.
<h1>Chapter 1</h1>
“I have to,” the fisherman muttered to himself. “I have to catch a lot of it.”
Violent waves crashed on the shore. The sea was rough. Still, Shibu, the fisherman, was unaffected. All he could think of was catching as much fish as he could. With the help of five other men, he launched his old and decrepit boat into the sea waters and jumped onto it. The timing was perfect. The retreating wave dragged the old boat with it. Shibu was a skilled helmsman, after all. He thanked the five men who had helped him and paid them each a two-rupee coin.
From far away, the siren could be heard sounding across the shore.
“Can’t you hear the alarm?” Muna yelled at Shibu. “It’s a bad day today!”
“To hell with it!” Shibu shouted back at his concerned friend. “Every day is a bad day.” He grinned.
And leaving his bewildered friend behind, Shibu started rowing his boat away from the shore.
“Today I am going to be lucky,” he mumbled as he forced his way through. “I have to show her.”
His boat bobbed up and down with each passing wave. Undaunted and fearless, he doggedly rowed his boat forward. It was no ordinary day. His manhood had come into question. Therefore, it was necessary he proved his worth. Once and for all.
Brimming with emotions, he rowed his small boat harder and harder. His arms ached. But that was not going to stop him.
“I have to show it to her,” he said aloud. “She needs to know.”
He was tired. The continuous rowing had taken a toll on his muscles. Nevertheless, he went on, though at a slower pace. So lost he was in his thoughts that he didn’t notice how far he had come. It was only after he stopped rowing that he came to his senses. He looked all around. There was no other fisherman to accompany him. All he could see was the clear blue waters of the sea and the horizon. The coast was no longer visible. He had gone too far. Too far away from the seashore.
This is the farthest I have come in my entire life! 
Shibu trembled with fear. He was fishing despite the warning. He was fishing regardless of the forecast. The government had warned and duly informed the fishermen about a serious storm, advising them to refrain from fishing.
There were only a handful of daring fishermen who had turned a deaf ear to the siren and were fishing. But even these Rambos were sensible enough not to go too far. Shibu, however, had surpassed them all.
Here he was, alone in the vast sea, because of his irrational sentiments. In the middle of nowhere, because of his anger. Surprisingly, the sea had become calm.
Perhaps it is the lull before the storm, thought Shibu. Or perhaps the weather department got it wrong.
Shibu was not a suicidal or reckless man. He always paid attention to the warnings issued by the weather department and avoided fishing in bad weather. However, things weren’t the same today.
His wife, Bela, had questioned his manliness. According to the seminogram, the medical test he had undergone recently, he was an infertile man. Incapable of producing any offspring. He was shocked, indeed. And he was hurt too. The results were damaging to his ego. But what pained him more were the words that Bela had uttered.
“I am not a man? How dare she say that to me?” he yelled into the silence, clenching his fist in frustration and annoyance. “How dare she talk back to me?”
Shibu had physically assaulted her. He had given her a good beating. He was pretty sure that she would cry with pain for the entire week. It gave him a strange feeling thinking about that. He was pained and felt sorry for her, but at the same time, it all felt right to him.
“Yeah, she brought it upon herself,” he murmured again, bobbing his head. “I did nothing wrong. She deserved it.”
Shibu was so engrossed in his thoughts that he had forgotten where he was and for what. Moreover, he had forgotten that Bela too had hit him back. Right above his forehead, with a stick.
He put his hand over his head and felt a painful bulge. The blood was no longer oozing out of the wound. The blood had coagulated and a thick crust had formed over the affected area. Nevertheless, the skin was still swollen, and it ached.
All of a sudden, he had an urge to scratch the crust off. But he stopped, realising his wound was still fresh.
“Bitch!” he shouted in anger. “Just wait for me. What I did is not enough. You deserve more.”
Shibu uncoiled the nylon string from the reel, attached bait to three of the hooks and dropped it into the waters of the sea.
“I’ll show you who I am,” he murmured. “I prove to you my virility and my strength. So what if I can’t produce children? That doesn’t mean that I am less of a man!”
He waited for a few minutes until the slack in the string disappeared and it became taut. The tension in the string, which he held in his hands, made him realise that he had caught not one but multiple fish. He was excited and fired up.
His nerves settled down at last. Slowly, he started pulling the fishing line from the water. He was right. All lures at the three hooks were engaged and had succeeded in producing the desired result. One by one, he removed the fish from the hooks and threw them inside a big plastic box that lay in the middle of the boat. The three fish that he had caught were moderately sized. Big enough to fetch him some good money.
There is no one as good as me when it comes to handline fishing. Shibu smiled with delight. Yes, nobody is as good as me!
He attached the lure to the hooks and threw the string back into the water again. Five minutes later, he was ready to haul some more fish. The process continued for an hour until he was satisfied. It was a lucky day, for he had caught three dozen medium-sized fish in such a little time. It was enough for that day. He thought of turning his boat and returning home.
Shouldn’t I try catching a few more? he asked himself.
