Hello! So this is @The60Second's SWC Thread, in which I'll be posting all my literary pieces related to SWC. If you don't know what SWC is, SWC, or Scratch Writing Camp, is a triannual virtual writing camp where each participant sets themselves a word goal and aims to write that amount from the beginning to the end of camp. But that's not all— SWC also entails activities to help improve writing, fun challenges with creative limitations, and other tasks you can complete to earn your cabin points.


INTRODUCTION - 1: 50 PM IST, 1/7/ 24

“Facts are not science — as the dictionary is not literature.”
- Martin H. Fischer

Hello dear SWC-ers and the rest of common scratch folk, my name is Ethel. I consider myself rather inadept at writing introductions, but here we are. (I am totally not blasting le sserafim's intros rn—I’M ANTI-FRAGILE). I’m a fifteen year old girl, residing grumpily on earth, due my rather unfortunate fate ;< yes I wanna live on the MOOONN. I like Kpop (yes I am delulu), writing and socialising in general. I have been reading a lot of non-fiction lately, hence the cabin non-fi (and also because of my dear ex-co-leader finley), and poetry. Non-fi in general is one of the most disliked genres (guess why? Yes we both know it), and called a collection of facts—ahem ahem—that is one way to put it. But I like to consider non-fi more as literature of facts. Sure non-fi has little flexibility in its “truth”, yet it requires skill to present it in an appealing way, there is a reason why Copernicus’s revolutionary idea of solar system was ignored—yes you guessed it, he was a very bad writer. Yet Yuval Noah Harari, who apparently, took all the information available, and spun it into a best-seller book, well, didn’t find something new. He just presented it nicely. Isn’t that the power of writing? Oops, well this supposedly my introduction, not non-fi’s—
Some of my favourite sub-genres in non-fi would be philosophy, self-help and history. I am also a fan of well-written historical fiction and lyrical prose. I have not been as active on scratch as I used to be, only logging in for SWC updates and stuff, because of hectic schedule and grandiose school demands T-T. My favourite animal is owl, because of the wisdom it represents. My favourite subject in school would be mathematics, considering it’s that one subject I score most well in. Rest are tolerable, but languages throttle my brain, ripping it apart neuron by neuron, and flushing it all in the washroom. (if you find some pink-grey substance floating in the sewer, you know where it came from).

+343 Words

The weekly in progress

To,
Sci-Fi,
Scratch Writing Camp

Dear Sci-Fi
I have been in great distress lately, especially concerning of recent chaos. I speak humbly, dear friend, I hold no grudge (even if what you did was VERY grudge-worthy). The supplies I sent shall arrive shortly, if no interference occurs. You will find this another letter, wrapped up in chiffon, painted cerise, it has all the information of Bi-Fi’s next raid (I am betraying Bi-fi’s trust; so handle the data prudently). I do agree with your technological skills, but my rusty soul cannot bring myself to trust them. I prefer doing things the antiquated way. I will await your reply.
PS. You will not show this letter to dystopian. No you won’t.

Yours Truly
Horror

Daily, 8. Nov.

1. Drabble
2. Drabble
3. Drabble

TW: all of them are related to murders (im in horror guys), and feature a lil gore. and please don't read the last one if you're

• hypersensitive or even moderately sensitive

• are elfie

• because i just randomly did anything words = quantity>quality because horror needs points.

• don't like um, horror or have a mental disorder

Foul play

Never had the goblet shone, if it shone, with so much significance. Dreams were to be dreamt and games to be stopped—never had the goblet shone so much. Ambrosia, they kept in the goblet—and presented it to them. The goblet of gold, silver and diamond—they presented to him. The fingers that bore ornaments and jewels, clasped the goblet of gold, silver and death. He brought it near his lips. And the goblet of gold, silver and pain crashed to the ground. With no cerise wine near it but cerise blood—blood of a cup bearer.

100 words (including title)


Innocent

The ritual started, with two kumquats kept upon the altar and so with the liver and heart of the pig. A slender hand with the love of a mother and grace of a knife, shorn it into two—three—and four. The priest stood, broad and unmoving, his hand offering the torn liver to the girls, who trembled with fear and horror. Her canines, incisors and all molars and premolars tasted vile filth of it as her eye stung. Water roared at her eyelids, demanding to be let out. A hiss tore through, as she was hauled upon a stone table, and a dagger tore through—what seemed to be gauzes.
+112 words (including title)


Murderer

I hate the sky’s smile as it sets down and invites the motherly night in its heart. The cat’s paws run forcibly over the blanket kept. There is an agonizing meow, and a crash. I manage a crawl to what seems to be a door. it opened. And I realize, I alone did not need gauzes and bandages. When horror knocked on your door, asking for help. – i hate dreams

+77 words (including title)

Total = +311 words

The Weekly #2

The Transcription DONE MAN FINALLY
Me and @unhinged_musings

Ethel : Hello Kora, I'm Ethel and I'll be interviewing you today. (Smiles)Have you read The Hunger Games? If yes, then what is your opinion on Peeta?

Kora: I read the first book, mainly because I just wanted to see teenagers fight to the death . I didn't read the second, because I believed they didn't fight to the death in that one. Honestly I thought the whole Peeta thing was kind of stupid - like, seriously? Does the guy not understand that their survival was on the line? And that it doesn't count as a “bEtRaYaL” or “liEs” if she was literally doing it /so they did not die/. I honestly don't remember much more than that, I read it quite a while ago, but…I mean that's just my two cents

Kora: So, for my question… What's your favorite way to write? By hand on a typewriter (I have a couple, only one is functioning though and the other is eh), or a computer? If on a computer, what software do like to use?

Ethel : (scowls) Hm, I think I prefer a computer. Since in-between writing I do many kind of things such as check scratch, music and read. A typewriter would limit all that. In terms of software, (leans back)I'm always open to new options and I use mainly three, yEdit, yWriter and our good ole MS Word

Ethel : (smiles mischievously) It's my turn to question you, and I would like to ask your opinion on math and especially Compound Interest and commercial math. Do you think it's useful? Should trigonometry be taught? Or is it a waste of time? Should we sack all math teachers?

Kora: (gives you a weird look)Of course coupound interest and commerical math should be taught! In fact, things like that are some of the most important subjects taught in math - at least, for the people who don't go into the subject for something related to college or their future. And as for trigonometry, it's useful enough. And …no, to that last one. I think math teachers are, on a whole, average, and are very useful for learning math. They're definitely keepers. oops I gave you a few too many weird/strange looks there but I mean.

Kora: so do you want me to tell you about homestuck? no that's not the question, actually. (Unless the answer is yes.) The question is: what do you think of sports? I'd like to hear your opinions on both watching and playing.

Ethel : (gives a murdering look)Of course, I think sports are ridiculous, something that shouldn't be taught! I myself sit and do math or read during the PHE period, because (starts counting)
1. I hate sports
2. I hate sports again
3. I hate sunshine
4. I am a possum
5. I am stupid
Also, how can one love a monstrosity such as sports?!?!? Also all sports teachers should be banned! and on watching sports, this thing literally goes over my head. (Shakes head)I have no idea how, /how/ people can enjoy Watching some random dudes (fumes)whizz-whazz on a screen. It's ridiculous, also all sports teachers are discipline-coordinators-in-disguise so another reason. and I am interested about Homestuck, unless that's Kora's Odyssey . Though you gave me numerous weird looks (laughs) I think CI is a useless part of math. Honestly. Also, (whispers)can you tell me more about this Kora's Odyssey? And are you a cat person or dog person? WHY? #CATSAREBETTER

total = 564 words 3,058 characters

Part -2

Monologue w/ a partener–mine is wavie

Him
I watched as he walked away from me, my fingers numbly clenched the red rose I was holding, the thorns pierced through my skin.
He does not love me, he never did. I was a stranger to him, I always will be. I loved him dearly, I had the biggest crush, I could not bear to see him go, I reached out for him to stop, he was too far for me to catch, he always had been distant, hadn't he? I pulled myself closer, but his feelings for me didn't exist, if anything it was hatred.

