Wordplay: The Reading Spot

“Every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.” - Fyodor Dostoyevsky Rafe boarded the train just before the compartment doors shut. He breathed a sigh of relief, but only momentarily, and hurried further to find the debriefed compartment. This time, unlike his previous assignments, not only did Rafe not know the face of his target, but he was also late. The target was to get off at the next station, which was only thirty-four minutes away. The odds were against him, and he was not very happy about it.  Having a rather modest, yet relatively respectable record of eight accomplished assignments, with no breaches, if Rafe were to botch this particular mission, he wouldn't be spared from being treated as a beginner's luck-riding rookie. His promotion being on the line certainly alleviated none of this pressure. Compartment 38...40...and there, Rafe reached the 42nd compartment, as mentioned in his briefing, with thirty minutes left. Rafe scanned his vic...

"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...

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...

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 ...

Hello Reader...here's a story 1. The Shoemaker  In a small town, one shoemaker was walking back home to his little hut on the outskirts of the area. It had been a long, sad day, for the shoemaker had received just a handful of customers, barely making him enough to buy some breadsticks the next day. Tired, he trudged back home, freshened up, and starting pouring out his soup, which was the only supper he could afford.  It was twelve minutes past midnight; normally, the very thought of staying awake would be enough for the person to bail on the idea, but not this man. After years of staying alone and being up till late at night, nothing fazed the shoemaker anymore. Not the sleep, and nor did the rumours about the monsters that lurked at night. According to the rumours, there was once a trader who was denied refuge due to his appearance during his short visit to the town. He died of starvation in the woods, and now his ghost would return to haunt the town.  It's been two ye...

Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop... I was heading home from work that evening, tired and worn out. It had been a rough day at work, and I still had to get the weekly groceries.                                                                 "Milk, biscuits, a few vegetables...", I repeated the list to myself to ensure I wouldn't forget it. It was quite difficult, considering the fact that it was quite foggy and the road wasn't clearly visible. Luckily, for me, I had driven these roads for seven years now, so I knew them like the back of my hand.  Fog wouldn't engulf our small town till at least, late November, usually. It was a little surprising to see it this early in October, but it didn't affect me, for I knew the way.  My head started to blank out. I was just too exhausted. I fought the sleep in my eyes and pres...