The next moment, out of the blue, he felt the icy finger of terror sliding into his spine. His breathing quickened, and he felt a knife at his throat.
I should have listened to others. He regretted his decision of fishing in that bad weather. I should have paid attention to the warning. He cursed himself for being an arrogant fool.
But it was too late. The best he could do now was not to waste any more time and start rowing his boat back to safety. He turned his little boat around and started rowing. His boat had gone only a few paces when a dolphin appeared next to him. He stopped in delight and wonder.
What was this about? 
Meanwhile, the dolphin rested its body against the boat, causing it to tilt a little to one side.
“I don’t have any fish to give you!” Shibu shouted, his terror turning to rage. “Go away. Hunt it yourself!”
The dolphin grunted, uttering a clicking sound.
“Told you, I have nothing. Go away and leave me alone.”
The bottlenose dolphin wasn’t listening and continued uttering strange sounds. Shibu stood up to shoo the creature away, but what he saw moved him. The dolphin was bleeding, something was stuck in one of its fins. Shibu moved closer to the creature to get a better look: It was a flat cylindrical disk with numerous thin but long wavy spikes on its sides. The dolphin’s fin was stuck between two such spikes. Shibu understood why the dolphin was there; it was asking for his help. It was distressed and pleading for his assistance. Shibu felt sorry for the creature and came to its aid, took a couple of minutes, and carefully relieved the dolphin of the stress and burden. The flat cylindrical disk was exceptionally heavy. He threw the metallic article on his boat and focused his attention back on the dolphin.
Suddenly, it started squealing. It seemed like a cry of joy and gratitude as it circled the boat. It appeared as if the dolphin was performing some ritual. A minute later, the dolphin expressed its gratitude by jumping out of the water and performed that beautiful manoeuvre again and again.
“I know you are happy,” Shibu shouted, “and I too want to spend more time with you, but I must go. It’s not safe for me.”
The next moment, the dolphin disappeared into the depths of the sea as if it understood what the fisherman had said. Shibu got himself seated, but his eyes were glued to the article he had found. He took no time to realise it was a symbol of the sun. The wavy spikes at its side were none other than sunrays emanating from it. He could see the face carved on the disk. It dawned upon him that the disk referred to only Surya, the mighty Sun God.
The submerged city of Dwarka was known for its strange artefacts that regularly washed up on the shore. Most times, these articles comprised nothing but pieces of utensils and pottery made up of clay. Coming across such articles was, therefore, an everyday affair. What Shibu had discovered, however, was something different. When he looked at the metallic sun-shaped disc, he was overcome with felicity. He knew what he possessed was worth plenty of money, especially in the black market. It didn’t matter what metal it was—gold or brass, that the artefact belonged to the lost city of Dwarka was enough to fetch him some good cash.
Bela will certainly be pleased, he said to himself. What I have in my possession is a lottery ticket with the winning numbers. It would help us in buying the medicines for my infertility. Wait for me, Bela, here I come. All our troubles are going to be over. We will soon have enough money to solve our biggest misfortune.
Full of determination and joy, he rowed his boat towards where he had come from. It was no ordinary day. He had found a panacea for all his troubles. The metallic sun shaped disc was a gift from God, a sort of divine intervention, a blessing from the Almighty. Yes, that’s what he believed. Though he had lost his confidence in the Almighty, what he had stumbled upon in the middle of the sea had restored his faith completely. He now believed that the dolphin he had helped was none other than an angel in distress, and assisting that creature was part of a bigger plan. God had done his part. Now it was up to Shibu to do his bit and bring the divine scheme to fruition.
He took about half an hour of labour, and he was finally back to the shore. With the help of five more men, he parked his boat in a safe place. Few people dwelled on the beach, which was not strange at all, especially when the weather department had issued a warning against fishing that day. Luckily, Shibu didn’t have to wait. One fishmonger approached him.
“You are one heck of a fisherman, Shibu,” the fish dealer said, laying his weighing machine on the ground. “You don’t get scared, do you?”
With a condescending look on his face, Shibu chuckled. “Most fishermen here are sissies,” he bragged. “A little push and they get scared.” He passed the fish container to the fish dealer.
“But not you,” replied the cunning fish-seller, who felt it was best to play along and boost Shibu’s ego. “Nothing affects you!” he added, as he transferred the contents of the plastic container to the weighing machine.
Shibu curled his lip in a supercilious smile. “I do get affected,” he clarified, pretending to be modest, “but not so easily,” he added after a pause.
“Yeah.” The fish-dealer nodded. “Because of a few daring and audacious people like you, people will have fresh fish on their plates.”
Everyone knew Shibu was a humble-bragger. But they all put up with that as they knew his weakness. All they needed to do was flatter him a little, a little sweet-talking, to get the better end of the deal.
“That would be 450 rupees!” declared the fish dealer.
“But–”
“Let’s make five hundred,” insisted the cunning man again.
“Okay… all right… Shibu reluctantly accepted the money offered to him. “I am in a good mood today, otherwise…”
“What’s making you happy?” The fish-dealer feigned an inquisitive concern.