I felt numb with pain, like I was trapped in my own mind, I wanted to run, but where? I did not want to go further away from him, he did not break my heart, he shattered it. I was trapped in my own body, I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. I felt like I was going to collapse. This is it, I thought, the person I loved was walking into the sunset as I watched him from a distance. I wanted to slap him hard, how could he do this to me, I thought he liked my back, what if I caught hold of him, though? would I really slap him like I meant to, I felt like cuddling into his arms and breaking into tears. The thorns were deep in my palms by now, but my heartache was much much more than a single thorn might be. I felt like the world has spun out of balance, the person who was my soul mate, the person I was meant to be with had gone away from me, escaped my life with a simple “No.”

I wanted to grab hold of him , no matter what he said, I loved him, I loved him I whispered, my voice had come back. I fell to the ground

His sturdy voice reverberated in my mind. no. no. no. NO.
It was the same all over again. His sturdy voice reverberated in my mind. no. no. no. NO.
It was the same all over again. I could feel his presence slipping from my hand, his consciousness directed towards something else. I croaked out a sob, the winds felt too cold, my throat too hot and everything was a blur. The world was cruel and I was another young girl who was captured behind the ruthless bars of longing, regret and—unrequited love. I stumbled forward, the rose lay in front of my eyes. The thorns were coated in crimson paint and all it seemed was a memory. A painful memory. It was there, the rose, it taunted me, what were you thinking, foolish girl? All in my life, I had never felt such loyalty, and love…for someone. Who thinks I’m worthless. It’s right, I am the one who has been foolish all along. Rather than seeing things the way they were, I saw them the way I wanted to. In the end, what was gained? Lost was all. and all was lost. Hearts are not made to broken, are they? And when they are broken, shattered like shards of glass? Each stich is a stab on a grief-stricken memory the threads used to bind the pieces is frail and a single cut, could dismantle years of healing. Those beautiful petals lie on the harsh ground, contrasting. Am I that rose? But it’s meant to be loved and… so am I. I turned sharply, and walked back hugging a book in my hand and ignoring everyone. I trotted. The door to my room creaked, familiar scents swayed towards me–plagued me. I waved through and leaned on the window. I set the rose in an onyx vase. It deserves someone who will accept her.
+632 words

Spoken Word Poetry



How can I forget to love myself—when I never learnt it. I do no care of others’ opinions of me. what hurts is that I would stay up the whole night. toil for them. and they would walk away, as if I do not even mattered. I know I don’t.
That’s what leaves me empty. I am lonely. You don’t understand me. and I thought I wore my heart on my sleeve.

+309 words

Songwriting

Of canines and felines

There seems to be a little—of knowing
There seems to be a more—of ignorance
When I greet you in the halls
My heart ends up at walls
With a poisonous smile and a twinkling eye
With an expensive bottle of rye
There’s me at the stakes.


oh, how I grieve of humanity,
because there is nothing
I can speak or say
The Rhododendron is at my feet


there seemed to be all of them swirling around in circles
The dew on flowers was blood
I was alone after all
Running away was—the only option
Because there’s me at the stake




The kindness I crave—seems lost
The people I gave—my soul
Oh, they seemed to have forsaken,
Is it me mistaken?
And a grin again dances along
Your lip pounce on the song



oh, how I grieve of humanity,
because there is nothing
I can speak or say
The Rhododendron is at my feet


there seemed to be all of them swirling around in circles
The dew on flowers was blood
I was alone after all
Running away was—the only option
Because there’s me at the stake


a dance of bloody hounds
And felines on the purr
I sat cross legged
Upon the floor of rud
They pulled the string of the rud—
The music was pretty
And there’s me at the stake


oh, how I grieve of humanity,
because there is nothing
I can speak or say
The Rhododendron is at my feet


there seemed to be all of them swirling around in circles
The dew on flowers was blood
I was alone after all
Running away was—the only option
Because there’s me at the stake

So, there is me stake
Is finally scarified, the forfeit is done.
And I lay alone.
The Rhododendron was at my feet



+311 words


TOTAL WORDS = 1,834 words 9,448 characters

YOU

Oh dear me!
I have a few things to say to you, {real name redacted}
A smile is all that took—down the constraints
Between you and them
It’s mornin’ it’s night
But you’re thinking—about the same old thing
Your mind drowns in the wonders, of the same old thing
Oh {real name redacted}! The challenges, the hurdles—never ends
How could it?
When—you’re not ready to lose?
How would the world, stop and watch, what you do–what you face.
Everything is cruel–taunts you
at every step
it does it
and then you're not ready to win
but you won't stand–losing

+99 words

snip

Badi Haveli, Peeran Pur
12 November, 2022
The sun sat low, his aura rimming the lush trees that sat on the edge of the Badshah Begum’s Mansion. A stream ran down, gurgling and washing depressed stones. The windows of the mansion were thrown open, as the sentinels stood straight and tall. If one looks through the grand window, a frail woman sat on the bed, chinking the shiny gold wristlet adorned at her hand. Her tanned skin shone, the locks of her raven hair tied into silver jewelry. Jahan Ara’s eyes twinkled as she sheathed the ivory dagger and hid it under her piles of jewels. She picked up her copy of Qur’an, and pressed it to her forehead. A fluttering prayer was whispered, and a gold beaded string she held dropped to the floor. It was dripping red.

Badi Haveli, Peeran Pur
5 pm, 3 December, 2022
I think about Hakim Bi a lot. She is my aunt, my father’s only and older sister. I think if I am like her, not in appearance, but with the air I carry myself. The questions come at night, when I lie in the bed, cocooned in sheets of Chinese silk and linen. How different my reign is from hers. What happened. What did not happen. The position of the Badshah Begum has not many takers, I was forced—and yet not quite. Hakim Bi was a queen of importance, she used the reins of fear and reputation to get her ends. Even the Princes and Kings bowed down, the disapproval of Badshah Begum—even a hint of it, could make them lose the throne. She had never anticipated my arrival, never gave an eye-batting thought that the Pir of Peeran Pur would barge through the halls and seize her throne. Sell the holiness to his city-born children. His city-born children. Those verminous and beguiling thespians. I am his oldest city-born child. Pardon, I began the tale of my woes too quickly. I shall tell you, what came before. My father had two wives, one in Peeran Pur, and other in the city. No one knew about my mother, until he brought us all to Peeran Pur. Three children and their mother. The Pir family was thrown into a daze, in which they struggle to this day. Everyone was stunned, and even more so, when my stepmother murdered my mother. I still remember, her gasps for breath as blood pooled around, sliding from the wound on her neck. Hakim Bi screamed at my stepmother, “Foolish girl! What have you done?” But my stepmother stood in stupor. She died soon after that, while giving life to her last son, Mura’ad. I don’t think Shahzaib ever forgave Baba. I haven’t too. But he’s dead. He died from shock or love, I don’t know, when he saw my brother’s severed neck presented to him on a silver platter. We had received the shroud a week ago. Baba brushed it off as a sadistic joke. But people of Peeran Pur don’t joke. They strike. On the chest—at the back. And that strike took my brother from Baba—and me.

