Wordplay: The Reading Spot

"I made you something special..." Woken by the Feast day sun Its scorching warmth of joy Matches our happy beaks As we move towards the field. Master has set a lovely banquet Studded with seeds and delicious "pests" We don't know how to thank Master, but We rush to relish, instead. In between gorging sessions I glance at the younglings And my friends  And smile at their smiles "How delicious!", ones' said "A feast for sure!", said another's A few hours hence, Master joins us and Adds to the shine with a staff that glitters; Its gleaming silver matches The harvested rain. I'd stare at it longer, but Master ushers us out Into his chariot's carts  We barely fit, but Master  Isn't frowning, so we don't complain. An hour later Master stops the chariot And leads us into smaller carts On a moving belt. It's been a fun ride so far But Master wishes to make it better! We oblige and settle into the carts Which begin moving; ...

"Teaching kids to count is fine, but teaching them what counts is best." - Bob Talbert Dear readers, it's going to end with parrots. You may not understand what that means just yet, but believe it or not, it will truly end with parrots.  It started with neanderthals. By nature's beautiful miracle, they evolved. Then we made wheels, discovered fire, built civilisations....basically, reached where we are today. But, how? How did a progressive species such as the homo sapiens reach a point where they will most likely end with parrots...how is that even possible? This article is inspired by the conversations I had with my teacher and a close relative. And no, these weren't some brilliant, highly motivational discussions...they were horrifying, and absolutely the stuff of nightmares. Nightmares, that end with parrots.  Don't rule this out as some random student rant...that'll only further cement the nightmares that these discussions made me foresee. Alright, I...

“The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.”  – Horace Walpole Positivity is the wrong perspective. Ignore the ones who say You can always improve and cling on to hope Dwell in the realms of guilt Since it makes no sense to Make the most of your present Sulk in the dark Since it's pointless to Focus on the light Value yourself little You have no reason to Let go of your self-doubt You're worthless, and just a burden Yet, you often assume that You have so much potential You're running out of time So there is no reason to think that There is much life yet to live You've reached the end So don't think that A lifetime is at your disposal A dark fate awaits you So don't think that  Positivity is the correct perspective. [ Now read the lines from the bottom to the top (i.e.-read the poem backwards)... ] -Armaan Kothare *** Vantage (noun)- a perspective, or a position from which you watch something...

bee "Why do you stop, why do you stall?" The young professor asked them all "To stall is to break away from The treasures that await y'all" "Instead say, "I shall begin now; And make progress right away!" "Focus on one task, do one alone Lest the burden cause you to groan; And as long as your day's work is undone You shan't dream to dream of fun Let alone pass out, fight the drowse  Act like you own your house" (He left the audience enthralled and vanished)...on returning home The professor resolved to do his chores But alas! There were one too many; He had to call his mum, and then his dad Then get ready for his late night bath; Then make his bed, and read a book Then give the old paper a little look. And then, and only then would he Dream to dream of being sunny- But shhh, dare you say a word! For just after his usual snack, The professor has already hit the sack. -Armaan Kothare ** Summary- an ode to procrastination, humanity...

Ouroboros... My name is Yin. Spirits have been haunting the Kurai mountains for as long as the village elder can remember. Spirits are dark and ferocious beasts that abduct the living and only a handful have ever been able to slay them before. In a world terrorized by monsters such as these, I'm no ordinary workperson. I'm going to be a spirit slayer.  In the past few centuries, the only person who has successfully been able to slay a spirit, was my father, Naibu. His many years of research bore fruit in the form of the enchanted carbon steel swords that he'd forged, the only material that has been proven effective against spirits. Unfortunately, when he was returning from the Kurai apex, having slain one spirit, the exhaustion eventually led to his death. He passed away before he could teach the other village blacksmiths the methods he used to forge the carbon steel. And since he'd carried most of his weaponry and armour with him, there were only two swords left in his...

To love like a psycho... I guess we're crying now, the sky and I. I let my own tears fall onto the ground, as the heavens drench the whole world in theirs. I do no such thing, however, for I dwell in my despair alone. I haven't told anyone yet; but the sky does the opposite, every time. How desperate! It hopes for the world to share its sorrows, and attempts to do so forcibly, almost. Its tears cascade onto the faces below, regardless of whether they smile or frown. They drench a grieving man such as myself, so it would be far too ambitious for me to expect empathy from them. I used to love the rain; it used to be my happy place. I could dance in it all day, not having a care in the world. I used to think of it as me helping the skies forget their sadness. But when I cried, the sky only cried harder. I used to think it was because the sky felt remorse for having to see a friend feel so low, but I've come to doubt that view. Maybe its because the sky wanted the world to see ...

the flight to Neverland... On a cold and rainy October night The pilot made haste for flight To his origin, ("Neverland", he said) And then soared into the night. It had been several years since The pilot left Neverland And although he seemed to move on The townspeople deemed him sad. He never spoke much about the place, Yet would often dream about His youthful years in its greens And the liveliest folk he'd never seen. His dreams gave off hues of grief But nought gave off his face, Whenever the young man would be asked On cue, his heart would race. He didn't have the brightest years Back in those spritely greens He lost more than since, has gained, And yet, there, he longs to be. A little while after his ascent, that day There came a rapping from behind When he ventured to see, who the causer was, Was appalled to see a mere child. A tousled boy he was, and nothing more; The astonished lent him a hand The pilot asked, "So, where to?" The boy softly said, ...

When the knives bond... "I couldn't help it, Dad. He triggered me.", said the thirteen year old boy, Jon. "And how you control your reactions determines type of man you'll become." "But-....it isn't fair." "Such is life. Welcome to the real world, kid." Jon felt his trigger growing yet again, and he tried using his fist-clenching method to overcome it. His mother would be upset if he had another outburst. In fact, the whole point of this camping night-out, she'd said, was to help him calm down, and reconcile with his father. "Pass me that can of sand, will ya'?" Andrew said to his son, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his head. He'd been at it for three hours now...finding the perfect place, the perfect materials. He wanted the momental monument to be perfect; just like his. He grabbed the can from Jon, tipped off its lid, and started pouring the grains into the foundation pit. "Watch, Jon. The light...