“Oh. It’s nothing.” A smile edged Shibu’s mouth. “I would like to keep it with myself,” he added.
“All right.” The fishmonger lifted the heavy sack of fresh fish on his shoulders. “Off I go!” He waved goodbye after picking up his weighing scale.
“One minute… Where is everyone?”
“Home, I think,” answered the fish-dealer without turning back. “You know, bad weather… plus something happened in the village.”
Shibu wondered what it could be. “Oh,” came the syllable from his mouth.
“Don’t ask me what! I don’t know a thing.”
“Okay… never mind, I am going there myself.”
Shibu waited for the fishmonger to walk away and when he was far enough, Shibu slid the heavy metallic disc into the jute sack. After he did so, he looked around to make sure nobody saw what he had just done. Yes, no one should know what he owned. He required complete secrecy. If anyone got to know, his plan of selling the artefact in the black market would be foiled. Thankfully, he was all alone and was pleased no one was there to ruin his scheme.
With some effort, he lifted the heavy sack and carried it on his back. He strode towards his village. It was so far a good day, and he didn’t want to spoil his mood by engaging in a prattle with other fellow fishermen. An air of superiority enveloped him all of a sudden. He thought he was better than others, better than all the people in his social circle. All such thoughts were because of the thing he carted on his back.
When he arrived in his village, he was surprised to find it deserted. The doors of most houses were locked. He remembered what the fishmonger had told him. Something terrible had happened in the village but to whom he didn’t know. Suddenly, he was overcome with trepidation and got cold feet, for he could see where all the people were. The house that the throng surrounded was none other but his own.
He rushed towards his abode to find out what the matter was. The villagers bore serious faces and were gossiping with each other. He couldn’t make out what they were talking. He couldn’t make out the individual voices. With every step he took, his heart pounded more and more. Finally, he arrived home. Muna was standing at the door as if he was guarding his house, preventing or supervising the entry and exit of the rest of the folk. The moment Muna noticed Shibu’s presence, his face turned pale and he dropped his head.
“What happened?” Shibu yelled. “What is this all about?”
The crowd turned quiet. The villagers turned grim-faced too. They expressed extreme pity in their eyes. A couple of ladies were crying silently. This threw Shibu off balance. He was petrified.
“Why doesn’t someone say anything?” Shibu bawled, eyes red with indignation. “What happened?” He shook Muna with all his strength. “What happened?” he echoed.
Muna raised his head and rested his palm on Shibu’s shoulder. His face had turned sombre, but he said nothing. Beads of sweat gleamed on his face. His eyes were misted with tears. Shibu looked at the apologetic faces of the other villagers with confusion and disbelief. All of them were silent too.
“For God’s sake, speak something!” Shibu cried. “What happened?” He fixed his eyes on Muna. “Is it about Bela?” He seized Muna by the shoulder and shook him violently. “Something happened to her?” He shook him again. “For God’s sake, say something.”
Muna bit his lips and moved aside. Once again, his head drooped. Shibu rushed inside, but what he saw shocked him to his core. He couldn’t believe his eyes. On the floor, lay his wife, pale and devoid of life. There was blood all around, much of which had coagulated.
“No, no, no.” Shibu burst into tears. “This can’t be!” He shook his head in disbelief. “This can’t be!” he repeated.
No one responded to his cries. Bela’s body lay lifeless. Everything in the small house was in its place. There was no sign of any struggle. Shibu dropped the sack on the ground and dashed towards the corpse. Tears gushed out of his eyes. He cradled Bela’s head in his hands and looked at her face. Though pale, she looked peaceful.
“Tell me that this is all a dream,” he cried aloud. “This can’t be true!” He nodded the very next moment. “It’s a dream, yes, an awful dream!”
He looked at Muna, who had entered the room.
“I am dreaming, isn’t it? This is all unreal, a figment of my imagination.”
Muna said nothing and looked at him with piteous eyes. Shibu started sobbing. It was not a dream nor was he hallucinating. Bela had left the world. Shibu’s eyes were still streaming with tears.
“No!” he cried again. “No!”
For a couple of minutes, he cried his heart out. Nobody interrupted him. He was all alone in his suffering, in his pain. Muna walked and placed his hand on his recently bereaved friend to comfort him. The weeping stopped, eventually.
“Who did it?” Shibu asked with resentment. “Who is the killer?” His eyes blazed with anger.
“She slit her throat,” replied Muna in a low voice.
“What? What did you say?”
“She slit her throat,” repeated Muna.
“Why would she do that?” Shibu asked, almost on the verge of crying again. Looking at the pale face of the corpse, he asked, “Why would you do that?” He shook the lifeless body. “Why would you do that, Bela?”
“The doctor told her she could never be a mother,” Muna went on. “She–” he struggled for a word. “A … an hour back.”
“Why?” cried Shibu. “It’s me who is to blame.” He hugged his wife’s dead body. “You were right. I am not a complete man.” A note of remorse crept into his voice. “I shouldn’t have hit you.” He shook his head. “What you said is true. I am not a complete man… I shouldn’t have hit you.”