“Your Highness, Pir Shahzaib implores an audience” My khaazma-e-khaas, Gulnar, bows her head deeply, as her sable clothes dip down. I frown at her, Gulnar bites her lip, as I beckon her to let him in. I keep my beaded string upon the table, wrapping it around a book. A shadow falls in front of me, as Shahzaib leans on the door; he seems to be fiddling with his ring, very engrossed in his current toy. “Is that all of your purpose, of your visit today?” I turn my head towards him, as my brother smiles. He is of medium height and of slight bulky build. His nose stands straight on his face flaunting his high cheekbones. I find his personality repelling. Not despicable or abhorrent. He is a better King, just and rational. But he doesn’t possess the love Shahmir did. Shahzaib could never compare up to him. He smiles “Oh, Jahan Ara, have we forgotten all the blood relations we have?” I instruct Gulnar to bring tea for us and leave. Shahzaib strolls to the armchair and sprawls down comfortably. The bright day is smeared with bright orange clashing onto the husky blue. My room holds a large bed and wardrobe, with a few dressing tables, hefty embroidered curtains and rugs and a few small cupboards holding books. There are chairs and tables on the center, where I relax. “I want no relation to you”, I spit it out, my head turned towards the balcony, “Yet you still have it,” he smiles sadly “strange are the ways of blood and family”. I wish he wasn’t here, I wish Shahmir was alive, wearing the turban of Pir, which never should belong to him. It was all Shahzaib’s. From the start. And who lost everything for a test? Me. Shahmir. Baba. Shahzaib has everything he wants and then some more. He won. I lost. I heave out a breath miserably and sniff slightly. Shahziab lolls his head backwards “When your mother died, I believe I had kept a secret. Something between my shadow and soul” He continues his muse uninterrupted. “I think it was a memory at first. Then a belief at second. But now, I have faith in it” I have no interest in digging up old graves. Last time, I found rotting expectations of my parents and had to use the same grave for my brother. I will not. Not this time. “I saw the knife first. Your mother second. She said she would expose her. I heard a voice in return. Not my mother. But Hakim Bi” by now, he too is focusing on the balcony. “She ran the knife against your mother’s neck”, my ears twitches, wanting to hear more. Fury and hate pours into my bloodstream, as I keep myself in control. “Hakim Bi—in the end. She was our misery. Your mother knew something. She was a woman of city. Couldn’t turn herself ignorant” Shahzaib finishes and looks at me expectedly. “and look where it got her” I say at last. It’s night now, the dusk has already washed away. “What are you going to do now, Jahan Ara?” He enquires, “I don’t need to. My foe already holds her between his teeth”

7pm, Safeed Mazar, Peeran Pur
“You can go Hakim Bi” Kaiser swayed slightly, his kohl-rimmed eyes examining the old woman who stood before him. “You have broken the life of many” He smiled “If you beg the Lord enough, maybe he will wash some sins away” He held a gun horizontally on his shoulders and his both arms lolled over it. Hakim Bi made a face, age had eroded her beauty but not her pride. She spun on her heels and walked towards the shrine slowly, tears rimming her eyes. Tchk. “Lailaha ilallallah, mahamadur rasulallah” A last prayer she muttered as a tear fell from Hakim Bi’s eyes before a bullet from Kaiser’s gun met her.

+1179 words (excluding author's note)



Glossary
Pir: A religious guide, her referred here as a king
Lailaha ilallallah, mahamadur rasulallah: A prayer, known as Shahadat (also recited before death)
khaazma-e-khaas: royal handmaid
Baba: Father
Author’s Note
It is a fanfiction of the drama serial “Badshah Begum”
This story is set in a small town of Peeran Pur in the Indian Subcontinent, which follows the strict hierarchy of Pirs (pronounced are “PEE-r-s”) in modern times. Jahan Ara is the queen (Badshah begum), and her half-brother (Shahzaib) is the king (as followed in the Pir Hierarchy). I’m just naming things and not following official terms if they exist. Shahmir was Jahan Ara’a brother who was killed by the people of Peeran Pur.

+109 words (author's note and glossary)

GRAND TOATAL : +1317 words

Iris : Man, Iris, I must say, when I decided to choose you for a co, I couldn’t be luckier. My decision was just and firm. YOU THE MOST AMAZING CO TO HAVE (WITH WAVE)! Gosh, I love your personality, and the way you handle things when wavie or I get busy/inactive for a while. I love your infectious enthusiasm, it being the sole reason I picked you as a co. I was looking for someone with a vibrant personality, where they could throw butterflies around and be happy. You’re perfect. You counted all those points and words. Managed the cabin when I was gone. Did so much work, made sure no one was left out. You did many weeklies while I only did two *my bad* Though I wasn’t sure that you wanted to co-lead horror, since I think it’s a tip-off genre for many. And the best was that you live in IST, that was SOOO helpful and practical. I somehow accidently choose cos who were near my time zone lol. When wavie and I were just drooling around like drunkards, you kept us on track, told me hindi is bad and I just took a sharp attitude on my hindi teacher he told me if I didn’t write this I could go out of the class. Moreover, I went and stood out of the class. And I thought I didn’t have attitude.

Wavie: MY POTATO! Like yes, potato. Wavie, I love your art skills and your creativity, also, who can forget your dedication. You handled cabin wars so well, helped iris when she was gone and just made such a wonderful (co)leader. You amazed me at each step, by lord, I was so befuddled how can one person be so great :sob: You wrote 6k words for one cabin wars (ahem, I was only near 2 or 3k), and did both of them wonderfully, kept supporting horror and booing disco-painins. I just love the art you made for Achlyd, he looks so cute and I guess I’m allowed to brag about my creation—I mean son. You actually liked horror and looked like someone who would be in horror. Like I’m wallowing in horribleness xD lol I feel so connected to you after our session together. @Elvin_Wonders recommended you actually, and I never doubt her choice. I’ll trust her blindly if I have to. She was like “yeah you know zai has some really cool apps favorited on his pf, you can check those out” well, in much more formal and elfie tone but yeah you get it. and I was like woah, I like this person, she’s so darn cool. I knew we’d be good friends from the moment 
Butterflies, because they love you

Twi : Heh, twi, you’re such an awesome camper! I mean whatever cabin you ever get will be lucky to have you on board. You’ve been so supportive of horror and a camper I’ve interacted most this session. You did each daily and weekly, though I’m a lazy word adder so it’s good you did not get me xD Also, you participation Achlyd wars was just so /passionate/ *giggles*

Sepetmber : I know we did not talk much but I always saw you around the cabin, doing dailies, commenting on cabin wars, achlyd wars, and doing riddles.
Iris : Yeah, Iris/Galaxy, the second iris of our cabin you’re so awesome and you write like zeus. I mean it, next time, keep your word goal 50k, because you’re achieving it /pos You did so wonderfully and reminded me how lazy * I am. I hope to see ou next time

Ayid : welp, you just blew off our cabin. We didn’t directly talk much but we had our moments, stalking and doing random stuff in SWC. Man that’s just so brilliant.

Chapter 1

Mura’at Qurayshi knitted his brows at the starting plane on his nose and thought about his future. He was fed up. With everything in Shokar. Especially the people, they were too different from him and he was fed up of their bickering and snickering at him. He had packed all his clothes and supplies. A horn blared in distance and a train appeared painfully slowly, its headlight cutting grotesquely through the winter fog. Ironic, for a train to enter such unhurriedly. Mura’at adjusted his shawl as a horde of people swam out from the train. There were all kinds of them, coming from Delhi and Gurgaon. It was still an hour before his train came up. He had many things to think about. His past—present—and reluctantly, his future. A man sat up next to him, “Cruel weather; ain’t it?” Mura’at thought about the man’s voice—his accent, he was nowhere from here. Mura’at had travelled to the nearest town that offered a Train Station. Perhaps people had such kind of accent there, but something in his voice betrayed he didn’t belong miles and miles away from this town or his village. Mura’at dipped his head in agreement “Worst winter I have ever seen”, if he had not been so curious about the man’s origin, he would’ve just ignored him. “Very bad, I haven’t seen such an ice-horde in all my years” The man had dark skin and was big; he seemed to be around in his fifties or so. “You don’t seem from here, where are you from?” Mura’at asked him and the man smiled slowly. “Sharp lad”, the man rested back and heaved a deep breath. “Bihar, I mean, I’ve lived my half-life in here, but even that couldn’t knock out the Biharipan from me”. It was so obvious now that Mura’at knew it, he could make out the way that the man slurred the “za” to “ja” and his painful approach to Urdu. “My great-grandmother was from Bihar” Mura’at remembered stories from his Dada, about his family and Aligarh. Aligarh, where he was going now. The man chuckled. They spoke no more. When Mura’at’s train came and he dragged his travel bag to it. He sneaked one glance to the man. The man tipped his head and smiled. Mura’at didn’t like this indication. He forced himself in, and crawled through the throng of people to his berth. Mur’rat forced his luggage under the berth, as heavy they were. So here it begins. The train shrieked and a gentle rhythm started, compelling Mur’at to sing to her melody. He sunk to the berth and drew his knees to his chest. He couldn’t sleep the whole night.


