This story is based on the following prompt:
Write a story in which a character lives alone in a desolate environment—the woods, the desert, the mountains. Describe your character going about the day, and use that action as a backdrop for revealing the reason why he or she has chosen to retreat from the world. Then, have another character enter the scene, describing how he or she arrives. What happens next?
Length: within 1500 words.
The journey back from Ajmer Sharif to his isolated shelter was uneventful, though Anas was apprehensive at every moment he was away from his dera. He had the inkling that a storm was brewing somewhere, but he was unsure of the ways it could affect him. His annual pilgrimage to the Ajmer Sharif being over, he is back to work now. The dawn looked splendid as he peeked out of the tent. Despite being raised in different parts of the state, this is his longest stint living in the Thar Desert. The sunrise each dawn has been mesmerizing him for the past seven years that he has spent in this desert. Anas made it a point not to miss the dawn for a day. The advent of each morning made his heart flutter just before he opened the little tent door to a riot of gold and red on the dunes outside. He lived in a quaint corner of the Sam Sand Dunes, quite close to the Pakistan border. The rising sun never failed to paint the dunes in myriad hues of gold, orange, yellow and red. He savoured the sunrise each morning with a cup of lukewarm water and a piece of jaggery.
After the morning rituals, Anas set out for the stable nearby where his camels rested. He has five camels at present, three adults and two young ones. Why, it could even be called a mini camel farm! He reared them from calves to adults and sold them later, replacing them with other new born calves. And he occasionally bred them too. He was aware of the different breeds of camels which were reared at the Government Breeding Center in Bikaner. He knew that the Mewari breed is well adapted for travel and produced the highest quantity of milk, the Kachchi breed is short and stout, the Bikaneri breed is the strongest and heaviest, and the Jaisalmeri breed is the tallest. Of these, Anas needed only one breed though. He bred and reared the Mewari camels only and sold them for travel and carriage. He had started this business about seven years ago when he had only two camels. He required an isolated shelter for breeding, away from localities and intrusion for a reason which we will ponder on later in this story. Searching for a deserted corner in the desert itself wasn’t an easy task though. People from the small villages scattered over a span of hundred kilometers from Jaisalmer to the Pakistan border are ever curious of any outsider floundering in their territory. Anas had to skip the eyes of such people, acquire permission from the border police and then create a shelter for himself and his camels quite near the border. Instead of building a house for himself alone, he preferred living in a strong tent like the Arab Bedouins.
“I have something to tell you.”
Tony muttered as Marc bent to pick an Edelweiss for him.
His words lingered in the thin air of Swiss Alps.
It was fourth day of the trek and they had climbed high.
The tone of his lover surprised Marc as he felt the downhill thrust.
“I have something to tell you.”
Mark didn’t look at her. His eyes were still shut softly.
Toni repeated the words to her twin brother.
Mark still lay lifeless. He is in coma for the past ten years.
Toni severed all medical ties that kept him alive.
Now she could finally bid him , “Auf Wiedersehen.”
“I have something to tell you.”
He said apologetically before she could undress him.
Nahoko couldn’t wait any longer. He was a rare Italian gigolo in Tokyo.
As she opened his shirt, she was shocked by the full-body tattoos.
“Sayonara,” he whispered while slashing her throat.
She was the wife of a Triad lord.
This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda – See more at: http://blog.blogadda.com/2013/06/21/weekend-creative-writing-india-bloggers#comments
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‘Seven Days Without You’ is a story of two childhood friends that finds its destiny only when they live seven days away from each other. What the joyous life of years together couldn’t unearth, was dug out by the heart breaking realities of seven days that were no less than a new life for him– one where his childhood friend was not with him.The protagonist, Vishwas is all set for his first job. Enthralled with excitement the small town ‘mummy-papa’ boy leaves for Delhi and would return after seven days. His seven days without Shailja do not happen as he thought they would. His dreams ruined, expectations shattered and fantasies turned into nightmares, he realizes that life isn’t as simple as it looked from the balcony of his room. Fun, joy, excitement, sorrow, disgust, embarrassment, deception and then LOVE… Seven days teach him the perfect definition of every sentiment. The battle of emotions and confessions that lasts for seven days transmutes his years old relationship into something else, and his heart overflows with the love he thought Shailja would never kindle inside him. What happened in those seven days that gouged his love out of friendship? Will Shailja still be waiting for him after these seven days? And will she reciprocate his love…?