A dreadful silence descended on the room. Neither of the men spoke. Shibu had wiped his tears. Like an insane man, he smiled suddenly. He put Bela’s head down and leapt to his feet and rushed towards the jute sack. A few moments later, he was back with the metallic sun disk in his hands.
“Look what I found,” he said to his dead spouse. “This will end all our miseries. We will have enough money for my treatment. There is nothing in this world that money can’t fix, nothing.” He laughed hysterically. “Now, wake up!” he instructed after a pause. “Get to your feet.”
But lifeless Bela was unmoved by his request and was stiff like a stone idol.
“I beseech you,” he shouted. “Come on. Get up!”
Seeing nothing happening, Shibu dropped to the ground and buried his forehead in his hand. He then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was an utterly dejected man who has lost all hope. Nothing could be done. The glass doesn’t fix when it gets broken into pieces. Shibu was aware of this. He was not a scientist but an illiterate man. Still, he instinctively knew what scientists call ‘the second law of thermodynamics’. The universe is moving towards a state of chaos and disorder, and nothing in the world can stop it. Such awareness about the world pained him further. Even the most stoic and rational people fail to accept reality at times. He was an ordinary illiterate man.
Muna comforted his aggrieved friend again. Shibu took some time, but he returned to his senses at last. There was no turning back. What was done was done. Nobody has the power to turn back the arrow of time. One must endure and move forward. The sadness in Shibu disappeared. He was now angry, instead. Angry at his deceased wife for making that stupid decision, mad at the world.
“I lost my parents a long time back,” he said in a low voice to Muna. “None of my siblings are alive. The only person who I could call my family was Bela.” There was a dreadful silence. “And now she has left me too,” he resumed at last. “How am I supposed to live? How am I supposed to spend the rest of my life?” His eyes flashed with anger the next moment. “Everyone is selfish, everyone. People don’t think about others.” He scoffed. “What a selfish woman! She had no right to kill herself. The bitch never cared about me, did she? I am sure that she must be rotting in hell now.”
Muna felt an intense and irrepressible urge to protest. He wanted to object, for he thought one mustn’t speak ill of the deceased. Nevertheless, he said nothing. His friend was in shock and felt cheated. Without a doubt, Shibu needed a person who could be all ears –a sympathetic listener, to vent out all his anger and frustration. He needed a sponge which could absorb all his tears, a person who could tolerate his cathartic discharge. So Muna decided to play that role. Once again, he placed his hand on Shibu’s shoulder to comfort him. There was a sinister silence for ten minutes. A couple of villagers peeped through the door and looked at the two men inside. But none dared to set foot in. It was a ghastly scene with blood splattered all around.
“We need to,” Shibu said at last, “make arrangements for the funeral.”
“I’ll do that,” Muna assured. “I have already ordered an ice block for the body. We will do it tomorrow.”
“The funeral?”
“Yes.” Muna nodded.
Silence crept into the room once again. But this time, it didn’t last long.
“Where did you find that?” Muna pointed at the sun-shaped disk.
“In the sea, while fishing.”
“Dwarka?” questioned Muna.
Shibu acknowledged by nodding his head.
“You shouldn’t have…” Muna shook his head. “Dwarka was cursed and so are all the things that belong to it. Look, what it brought upon us. Don’t you know that we must stay away from these artefacts? They bring nothing but bad luck.”
“I know,” Shibu said regretfully. “I know, I succumbed to my greed.”
“When did you get hold of it?”
“One-hour back.”
“Exactly the time when Bela…” Muna stopped. “It is not a coincidence,” he began again at last. “This thing…” He pointed towards the metallic disk again. “This stuff is an abomination. We must get rid of it.” His face turned sombre with determination. “What’s done is done, but if we keep this thing any longer–”
“I know…” Shibu cried, “I know.” He hid his face in his hands. “Take it to the police. I don’t need it. I don’t need anything.” He sighed.
“We don’t need to; the police are on their way.”
Shibu looked quizzically at his friend. “Why?” he asked.
“Nothing… just a formality. They would be asking some questions. It’s not a natural death, you know.”
“Yeah.” Shibu let out a deep breath. “I understand,” he added after a pause.
Suddenly, the widower stood up and rushed towards the sun-shaped disk. He lifted it and threw it outside his house with all the force he had.
“Get out of my life!” he shouted, eyes red with fury. “Get the hell out of my house!”
<h2>Chapter 2</h2>
Sanjeev Kumar, the head of the Department of Archaeology, Pune, lolled on his swivel chair, arms behind his head. The past few days had been hectic and tiresome. The reason was an artefact that had recently come into their possession. It was the sun-shaped disk belonging to the lost city of Dwarka.
Sanjeev was excited, for the discovery had serious implications. Not only the early human history needed to be rewritten, but the timeline of the Bronze Age required a fresh perspective too. Adding to the mystery was the composition of the disk. Despite being underwater for five millennia, the metal had hardly corroded, which suggested that the ancients of Dwarka knew of and were remarkably deft in the science of metallurgy and mining.