A week before
Mura’at strolled at the edge of his village, watching the vicinity spill into woods. The evening sky was fresh, as dusk danced along with her partner. Children shouted across the lush fields bearing grains of wheat and oats. The whole world swayed to the soft breeze that settled onto everywhere.


Note : This will be edited throughout, so chapters may be incomplete so, be warned.

NOTE : ok, so those who see it before, this is an edited version an different from the original.



Badi Haveli, Peeran Pur
12 November, 2022

The sun sat low, his aura rimming the lush trees that sat on the edge of the Badshah Begum’s Mansion. A stream ran down, gurgling and washing depressed stones. The windows of the mansion were thrown open, as the sentinels stood straight and tall. If one looks through the grand window, a frail woman sat on the bed, chinking the shiny gold wristlet adorned at her hand. Her tanned skin shone, the locks of her raven hair tied into silver jewelry. Jahan Ara’s eyes twinkled as she sheathed the ivory dagger and slipped it under the piled jewels. She picked up her copy of Qur’an, pressing the sacred text to her pale forehead. A fluttering prayer was whispered and a gold beaded necklace she held dropped to the floor. It was dripping red.

Badi Haveli, Peeran Pur
5 pm, 3 December, 2022

I think about Hakim Bi a lot. She is my aunt, my father’s only and older sister. I think if I am like her, not in appearance, but with the air I carry myself. The questions come at night, when I lie in the bed, cocooned in sheets of Chinese silk and linen. How different my reign is from hers. What happened. What did not happen. The diversity in the questions is surprising and almost unsettling. The position of the Badshah Begum has not many takers, I was forced—and yet not quite. Hakim Bi was a queen of importance, she used the reins of fear and reputation to get her ends. Even the Princes and Kings bowed down, the disapproval of Badshah Begum—even a hint of it, could make them lose the throne. And those who held the threads of the throne, held the threads of the whole town. She had never anticipated my arrival, never gave an eye-batting thought that the Pir of Peeran Pur would barge through the halls and seize her throne. Sell the holiness to his city-born children. His city-born children. Those verminous and beguiling thespians. I rather like to think of them in this way. I am his oldest city born child . Pardon, I began the tale of my woes too quickly. I shall tell you, what came before. My father had two wives, one in Peeran Pur, and other in the city. No one knew about my mother, until he brought us all to Peeran Pur. Three children and their mother. The Pir family was thrown into a daze, in which they struggle to this day. We all had this hint of cruelty, hint of royalty in us. Everyone was stunned, and even more so, when my stepmother murdered my mother. She never went through a trial, a small word to speak of her sins. Murder wasn’t the answer. It never will be. All I could do was stare, and hold my tongue. I still remember, my mother’s gasps for breath as blood pooled around, sliding from the wound on her neck. Hakim Bi bore an expression of unrestrained fury, her brows knit and mouth curled into an almost smug expression. She shouted at my stepmother, What have you done, you foolish girl. Nevertheless, my stepmother stood in stupor. She refused to let a single word mar her face, as she stood in it all. Her demise didn’t come as a surprise, more as a relief to my younger self, she’s dead and that’s better. I don’t think Shahzaib ever forgave Baba. I haven’t too. But he’s dead. He died from shock or love, I don’t know, when he saw my brother’s severed neck presented to him on a silver platter. We had received the shroud a week ago. Baba brushed it off as a sadistic joke. But people of Peeran Pur don’t joke. They strike. On the chest—at the back. And that strike took my brother from Baba—and me.

“Your Highness, Pir Shahzaib implores an audience” My khaazma-e-khaas, Gulnar, bows her head deeply, as her sable clothes dip down. I frown at her, Gulnar bites her lip, as I beckon her to let him in. I keep my beaded string upon the table, wrapping it around a book. A shadow falls in front of me, as Shahzaib leans on the door; he seems to be fiddling with his ring, turning it around his fingers and back. “Is that all of your purpose, of your visit today?” I turn my head towards him, as my brother smiles. He is of medium height and of slight bulky build. His nose stands straight on his face flaunting his high cheekbones. I find his personality repelling. Not despicable or abhorrent. He is a better leader, his rule just and firm. But he doesn’t possess the love Shahmir did. Shahzaib could never compare up to him. Shahzaib cocks his head, and speaks at a dreamy pace“Oh, Jahan Ara, have we forgotten all the blood relations we have?” I turn to Gular and instruct her to bring in tea. He ambles to the armchair, and sprawls down comfortably. The day is smeared with bright orange clashing onto the husky blue. My room holds a large bed and wardrobe, with a few dressing tables, hefty embroidered curtains and rugs and a few small cupboards holding books. There are chairs and tables on the centre, where I sit, staring into my half-brother’s face. “I want no relation to you”, my voice comes out more dead than anticipated as I turn my head towards the balcony, “Yet you still have it,” he smiles sadly “strange are the ways of blood and family” I wish he wasn’t here, I wish Shahmir was alive, wearing the turban of Pir, which never should belong to him. It was all Shahzaib’s. From the start. And who lost everything for a test? Me. Shahmir. Baba. Shahzaib has everything he wants and then some more. He won. I lost. I heave out a breath miserably and sniff slightly the at the tea. Shahziab lolls his head backwards, finger his ring again “When your mother died, I believe I had kept a secret. Something between my shadow and soul” He continues his muse uninterrupted “I think it was a memory at first. Then a belief at second. But now, I have faith in it” I don’t want to be the one who digs up the graves. Last time, I found rotting expectations of my parents and had to use the same grave for my brother. A cemetery of my own making. I am better today. “I saw the knife first. Your mother second. She said she would expose her. I heard a sharp voice in return. Not my mother. But Hakim Bi” by now, he too is focusing on the balcony. “She ran the knife against your mother’s neck”, somewhere around now, I had stopped listening, but those last few words somehow make it into my ear. I do not feel anything at first, just a slight daze. Another moment flips, and then I start to feel how everything has played out. A deep resentment reverberates around my bones, the slick snake slithering up to my heart and eating away whatever peace is left. Shahzaib must see it somewhere as he tilts his head just slightly—a small gesture but unwelcome nonetheless. “Hakim Bi—in the end. She was our misery. Your mother knew something. She was a woman of city. Couldn’t turn herself ignorant” His eyes meet mine as he finishes, drowned by—pity? He swallows, waiting to hear me, to see what I have to say. And what do I have to say? “and look where it got her”. The night sits outside the windows and the dusk has washed away. “What are you going to do now, Jahan Ara?” He enquires, that sad smile crawling back into his face, welcomed by the low-lit lanterns. “I don’t need to. My foe already holds her between his teeth” Now, it is my turn for the sad smile.

7 pm, 3 December 2022
Safeed Mazar, Peeran Pur

“You can go Hakim Bi” Kaiser swayed slightly, his kohl-rimmed eyes examining the old woman who stood before him. “You have broken the life of many” He looked away at the grand structure in front of him dreamily, a little smile playing. “If you beg the Lord enough, maybe he will wash some sins away” He held a gun parallel on his shoulders as his both arms lolled over it. Hakim Bi held her eyes low, age had eroded her beauty but not her pride. White clothes draped all over her, as golden eyes peered from the hateful mask. She spun on her heels and walked towards the shrine slowly, tears rimming her eyes. Tchk. “Lailaha ilallallah, mahamadur rasulallah”, Hakim Bi let a tear slip, followed by another, before she was a heap on the ground.




