Wordplay: The Reading Spot

"What are we, if not characters, from one story or another, playing our part, knowingly or unknowingly, willingly or unwillingly" - Sandip Khade You know how people get 'kicks' out of doing something daring, say, over-speeding on their bikes, or breaking dress codes, purposely attempting to get away with something illegal, etc.? Well, and I don't mean to sound like that guy , I've always gotten a kick out of giving to the needy; this could manifest in the form of giving money to the traffic signal dwellers, small community charity contributions, the monthly blood drive, or buying your practically broke friend his favorite energy drink when you sense a potential 'head-butt alert!' conversation vibe in the air. I groaned when I realized it's one of those days, and walked into our PG hostel's canteen area.  Most of our guy-classmates stay at this PG, since it's pretty close, and dirt cheap for its surprisingly un-pathetic living conditions. It...

"A wounded animal will bite and claw." -Mimi Matthews I'm running as fast as I can. All I know about where I'm headed is that it's far from here; far away from that house. Far from those four walls of suffocating hell, far from those dreadful needles and the shimmering acids that followed... And certainly far from him. It's easy to lose track of time when you're kept in a square cell, far into the woods, cut off from the rest of the townsfolk and the diurnal village affairs. I wondered if my friend Polly was looking for me, determined to set me free. She probably was, given that I'd do the same for her. My freedom, or what minuscule tinge was left of it, never exceeded the dining hall of that house. He'd kept me locked in that room, with a bucket, a pale excuse of a mattress, a lantern and not a window in sight. It was easy to forget humans even existed, until he would occasionally break in with bland and tasteless meals. He spoke harshly and coldl...

"The trouble is that you think you have time." - Jack Kornfield It was at the age of three that Thomas Gray first said the word "happy". A few months later, he discovered what the word meant. But he was six when he first discovered what "joy" meant; the sun shining brightly in the sky, snowballs flying in his direction, a warm smile plastered across his face. He remembers vividly, to this day, how his mother taught him to make snow angels, and how his father helped him onto his feet, every time he fell into the snow. He didn't remember much else, but he knew that joy was that warm giddiness that he felt in his tummy, that stayed unfazed in spite of the cold winter winds.  He felt happy an ample amount of times after that winter, but he never really felt joy. Thomas Gray was not always a man buried under a pile of work. In his young years, he was full of dreams and aspirations, and even the sky wasn't the limit. He had a list of things he wanted to ...

S.O.S. *** Claire is seated outside the manager's room, flipping through the pages of 'The Daily Affairs'. She's already read the day's edition, but having nothing particularly better to do, she decided to give it a re-read. She's not much of a 'politics' enthusiast, nor is she into 'sports'. The national and international affairs are the only sections that catch her eye. Now, the newspaper isn't a 'happy' read, so Claire wasn't expecting it to be all rainbows or sunshine. Still, she felt the shivers caress her as she read the increasing number of med. student suicides; most of them occuring due to research failures. She has always considered herself to be among the lucky ones, since she, once upon a time, wished to enter the research field herself. Luckily, just one month into it, she'd decided it was too much, and too unbalanced, for her liking. Thus, each new 'research failure' added more fear into her mind, because...

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 ...

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...