The disk was an anomaly. Like the famous iron pillar of Delhi, it made little sense. How could they achieve such a feat, which even modern-day men struggle to accomplish? Could it be that our history books needed a revision? Such were the thoughts boggling him and his team for the past two weeks. It was well known that the primitive men weren’t so primitive, after all. Mathematics, as well as architecture, had always been our forte. But an alloy that doesn’t corrode? It was exciting, undeniably mind-blowing.
The recent lab analysis reports were even more confounding. According to their calculations, the Dwarka sun disk was hollow. The team had also concluded that it was not the metal that was responsible for the weight of the disk in its entirety. There was something inside the hermetically sealed chamber, something dense, which was causing the disk to weigh thirteen kilograms. This substance was most probably something modern humans have yet not encountered. No such substance that dense, natural or artificial, was known to man.
“What could this hollow disk possibly contain?” Sanjeev asked himself. “From where is this extra 8.5 kilograms coming from?” he asked again, drumming his fingers on the table.
Such was the peculiarity and importance of this discovery that Sanjeev had supervised the whole affair himself. The ten days of wait was finally over. The historic day of probing the insides of the disk had arrived. His subordinates would drill a small hole in the disk. It was the best they could do, as cutting off the entire flat cylindrical disk into two halves was not an option. What they could do, however, was to probe the interior of the disk with a borescope camera and possibly retrieve some of that strange substance through the hole they were about to drill.
Sanjeev stood up and paced up and down his office. The momentous occasion was to arrive shortly. It enlivened and thrilled him, yet he felt apprehensive. What if the artefact contained some poisonous substance? What if they were opening a Pandora’s box? Such thoughts overwhelmed him, but it is human nature to unravel mysteries. It is human nature to first ask questions and then search for answers. If they lacked curiosity, they wouldn’t be living in a scientific age. If they didn’t yearn, they wouldn’t have put a flag on the surface of the moon.
“No matter what,” the director said aloud, “we must find this secret substance. No matter what the cost, we must learn where the weight of this disk is coming from.”
The last-minute hesitation and doubts disappeared. The self-talking that he had engaged in, worked at last. Once again, Sanjeev turned into an unwavering, resolute man. Yes, he was anxious again, but the stress he had was a good one, necessary to accomplish a challenging task. The disk was a blessing in disguise. For long, he had been trying hard to move up the career ladder. This was his chance. If he and his team got their hands on that strange substance and uncover the elusive secret, he will earn a reputation that will bring him not only laurels but also help him in etching his name on the pages of the history books.
He beamed with mirth. “I could very well be the new Columbus.” He nodded. “I could very well be the new Cunningham,” he said out loud.
He rushed towards the corner, where lay a coffee dispensing machine, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Caffeine was what his body demanded. Hastily, he sipped from his Styrofoam cup. The strong and bitter taste of coffee lingered in his mouth. In his mind, persisted a feeling of contentment and triumph. Nothing could dissuade him now. Nothing could stop him from having success. His victory was imminent. Such were his beliefs after having a mouthful of that hot, black liquid.
“Sir.” A man knocked on the door.
But Sanjeev didn’t hear, for he was lost in his fancy world.
“Sir,” the employee repeated, raising his voice.
“Yeah?” replied Sanjeev, finally focusing his gaze on his minion. “What is it?” he said in a fake toneless voice.
“The setup is ready,” the meek man answered.
“Fine,” Sanjeev replied, hiding his excitement. “I am coming.”
He waited for his subordinate to disappear. And when that man was gone, he threw his half-filled cup into the dustbin. His eyes glinted with pleasure. He was high as a kite and rubbed his hands together in excitement. When his subordinate was no longer there, he felt free. His job demanded temperance from him, at least in front of his juniors. But alone in his office, there wasn’t any pressure on him to fake equanimity on his face. Impatiently, he looked at the movement of the second hand of his watch, for he knew no other way of stalling time. Five minutes later, he scuttled off to join his subordinates in the lab.
The lab assistants, Shreya and Arvind, had been waiting eagerly for the director. When Sanjeev arrived, they welcomed him and bowed a little. Both were wearing protective masks on their noses. Without wasting time, Arvind fetched one from the table and handed it over to his boss.
Sanjeev surveyed the two critically. “Are the cameras on?” he asked, as he was covering his nose with the mask.
“Yes, sir.” Arvind bobbed his head. “Everything as per your instructions.”
The director looked at him with solemn air. “What are we waiting for, then?” He gestured. “Let’s do it,” he gave them the green light.
Shreya picked up the drill and switched it on. The next moment, the room echoed with an annoying buzzing sound. The second she pushed the rotating drill bit against the surface of the metal disk, it broke.
“Uh-oh,” she uttered.
“What happened?” asked Sanjeev.
“The drill bit broke,” the woman replied, embarrassed.
“Use another one,” instructed the director.
Shreya changed the drill bit. “This should work,” she said. “It is titanium coated.”