Glossary
Pir: A religious guide, her referred here as a king
Lailaha ilallallah, mahamadur rasulallah: A prayer, known as Shahadat (also recited before death or execution)
khaazma-e-khaas: royal handmaid
Baba: Father
Author’s Note
It is a fanfiction of the drama serial “Badshah Begum”
This story is set in a small town of Peeran Pur in the Indian Subcontinent, which follows the strict hierarchy of Pirs (pronounced are “PEE-r-s”) in the modern times. Jahan Ara is the queen (Badshah begum), and her half-brother (Shahzaib) is the king (as followed in the Pir Hierarchy). The names used are not all official, since some are my own creative works. For context, Shahmir was Jahan Ara’s younger brother, who was mercilessly murdered by the people of Peeran Pur.


GRAND TOATAL : +1570 words

The Dead Cupbearers

Numerous women sat upon the floor adorned with plush rugs and pillows, cushions scattered and silk laid out. The atmosphere was of great chatter and bustling, with everyone seemed more thrilled with each passing instant, as a servant girl laid out the baskets linear on the floor. One after another, silk and chiffon brimmed to their tops, gold-embroidered clothes hung around the room, greeting each visitor personally, hello dear friend, look we are very rich. “Here servant girl, fetch a cup of water”, a frail woman batted her eyelashes, smiling with scorn at the servant girl. The servant girl hurried across the room, vanishing into an alleyway and procuring a cup rimmed with water, she reappeared. The frail woman snatched it, curled her lip slightly, and turned toward the lavish host. The frail woman offered the cup, rubies emboldened in it, and a small carving shams. The hostess took it, swirled the water inside, as if it was the sweet wine itself. Then she drank it.
Clink.

Each cupbearer was beheaded that night. Everyone remembered it, I did too, vividly, because it was the first time I glimpsed the cruelty of human nature. I was a young child, tied to my mother’s skirt as petals are to their buds, without them, the buds are useless and crushed. My mother started packing bags, rucksacks of clothes, our meagre belongings tied into bundles, and whispered to me “quiet. shh. don’t tell anyone” . we left soon. We hadn’t done anything, but we still left. I imagined of us being pursued—though not relentlessly, they left us after, when it became clear who conspired the poisoning. I had a whole architecture of what would happen to us, though it didn’t, my thoughts were left as thoughts. And such a blessing it was.

Everyone in Kafi had herded around Mother, circling her, oozing with curiosity. It was uncommon to kill women, why would anyone ever conspire to subdue such a creature who had practically no influence among financial matters or status? Though it is as highly untrue, the poisoning had occurred. No matter how everyone refused to believe it, it had occurred. Uncanny everyone said. Jahanumi everyone said. It didn’t matter much I suppose, because she was gone—and no one could bring her back. Everyone asked about the funeral. How was it? How many mourners? Who had cried? I had cried too. My eyes were swollen, sleepless and tired, my throat was too raw and my heart too fearful. Everyone had wailed, pretentiously or not, that remains undecided, but they wailed. I had wiped tears from Amma’s eyes, as the pallbearers took the dead away. And that one corpse—was only the start of the poisonings.

There is a pattern, hakim sahib smiled, oh, and you know, it’s all so exciting. I had never heard murders to be exciting, but hakim sahib was a queer man, I asked him more so. He laughed; it’s going to be fun. I waited for it to be fun. I waited for glee to run into my heart, for my eyes to soothe at the sight of coffins. It was a despicable notion, to find relief in someone’s death but real nonetheless. Hakim sahib was executed, a month or so after, the soldiers rushed into his home, dragged him out on the roads as stones and twigs caught his clothes, imploring him to stay. People stoned him in enthusiasm, mardood! Yes indeed, son of iblees he was. Ah, of course, who else than the shaitan‘s counterpart could commit such a heinous crime? Excitement roared again in the streets of Kafi, I had seen it all, watched it all. Hakim sahib was on his knees as a soldier kicked him. Vermin! He gagged and curled, as another kick landed. Hakim sahib was soon bleeding through his nose and feet. They kept up the charade the whole day. Some people dallied on their threshold. Threw vegetables. Stones. And rotten meat. Two days later, Hakim shaib’s widow came to our house, and begged for a job, we have a relation mother, I have mouths to feed, please don’t turn me away. My mother did turn her away, we live in Kafi she said. I already fled the king’s city, Falaq, and taking you in? I might as well run a khanjar on my neck. It was not long before I realized who the real winner was. Shaitan. The devil.




Chapter 2

The Maharani of Maharaja Ratan Sha died next. She was holding a banquet too, slave girls, food, gold, silver, emeralds, everything. There was not a chink this time, no goblet to drop on the floor. She had been gifted an apparel, said to be woven in china. The Maharani had wrapped the apparel around herself, to create a small headscarf. In an instant, the happiness of her gaze, the smile on her lips, vanished. That is how Sitara said it, she ran to the balcony, started tearing her hair, screamed and then jumped. “Vanished” Sitara frowned, “the darkness was so thick”. The death had drove Maharaja mad, he started accusing every servant to catch his eye, beheading anyone with even just a flicker of suspicion and so Sitara ended up at Kafi. She ran away just the way we did, my mother and I, a troupe of little lambs running from the wolf. Perhaps the very reason I trail after her, maybe she knew how it all felt, the running, the fearing. Sitara and I used to be popular among the streets of Kafi, for we knew about them. Girls would ask, was she beautiful? How was her face with the poison? How did she jump? We would tell them everything, and make up some tales, I caught the hostess in my hands, The Maharani shook me and told me that she was a Djinn.

Our popularity started withering from the next summer, new things happened, new deaths, new alliances and new marriages. We had no tale left. So we made them up, we sat together and weaved stories about the Mahal, Maharaja Ratan Sha had a secret wife, that is why Maharani jumped—oh she was a pious woman, and could not handle blasphemy the Maharaja used to patron. They were lies of course, we could not let go of our newfound identity, our specialness. All through our girlhood, we enjoyed the life Kafi offered, soft breezes, sultry summers and deathly winters, we had no autumn though but Kafi’s temperament seemed a lot like autumn, the withering and the leaving. Kafi was like a city of refugees, no one cares how you live in Kafi, and you could be a prole of bathrooms, no one would care. Many in Kafi were sinners. Most probably, they had been seeking a haven, or a sanctuary, running away from their past. We were a bit different in this aspect—we embraced our past, kept it like a jewel embedded in our skin. We saw the Hostess dead, so what? What if we witnessed the Maharani tearing her hair and committing suicide? This attitude wasn’t easy at first, but we learnt along the way, that perhaps, it helped us stay sane.