I was attracted to this book only for the plot mentioned in the blurb, the concept of seven days of separation and conjugation. After reading the entire book, I found the core idea to be the only interesting ingredient. Rest – gone all wrong again. I’ll give you an example. Would you like to read a book which has the following lines…
The unsullied moist breeze of the jungle and the magnificent expanse of verdure, for a while I forgot the scene beside me. (p. 30)
…coupled with the ones below?
“You told me that you have got a bike. Where it is?” (p. 77)
As I kept reading, I had a very strong feeling that either the author had a split personality while writing or there was a ghost writer involved. There is a distinctive switch from pedestrian ‘Indian English’ to a better choice of words – at irregular intervals. I don’t know if it is humble enough to suggest that the author had MPD while writing, so I’d rather assume that the editors decided to garnish the chapters with their own choice of trail mix.
It’s raining in Calcutta now. And I’m writing about it sitting in a sunny, humid, sweltering city a couple of thousand kilometers away. That itself should be proof enough of my yearning for rain, in Calcutta. Every year at the advent of monsoon, there is a part in me which unfailingly craves to be in Calcutta to savour the climate. The dilapidated city looks surreal, feels surreal, and infinite memorable moments are born with each earthward drop.
Photo Courtesy: Subhamoy Sinha Roy
I have lived in Calcutta for eight years only. I have also lived in a few other metropolises of the world during rains. Miami – yes, Mumbai – yes, Hyderabad – yes, New York – briefly yes, London – briefly yes, Belfast – yes. I have watched the preparation, the actual precipitation, soaked and froze myself in those rains, and yet, whenever it rains anywhere it reminds me of Calcutta. I have eons of memories as I spent the crucial monsoons of my life in the city. The shadows of deep dark pregnant clouds on the moss-lined walls of our old Ballygunge flat used to bring out the poet in me each monsoon. They were not necessarily works of art, I must assure you, but they never failed to fill the pages of my diary. I was naive then, yes. Even an edged word from my best friend drove me to melancholy and made me seek solace in the rain. I could sit hours on the window sill and day-dream with incessant patter in the background. That is something I still do. The rains compel me to day-dream. They make even amateurish dreams seem achievable.
Image Courtesy: Google
It is the journey of Prince William and Princess Sara, the protagonists,through the magical and spiritual worlds of Pantolis, Hiblisk, and Ikra. As their voyage unfolds, they realize the true motive behind the terror employed by the dark forces of Dushtt to claim supremacy over the lands of Pantolis and beyond. Every new revelation brings to light the methodical madness employed by the dark forces and secrets of Mother Nature, which have been safely guarded for ages by the various civilizations of the secret worlds.
Their journey also introduces them to the divine forces that monitor the functions of the world and gives them access to legendary, mystical weapons and advanced spiritual knowledge which illuminates the flow of their understanding and actions towards various aspects of life. They use the knowledge gained, to try and bring peace, to their war ravaged lands and fight the ever-growing might and influence of the mysterious dark forces that haunt their kingdoms. Will the light of all that is divine, fighting under the banner of Prince William and Princess Sara, flicker away into oblivion against the might of the dark forces under Dushtt, or will they survive? ……..Only time in her womb holds the answer, potent enough to change the outlook of the very world we live in.
Fantasy is pretty much a revered genre in fiction where things could go either way for the author and the readers. I have read fantasy novels which are trash, as well as the ones shooting way high in fame and popularity like the Harry Potter series. There is another breed which is mediocre. It is quite painstaking to read these mediocre ones. They keep challenging you to read towards the last page just so you know the whole story. I had picked this book for review expecting an interesting fantasy thriller written by yet another Indian author making his debut. The consequence though, was not at all pleasant for me.
Firstly, the blurb had its own promises of a taut fantasy thriller, the tagline ‘A Story with a Soul’ and an attachment of two printed maps inside. That is quite enough to attract people who want to read such a book. But – this one is a classic example of an editorial disaster, overuse of vernacular English and a mediocre plot – all three concocting to a not-interesting-read-at-all. The editors of this book have done a terrible job at the author’s expense. There are typographical errors on pages 15, 20, 31, 35…And then I lost interest even noting them down any more.