“Why didn’t you–” Sanjeev objected. “Anyway, proceed,” he ordered.
The lady got back to work. Once again, the drill machine came to life. Producing an ugly sound, it bore through the hard surface of the disk.
“It’s in,” Shreya declared.
“Good!” The director almost clapped. “Now, get it out, but slowly!”
Carefully, the woman retracted the drill bit from the hole it had just made. The second it was out, the lab reverberated with a loud, cacophonous hissing sound.
“It’s coming from–” Arvind struggled for words. “The disk…”
“Get back!” Sanjeev shouted. “Both of you.”
With every second passing by, the hissing was getting louder and harsher. With their mouths agape, the three looked nervously at the artefact. Something was coming out, or rather wanted to come out. Like the whistle of the pressure cooker, the hissing was an early warning. It was as if the disk wanted to say, ‘Enough is enough. I can no longer hold this thing.’
The director was dumbstruck, and so were his assistants. They never anticipated such a situation. Panic-stricken, they stood motionless and stiff like lifeless mannequins, as if they were paralysed
“Something is about to come out,” the woman quavered.
“I know.” Sanjeev trembled with fear.
The discordant noise rose to a deafening crescendo. Out of the blue, it ceased. Emboldened by silence, the three curious individuals stepped forward. Scarcely had they moved closer when the disk started vibrating. The next moment, a large plume of thick yellow smoke violently gushed out of the hole they had drilled.
“What the–” the leader exclaimed. “Do you see…”
The thick yellow vapour rose into the air and concentrated together, forming a cloud. For a minute, it stayed there, stationary and still. However, it soon condensed into a bright yellow ball of fire, hung and suspended in the air by God knows what. The director and his assistants couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It defied all logic—the existence of such a thing. With each passing second, the brightness of the ball was increasing. So much so, it became almost difficult to look directly at it. Mesmerised and blinded by curiosity, Shreya brought her hand forward.
“Don’t touch it!” Sanjeev shrieked.
It was too late. Disturbed by physical contact, the ball started expanding. Shreya retracted her steps, and in haste, she lost her balance and fell to the ground. The whole lab was filled with bright light. Sanjeev squinted his eyes to gaze at the levitating, shining ball, but he could discern nothing. The next moment, there was an explosion. The shock wave threw the two men off-balance, and they too, like Shreya, landed on the floor. So intense was it that everything in the lab made of glass, everything fragile, broke into smithereens. The strange levitating ball had disappeared, but even a minute after the explosion, the ears of the three were ringing.
“We lost it,” Arvind said. “Nothing makes sense.”
They sprang to their feet and looked at each other. Thankfully, everyone was okay. Sanjeev removed his nose mask and sighed. There was no point in wearing that now. It was over. He would leave the lab empty-handed.
Sanjeev threw an irritated glance at Shreya. “I told you not to touch it,” he said with asperity.
The woman removed her mask too and felt his gaze but dared not return it. “I am extremely sorry, sir.” Her head drooped and her face flushed with embarrassment.
“What just happened?” Arvind said.
“I don’t know,” the exasperated leader replied, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I saw what you saw.” He bawled.
There was a brief pause. The two assistants looked at their boss with anticipation in their eyes.
“Weigh the disk again,” Sanjeev resumed at last. “Let’s check how heavy it is now.”
Arvind did what he was told, and after a few seconds he replied, “4.5 kilograms.”
“That’s what I thought.” Sanjeev bit his lower lip. “The mysterious substance is gone.” He gesticulated at them. “We were this close…” He held his forefinger and thumb half an inch apart. “This close…”
Silence crept into the room again. The three looked at each other. Their eyes flitted awkwardly. The assistants dared not utter a word.
“The cameras…” Sanjeev beamed with joy all of a sudden. “They must have recorded everything.”
“Yes, sir.” Arvind nodded.
“Get me the videos.”
As per his boss’s instructions, Arvind busied himself with retrieving the memory cards from the cameras installed at the corners.
“Strange!” Shreya said out loud.
“What is it?” asked Sanjeev, a look of concern on his face.
“The computer is not working,” she replied. “So is the digital spectrometer,” she added after a pause.
“The cameras are damaged too,” Arvind said at the top of his voice.
“It seems,” Sanjeev thought aloud, “an EMP blast accompanied the explosion.”
“The circuits are fried…” Arvind chimed in. “Everything electronic…” he couldn’t complete the sentence.
Sanjeev slammed his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Everything is lost.” He shook his head. “Everything we worked for.”
“We can’t say for sure.” Arvind brought forward his hand. “We have these.” He offered three memory cards to his mentor.
“Fine,” Sanjeev replied in a listless manner. “Let’s check it.” There was a brief pause. “Though I am not that optimistic,” he added at last.
Leaving Shreya alone, the two men scooted out of the lab. Two minutes later, they in stood in an office next to a laptop, which was unaffected by the explosion. Though Sanjeev wasn’t hopeful, still his heart pounded. Even a slight chance, an iota of luck, could change his life forever. Arvind inserted the first memory card, but the computer didn’t detect its presence. He removed the card, blew air over it, and inserted it again. Still, there was no response. He tried it again with the second card, but it was all in vain. So disheartened Sanjeev was that he didn’t bother looking at the computer when Arvind was trying the third card.