Sitara and I had two cats, Pyari and Dulari. Pyari was bathed in milk, somehow her paws were left, two black paws, two black spots in a perfect white sheet. Achilles’s heel, Hakim Sahib chuckled, you wouldn’t know the context beta. Oh, that was the problem—we did. On the day Hakim Sahib was bedeviled and beaten to death,

I’ll discontinue from here, since this was just a practice piece, though I may continue it sometime

Glossary
Jahanumi : Hell bound, or a resident of hell
Hakim : physician healer
Sahib : Sir
Mardood : Condemned, a term used to describe the Devil
Shaitan : an unbelieving class of jinn condemned to hellfire, The Devils
Iblees : The head of Shaitan or the devils
Pyari : Cute
Dulari : Beloved
Beta : An endearment for children and those younger than self,
Kafi : Town in this piece's context, but means enough
Falaq : The King's City in this context, means dawn
Khanjar : Dagger

The Buried Sun

Hush, child
In your courtyard
the noble sun is getting its final bath,
the silver moon, its grave—

Don’t cry, my child;
should mother, father, brother, sister,
sun and moon—see those eyes of yours,
They'll make you weep all the more


Maybe if you smiled,
someday all of them
—in disguise—
will come back to you to play

— Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Though the spot was lost, people knew that Zafar was buried somewhat south of Shwedagon Pagoda… According to the Myanmar Times, the British wanted the tomb to be “lost and forgotten, and hoped to leave no trace that could allow the body to be identified.”— Wikipedia

The Jallianwala Bagh could only be exited on one side, as its other three sides were enclosed by buildings. After blocking the exit with his troops, he ordered them to shoot at the crowd, continuing to fire even as the protestors tried to flee. The troops kept on firing until their ammunition was exhausted. Estimates of those killed vary from 379 to 1,500 or more people and over 1,200 other people were injured of whom 192 were seriously injured. — Wikipedia

2nd July 2023 Daily,

amber, cherry, lost, coffee, sunlight

White floor, white counter, white dress and white sheets. She held coffee in her white mug, lowering her eyes to the counter and—to a formerly white rug. She bent down, running a hand over the wet nostalgia. It smelt like grief. She clasped the seams of the rug and dragged it over, staining the angelic floor. The rug soon rested in the dustbin, as she pressed numbers on the intercom. Hello Ma’am, Hotel Room Service. She smiled and put down the telephone. She walked over to the couch, picked up her glossy briefcase and waltzed out of the suite.

Hawise Tewnel strutted through the lobby of Hotel Noblesse, her secretary dragging her suitcase behind. The hotel complemented its name, white marble floors splayed out mimicking Taj Mahal, large chandeliers, elegant staff and crisp sheets. Tewnel stopped abruptly, and gazed at the reluctant sunlight that poured through the retro windows. She smiled. “Oh, Hawise, isn’t it a pleasure?”, Tewnel moved and walked past the man, out the grand entrance and into the white luxury car.

She sat in her grandiose manor, watching a screen showing statistics of all her ventures. She wore red lipstick, biting white chocolate as she dialled her lawyer. That was the last known sighting of Hawise Tewnel, an amber tycoon, who was never found.

Two Years Before…
Tewnel was waiting in the antechamber, for an anonymous business dealer. The staff signalled her to the dining room. Hawise walked, and sat at the table, which was separated by a veil. The whole banquet room was empty, except for a voice who spoke from beyond the curtain. “Hawise. I believe my payment will be in hard currency”, Tewnel assured him that it was so. Finally, she cleared her throat and gathered her courage “I wish to see the cargo”. She could almost sense a malevolent smile emanating from her business partner. “Of course” He answered and a ruffle of chairs and cutlery betokened that he was standing. It was time. Tewnel took the cue, as the staff handed her a mask. For anonymity, they assured. Tewnel trotted after the dealer, who walked in long strides, confident in his gait. After a few hallways and antechambers, they reached a dark room, which led to an elevator. Tewnel gazed around, the hotel still dazzling, noblesse. A young, stout man, bowed slightly to them “Sir”. The dealer nodded to him in acknowledgement. The elevator was glassy, Tewnel noted as they entered, it was not unusual to her just a little odd for such a beauty to be in a room of secrets. It closed, and Tewnel could feel the heat. They could strangle her here. Or take out a knife and plunge it into her chest and she would bleed upon the transparent glass, drops and rivulets everywhere. Maybe they should, break this thin line of tension. The elevator opened, Tewnel’s amber pendant ceased shining as the gloomy party entered the basement. Numerous wooden boxes were aligned, as low lights hung from the ceiling. Tewnel could hear the unspoken enigmas in them, enticing each step towards themselves. The Chief Manager barked a handful of orders and two heavy men appeared with crowbars. Big, black crowbars, lustreless in the low lighting but nonetheless lethal. Tewnel stepped back—fear is the best weapon, young lady. The men marched towards the wooden chests, cracked them open. The dealer swaggered forward and held a hand out. Tewnel followed his example and gazed finally into the boxes. Cherries. Red and plump cherries. “Are they mutated?”, Tewnel asked, “Perfectly”, said the wicked man who stood beside her. “Good”, Tewnel finally smiled.

+603 words

PART - I


The fisherman had gotten lucky. The concept of luck and fate was still new to him as he hauled the school of fishes aboard. I’ll have a good meal tonight he thought, his eyes lingering on the slippery little creature greedily. The fisherman thought he could not get any more lucky but alas! It felt as if a rainbow had sprouted in his fishnet. Yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo, magenta, burgundy and more—colours were spread out like butter, he had never seen such strange fishes—they of course breathed easily. How could a fish breathe out of water? That, dear, was what exactly puzzled him. Maybe if he stared long enough, they may conjure wings and fly! The fisherman rowed his boat towards the shore, gawking at the incarnate rainbow hopping around his fishnet, a confidential sort of communication seemed to occur there—the fish jiggled and slipped around. The fisherman cupped his hand in the sea and sprinkled some water on the fishes. They jumped up and down in joy, gazing at the fortunate man with big, wet eyes. His boat hit the shore and he poured them in the bucket—still in blind bliss. The fisherman hopped out of his boat and started his usual routine—towards his home.

The fisherman took out a fishbowl, as there were many others, lined across the shelves to chairs to his counter. He placed the rainbow guild in each fishbowl slowly, and smiled—every fish hopped in the water, and jumped out once and saluted. Had he, ever seen such fateful performances before? No, of course, how could he when he was a common man striving for a penny each day? However, the heavens had decided to smile upon him, and bless him with a rainbow in his fishnet. The fisherman took out a smoking pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, as the polychromatic creatures continued their paroxysm of uneventful felicity.

+321 Words

PART - II
Sania had a bad dream. She couldn’t remember the specifics, although she did remember the obscure idea—she was being followed. The thought of it was enough to place her in a panic room, her fingers closed around the metal bars, and her mind clenched around one idea—a pursuer. Sania huddled under the sheets, pulling all the blankets above her, after all the night was still young.
Sania could feel the eyes of Maira just around the corner, following her. The whole Crown Regency was adorned with rich clothes of stain, cotton, silk in all forms of colour, from purple to gold. Staff glided from table to table offering refreshments, snacks and other delicacies. Sania could name each relative, friend and attendant, after all she had to collect and list everyone present. Someone tapped on her shoulder, Sania turned slowly to face her cousin. Maira was dressed in a dark olive green suit, her dark brown hair twisted into an ornate French braid that sashayed at even the slightest of movements. Her make-up was done in golds and purple, matching the theme of the wedding. Sania felt an urge to hit her, scream at her, or just simply tear her face out. Maira beamed, tilting her head and reached out to touch Sania’s cheek. Shivers ran up Sania’s spine and cold bit her where Maira’s palm met her skin. She might’ve slapped Sania and Sania wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “you’ve grown so much”, Maira removed her hand and clasped Sania’s tightly. “You too”, Sania weakly countered, “let’s eat something”, Maira pulled at Sania and heaved her to the food table. Maira took some rasmalai and poured it into a bowl, smiling like a fool. Oh how much I hate her. She offered it to Sania. Sania clenched her teeth looking at the flavorful sweet. Each cell, each tissue, each nerve, each organ revolted against it, and yet Sania found herself smiling back and accepting. I should give courses in hypocrisy. With the bowl of rasmalai, Sania found herself back where she started. Back to square one. Maira grinned and took the bowl from her, scooping more of the sweet. Sania looked around and her gaze caught at her aunt, who stood near the bride with a smug smile on her lips, singing of her victory. She always won. Untethered anger gushed down the riverine of Sania’s blood, crimsoning her face as she pushed Maira and trotted towards the washroom. Sania slammed the door and stood in front of the mirror. Her bosom heaved, and she ruined her make-up. Her mother was going to be a little more than upset.
+443 Words

PART - III

At length she drew the (package) into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled.
The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen that had reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places and putting lights where shadows had used to be (Far From the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy)