“Told you.” He sighed. “It’s all futile!” He trudged out of the room, running his finger through his dishevelled hair.
<h2>Chapter 3</h2>
Far away from Earth, in Devloka, the abode of the Devas, Varuna lounged on his throne, impassively looking at his courtiers, rapidly tapping his fingertips on the armrest. Everyone in that large courtroom lacked enthusiasm. They were all there for the sake of it, perfunctorily going through unimportant issues. Like most days, it was a dull morning, for nothing interesting was going on. The relationships that Devloka had with other planets and realms were no longer strained, but peaceful. So were the internal affairs. Consequently, nothing in the known and accessible universe bothered the inhabitants of Devloka. Everything had stopped, and it wouldn’t be wrong if one called it a period of inactivity and listlessness.
No news is good news, but that’s the reason many governments and people in the administration turn negligent, complacent and inefficient. Nothing could be said about the leadership; the surveillance department of Devloka had lost its edge, for sure. As a result, Varuna and his ministers were oblivious to the recent event that had happened on Earth. Not all celestial beings were unaware. Not all extra-terrestrials had succumbed to ennui.
“His Majesty.” Sumitra, the assistant of Varuna, bowed. “Bhadraksh, the representative from Asurloka, seeks your permission to teleport here to this court.”
“Why?” Varuna screwed his eyes. “Why not a holographic call?”
“He is insisting on being physically present.”
“Really?” The ruler of Devloka raised his brows. “The matter is serious.” He readjusted himself on his throne. “Definitely serious.” And raising himself from what was almost a slumber, he shifted to a state of absolute alertness. “Why would they be wasting their energy resources on teleportation?”
Sumitra looked at the leader with avidity, seeking additional words from him, but the ruler was lost in his thoughts. At last, after a brief silence, the assistant spoke. “Shall I–”
“Yeah,” Varuna responded by nodding. “He has my permission.”
Varuna tapped on the smart glasses he was wearing, and a couple of seconds later, Bhadraksh materialised.
“Your Majesty.” Bhadraksh bowed his head.
He faced the other courtiers and bowed to them. Soon after receiving their acknowledgement, he looked at Varuna again.
“The chief of Asurloka,” Bhadraksh went on, “sends his best wishes and regards.”
“We wish him and the people of Asurloka the best of health too,” Varuna said. Assuming a solemn expression, he asked in a grave voice, “What brings you here?”
Bhadraksh had not expected Varuna to be so direct and quick. He took a deep breath and sighed. The matter was serious and pressing, as he was not communicating with the Devas telepathically. He was using his mouth. Only when the affairs were of utmost importance did the celestials resort to verbal communication.
“It’s about the Earth,” the representative of Asurloka said at last.
“Earth?” Varuna echoed.
“Yes, sir.” Bhadraksh bobbed his head a little. “The only celestial article we left on Earth has been discovered by humans.”
“What do you mean?” Varuna asked, furrowing his brows and narrowing his eyes.
“The Ajay Kavach has been unleashed!” Bhadraksh declared with great solemnity.
Varuna couldn’t believe his ears. “The invincible armour of Karna?” he asked, to make sure what he heard was right.
Without uttering a word, Bhadraksh conveyed his assent by nodding. Varuna turned towards one of his ministers who headed the Department of External Affairs.
“Why do I hear this from him?” he asked with righteous indignation. “What is our surveillance department doing?”
The embarrassed minister didn’t speak. He dropped his head instead and bit his lower lip.
Facing Bhadraksh once again, Varuna spoke, assuming a false air of indifference, “So, what about it?”
“We are concerned,” Bhadraksh protested, “that the Kavach may fall into the wrong hands.”
“What happens on Earth should be of no concern to us,” Varuna declared. “Moreover,” he went on, “if what you say is true, then the divine invincible armour will find the master who is worthy of it. Don’t you know it has a mind of its own?”
“If it is so, sir, why do we still monitor Earth?”
“Just for the sake of it. We monitor all the planets that can support life.”
“What if the best human of today is not as good as the worst man of the Dvapara era? We shouldn’t have left the Ajay Kavach on Earth. Humans don’t deserve celestial weapons. They are mostly violent beings, completely driven by their base instincts. Their motivations are generally ignoble and animalistic. If only Lord Indra–”
“Indra did what he thought was best to do in his position and in his times,” Varuna asserted. “After the gruesome war of Mahabharata, many of the Kaurava sympathisers resorted to terrorism. Krishna was protective of Yudhishthira and the other Pandavas. So, he asked Indra for divine armour. He thought it might come in handy in the future. Indra couldn’t say no to him; nobody could say no to Krishna. Had I been the ruler then, I too would have yielded to Krishna’s request. We can’t blame Indra. Krishna was such a charismatic figure. It’s a different thing altogether that he never used it. We should, therefore…” Varuna stopped speaking.