It created an eerie atmosphere, reflecting on his face, the clouds huddled together, as the debile man turned and caught himself in a reflection. His eyes were red, who stared back at him angrily— accusing him while his skin sagged and looked silver, the window panes fluttered and moved, changing his picture. The man leaned ahead to get a good look at himself, as the moonlight embellished his weak features and sapless physique. He tried to twist his drooped mouth into a smile, making him look more pitiful. His eyes grew more pale as they filled up, and water rolled down his whitish cheek to his jaw and then clothes. He touched his dry and chapped lips, which once used to be so full. His teeth were rotten, bearing shades of a drowning sun— hues of yellows, oranges and reds. He wept more, pulling himself away from the window and clenched the sheets, sniffing slightly as an old man should. He wanted to wail, but all strength of his had been robbed by age, and he could only make sounds of a mouse—squeaking here and there. Gone was the proud lion who once roamed fearless. Now was a life full of perils, busy people and angry nurses. The man wept all more, a tribute to his youth. What wrong had he done in life? Yet his children had abandoned him in this old age home, where had started his life anew as an orphan, a homeless and unwanted orphan. A tapping snatched him from his sorrowful oneirism and he spun slowly, to see it was a knock on the door. With another impatient knock and a few moments of waiting, the nurse entered holding a tray filled with lustrous silver cutlery. She sat near the man, and smiled “It’s from your children”, the man leaned forward to find another of his ugly faces waiting to greet him, look! That is how your children treat you. Fate seemed to be laughing in his face, for all his good deeds, for all his charity, this?
“would you like me help you Mr. Almond?”, the nurse gave her detached professional smile. The man weakly nodded and beckoned her away.
It was raining that day. Large clouds gathered around, thundered, screamed and wept simultaneously. The mood was gloomy and sorrowful; everyone wore black suits, dress and hats. Mr. Almond stood, holding a sable umbrella to complete the look. The scene was nothing short of picturesque tragedy, a stolen page from a book. Four men brought out a large coffin from the hearse, carrying the heavy thing towards the grave. Mr. Almond was twenty-five.

+440 words

PART - IV

This is home. And this the closest
I’ll ever be to home. When I return,
the colors won’t be so brilliant,
the Jhelum’s waters so clean,
so ultramarine. My love
so overexposed.
- Postcard From Kashmir

The rainbow sea was vast place. It was different from deserts and mountains, where one has a better chance of surviving, but the sea was unforgiving. Lore has it that some fishermen are born blessed. God-touched, legend calls them, they are the heroes of their village, hailed as a bridge between the spiritual world and the material world. Once they find the shoal of the divine polychromatic fishes, they go home, and good fortune befalls those who own the fish. One by one, with each coming of luck, a fish dissipates into thin air, until there is none. It is also said that once Dionysus and Mercury came to celebrate the blessing. And from this legend, there comes the name rainbow sea.

An old fisherman hung his head sorrowfully, walking away from his house, where his debile wife had kissed him goodbye. Winter was fast approaching and he, what did he have? His house was a sorry structure of mud and straw, and if some big bad wolf were to come, where would he and his wife go? The fisherman strolled to his boat, fervently praying and hoping to find enough fishes for dinner. He pulled the boat, kept his net and pushed it into the lovely rainbow sea.

The fisherman stood, disbelieving his eyes. In his net, a perfectly beautiful and alive shoal of rainbow’d fish wriggled. He blinked repeatedly, lingering in his woeful stupor. Such a cruel dream this is. He rowed his boat towards the shore, as the sun dropped slowly from the sky. The fishes moved around, hitting and coming back. The fisherman stared at them, expecting them to vanish, to bring him down to reality, where he had never seen a fish out of grey or black. The waves cradled his boat, as the orange paint of sky dissolved into navy blue, where a Raphael and Da Vinci stood admiring each other’s work of art. The fisherman rowed, why must the heavens be so cruel? Could they not give him a healthy normal school of fishes which he could sell and fill his abdomen? The boat hit the shore, as he pulled those marine little critters into a bucket. They jumped, felicitous of unknown reason, and made some marine sounds. Did they speak? The fisherman looked at them, frustrated. Then he dragged the bucket home.

FFishbowls crowded the old fisherman’s house, where each rainbow fish slid, swam and slipped. As the lore went, fortune came home. He would find bags of jewels and gold, and a missing fish. Around the same time fortune visited, the reaper followed it. Black Death sat at the fisherman’s threshold, singing melodies of loss. The fisherman didn’t hear him, he walked across, to his very sick wife, who coughed. He took her hand in his, as pump pustules burst and pus traveled down her fail arms. The doctor stood near, witnessing another death as he had so many. The fisherman started crying, what use was his fortune and fishes? Where was Dionysius and Mercury now?
+505 words

Grand Total = +1814 words

5/07/23 Daily

SPEAKER SMOOTHIE

Well hello! Welcome back to becomingsmoothies.com! I am Ethel your smoothie-*-human host and today, our topic of muse is “speaker smoothie”
Well, so today we will be demonstrating on how become a human speaker. So firstly, we need context. Once upon a time, a great man called Amplitude lived in what was called Soundland, he was a very lonely man who had only two friend named Hertz and Decibel. He used to play chess with them everyday, and Hertz won each time. And it so happened a girl named Pitch came to Soundland and took a house near the trio’s. Each day, the trio would watch the beauty move around her garden singing do-re-mi. her pitch, hertz and decibel was perfect. Each of the trio wanted to marry her. so they asked her out, saying “oh Pitch! Be my sound! Be my mechanical wave for ever! I will travel faster than a beam of photons for you!”, but alas Pitch was not interested. So she gave them an impossible task. Become a human speaker. So each of them embarked on a journey to become a human speaker. The trio tried everything—from doing leek dance to bathroom tap water counting—but no! They could not become a speaker—until Amplitude put a speaker, milk, water, wires, physics textbook and cat in a blender and made a speaker smoothie! And he became a human speaker. He and Pitch married and had a very speaky ever after. Amplitude ever the waveman, kept rubbing it in the face of Hertz and Decibel for the rest of his life

+265 words

ON METHODS OF STUDYING - an essay I am working on


Consider you are giving the Board Exam or the SAT (or any competitive exam), first thing you will hear in study resources will be the Previous Year Papers, and multiple studies have shown that students who work with Previous Year Papers have drastically better results than who don’t. Why exactly is this? Why did they prepare better than those who had other resources? Many competitive exams are standardized and repetitive (especially true for SAT), and even if they are not, the students get the idea of how the test is going to be on their exam day. The previous year papers could have been your test sheet if you had given the test a year earlier, and that is the reason—they are real exam papers, just a little old. Previous Year Papers provide experience to the student, the questions are going to be similar and some are even repeated. So, what’s the point? Experience outshines theoretical study. I do not mean to imply that you leave all theoretical topics and start scribbling incoherent things just for the sake of experience. The experience also has to be right; being great at calculus probably won’t be able to help you in singing. But it will help you in physics. Consider it like mathematics, you can memorize a theorem but if you don’t practice the application of it, all the application questions will stand like a battalion between you and success. But knowing the practice and not the theory is similar to the notion of ancient people who hoped to create gold out of thin air. They know the physical qualities of gold but not the chemical—to prove (gold out of thin air) is physically impossible. An atom of gold has 79 protons and 118 neutrons, to make gold out of thin air, we have to change atoms and which process is more lucrative than gold itself.

CABIN WARS


#1
I remember the day in pieces, not wholly but like a scrapbook, where sometime pieces are dutifully ingrained in my mind. I remember getting off the train and walking to the bus stand, looking forward to the dinner, whatever it may be. I remember getting on the bus, getting through the dense throng of diverse people into a seat and ignoring a chatty neighbor. Then there is a straight line in my memory, a gaping hole staring at me. How much I try I cannot get past the sable sentinels. I remember everything after 7 PM. The combat, the plates the colourful words and clothes. I remember running to the ambulance, though not dialing 911 and water slipping down my cheeks—although I am still not whether it was tears or the rain. Maybe it was just the rain. I don’t recall being called into the interrogation room, but a footage says I was. The footage also says I got angry.