“Well.” Bhadraksh was persistent. “I am sure that if we ask Indra today-”
“Indra is no longer our leader.” Varuna gestured at his subject with anger, for he was a little offended. “There is no point harping on what he did or what he would do.”
“I apologise, sir, for my waywardness,” Bhadraksh said in a polite voice. “I was swayed by pressure. You see, our government is worried and concerned.” Vertical creases appeared on his forehead the next moment. “Every time,” the troubled ambassador went on, “humans got hold of our things, their planet slipped into a state of utter chaos, disarray and madness.”
“So, what does your government plan to do?” Varuna cocked his brow. “Retrieve the Kavach from Earth?”
“You are right, sir,” Bhadraksh assented by nodding. “We shouldn’t waste any time, and retrieve the article as soon as we can, as one second on our planet is equivalent to one hour on Earth. Perhaps things are already going out of our hands, as we speak.”
“Hold your horses!” Varuna sighed. After a long pause, he resumed, “We have seen what happens when celestials interfere with human lives. We have witnessed the failure of our past policies. That’s why when Indra’s tenure ended and I took over, the first thing I did was to sign the treaty with the then government of Asurloka. Don’t you know what agreement we arrived at?” He fixed his stern, accusing eyes on the ambassador. “We decided,” the ruler said with emphasis, “not to get in their way so that they could evolve naturally. Humans are better left alone. Look how far they have come on their own. Without our help, they have ushered Earth into a new scientific era. Without our assistance, the humans have caused their planet to enter a new epoch.” There was a short pause.
“Yes,” Varuna resumed, “there have been a few setbacks not so long ago. The two devastating world wars. The arms race, the age of nuclear weapons, I completely agree. Had we poked our nose into their affairs, the results would have been more awful and unpleasant. Indeed, they are reckless towards their environment. They are making their planet unliveable for every species by unprecedented, unchecked pollution. Nevertheless, they are slowly realising their follies. They are now aware and collectively working towards the healing process. Everything is self-correcting, everything comes to a balance, eventually.”
There was a brief pause again.
“It is a part of their spiritual journey,” Varuna continued, assuming a solemn expression. “Everything that happens is leading them here. Every damn action. All choices humans make. It’s all leading them here. Even an infant Deva knows that. This is the simplest truth.”
Silence crept in once again. Bhadraksh gazed at Varuna as if some injustice had been done to him, but he stayed quiet. Varuna judged his subject aptly.
“Your distrust of humans,” the monologue continued, “is justified. However, what is done is done. Let things take their course. Intervention in human lives is uncalled for. We are better off watching them from far away. They are neither ready, nor they are mature enough to know about our existence. Moreover…” Varuna manufactured a chuckle. “There is this thing which humans of today call ‘The Butterfly Effect.’ Any change, however small it may be, results in something big and disastrous.” There was silence for a while, but soon Varuna added, “Well, I think I have made my position clear.” He sighed. “Don’t forget. We were once humans too.”
“Sir, you indeed have an unerring eye for what is essential.” Bhadraksh nodded. “You are certainly blessed with a keen vision for Devloka’s future,” he tried appeasing the ruler with his sweet words. “But this is bigger than any of us. It was we who left the Ajay Kavach behind. We should have recovered it when Krishna died but we didn’t. It was our mistake, so we should be mending and fixing it. I know we signed the treaty but our government insists on making an exception. Our ruler is seriously considering altering the agreement a bit. We are not going to take steps on our own. We believe that only through a discussion we can arrive at a peaceful resolution. Therefore, I request you to reconsider your position. Treaties are signed for the sake of convenience, but when they are deemed sacrosanct, as something which is carved in stone, it often becomes quite debilitating. You say we should not interfere. But haven’t we interfered already by not retrieving what is ours?”
Varuna realised at last that Bhadraksh was not ready to yield. It was not his fault, there was no point arguing with him. No rhetoric could persuade him. He was a messenger conveying the words of his employer. And this employer, the government of Asurloka, was not happy with the treaty anymore. After a long period of peace, there was finally a spark which could turn into a blazing fire if they didn’t deal with it at once. He, therefore, took Bhadraksh’s advice on board.
For a few moments, he looked at his courtiers and, after gauging their opinions on the matter telepathically, he flitted his gaze in Bhadraksh’s direction.
“I have received the opinions of my ministers on the subject,” he said. “We will think about it, for a lot of intricacies are involved. Give us some time, and we will hopefully make the necessary amendments in the treaty, which would be acceptable to both parties. Convey our message to your leadership and ask them to be in touch. We can’t alter the agreement on our own. I still maintain the view that we should wait and watch. But this is not a dictatorship. Our ministers are willing to pay heed to what your leadership has to say. Just don’t get too optimistic, it all depends on the discussion we have.”
“Thank you, sir.” Bhadraksh bowed his head. “But we have to be quick. We don’t have time.”
The ambassador then bowed before the rest of the courtiers and, in a snap, vanished altogether.
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