A month before…
I could see all the lanterns, shining like the jewels of nights adorned on the breast of each house. Somewhere in the street a melancholic tune was playing, the shrill sound of flute sifting around like a riverine. The sky smiles down on the town chuckling here and there, as children scattered around with linear firecrackers fizzing out polychromatic light. There was everything, food, sweets, musicians and happiness. I could almost see this somewhere in Europe, happening with superior grandiosity, nevertheless we were peasants, and lived of what the land could give—which was usually at the subsistence level.


#2
The trains skidded to a halt. Everyone on the platform rushed around pushing the misses, misters and all the hey-yous. In the heavy throng of people stood a young, frail girl holding a gunny bag, fresh from a village ready to start life in the cold, harsh and very uncaring metropolitan.
Sana came to Mumbai the day before, and was already starting to regret it. There were a lot things she didn’t like or found too strange such as the food and especially the rain—and smell. The smell of rain and soil wafted through the air each time it rained and weather usually stayed cold—as harsh contrast to the sultry heat of the northern plains. Mumbai, being a coastal region was humid throughout the year, just a degree Celsius higher and everyone would start sweating, shedding watery skins like a snake. The heat was slick and moist—almost unbearable. Insects captivated Sana the most. She saw the most curious and strange of all the millipedes and centipedes she ever encountered. Sana saw frogs, fishes and occasionally crabs sifting through the clean water gutters, as rain came down like holy water from god. A faint voice soared to her ears and she stood to answer the call of Prajakta Lomtepatil—her mistress and employer. Prajakta Lomtepatil was a doctor, who worked at a private hospital in Powai and her husband worked at a hospital in IITB; they both were doctors as the tradition went. Prajakta Lomtepatil was not a demanding woman, but a timid one, who got more flustered at times than Sana herself. Sana looked otherworldly when standing with the Lomtepatil family, with their light olive skin, flat noses and heavy, guttural voices. Sana tried to avoid any unnecessary interactions with anyone in particular—probing questions about, oh my god you’re so fair, where you from? You from north? She saw enough when Prajakta Lomtepatil inspected her, head to heels and asked What is your name, Lily? Sana stood out like a white peacock among blue ones and everyone looked at her with either suspicion or awe, either of which she was undeserving. Many times, the affluent women ignored her. She could feel their piercing gazes and inspecting glances, with the decision to treat her like a mirage. As if they drew forward to touch her, she would dematerialize and fade in the air. They ignored her at best—wafted camouflaged insults at worst. Sana could not cope as well as she would like, only nodding and doing the oh yes, you are right, you are too kind. Prajakta Lomtepatil smiled at her, her piled her tiling to one side, she beckoned Sana to sit. Sana obeyed, digging her clean cut nails into her soft, lily-white palms. Prajakta Lomtepatil had large eyes, a small chin and a flat nose, with thick and oiled black hair tied into a traditional bun at the back of her head. She wore heavy jewelry at home, a large gilded nose pin had multiple ear piercings and embroidered sarees.
+506 words

Writing Factually Accurate Historical Fiction

Writing factually accurate and creative pieces is in itself a task that requires precision. You do not want to lose your credibility on the grounds of “creative license”. Your creative license depends on what kind of literary piece you are writing and your audience. Are you writing for a scientific journal? The binds are strong for factual accuracy. Memoir? The binds loosen here a little but you can fill the gaps with your version of what happened since a memoir depends on a person’s memory, which is not always reliable. And the topic we’re going to focus on, historical fiction. Just how exactly to balance creative license with historical fiction? It is after all fiction, which we want to marry with evidence. How exactly and both go side by side? Well dear SWC-er, this what this workshop is for!

Part 1 : Firstly choose your time period. This may seem like an obvious step but I just do not just mean choose obscurely, like the romantic era and leave it. Clearly define it, for example the romantic era was at its peak from 1800 to 1850, the character must be living somewhere around the time. Research the time period thoroughly, what were the major events in the era? Who were the major celebrities? How was the society? What were the expectations, gender biases and stereotypes?
When considering gender biases and stereotypes, it is not necessary for the protagonist to be drenched in it. One important thing to note is, there wouldn’t be 20th century idealism going on in 1400-1500s. The protagonist might rebel here and there, but they won’t uplift a 1984 kind-of rebellion, not everyone will be Winston Smith—there will be many more Parsons than the Smiths. Lisa See’s Lady Tan’s Circle of Women gives an excellent example of capturing the essence and ideals of an era. The book was inspired by the true story of an (extremely rare) woman physician from 15th-century China. In a nation that follows strict Confucianism philosophy and purdah, where a male doctor is not allowed to see a female patient it treats. According to Confucianism philosophy, blood is considered dirty and doctors are prohibited to touch it. Yunxian makes friend with a daughter of a midwife, who considered dirty and evil. Here, being friends with Meiling, the midwife’s daughter, Yunxian has committed an act of rebellion. In addition, where an ancient Chinese practice of foot-binding separates women into classes, Meiling’s foot was unbound—another act of rebellion by (of Yunxian) associating herself with a common girl. However, they never outright question the ideals and practices. Yunxain never thinks about how women should be allowed to be doctors—she’s just grateful to be privileged enough to be one.

Part 2 : The second and most time-taking part is research. While it is easy to write in periods such as Romantic era, you will need much more balance of opinions and factual accuracy when writing in controversial times and perspectives. Research includes interviews, books, articles, newspapers, songs and films. Ground yourself in the time period, get to know the ideals and events. Let us consider the Freedom Struggle of India. It was the time when the ideals of violence and non-violence were clashing, with social, political and educational reform everywhere. There was a whole nation divided in radicals and moderates, liberals and conservatives, violent and non-violent etc. Some people shunned the colonists, the British, by boycotting their institutes, wearing Khadi clothes, holding non-violent protests. Some violated British-favoring rules such as the Salt Law by collecting salt crystals (For example – the famous Dandi March). Some used violence and bombings. Considering the vast diversity of opinions and actions you should show both sides of a coin and let your reader come to a conclusion. Here, one of the most important points is to remember that you are not a historian and you can fill the gaps with your imagination, which a historian cannot. When trying to incorporate a fact, verify the authenticity of it—the internet has my half-truths and half-baked conspiracy theories.I would like to quote www.thehistoryquill.com

Tell a true story with some creative license. This doesn’t mean you can blatantly fabricate and falsify key elements of history, but it does mean you can draw on gaps in the historical record, subtext, and rumours in a way that a historian couldn’t.

Part 3 : The third part is when you finally write. When writing, you will come upon many questions and details. Some parts you can fill up with your imaginations and some parts you need to use actual events as a backdrop. The story at is core will still be fictional with a dose of realism. You will be tempted to fill in all the details but some things just need to be left out—if it’s not necessary or it serves no purpose. The events must be chronological, and while you’re allowed to tinker a little, it is especially true with the chronology. Tampering with dates will lead to confusion in both readers and you. This will be the time when you will come to the most frustrating phase, when you will want to know how a spoon looked like in Ancient Babylonia or a swimming pool in Ancient Rome. Encyclopedias are useful in this context, they will be one of your best friends.

Wrapping up this workshop, I would like to say that there are different types of historical fiction’s relation to a real event. Some are retelling, some are reimagining, some are loosely inspired, some are heavily inspired etc. Your creative license depends upon the relation. Loosely inspired can have major changes in events while retellings cannot.

+970 words

the classic swc google translate daily!
my song is mad hatter by Melanie Martinez

and these are the google translated lyrics

My friends don't walk, they run.
Go down the rabbit hole and enjoy.
cannons and guns
get a lot of sunlight

We paint red with white roses.
every shadow that falls on you
This is a dream, the dream of death
Do not drink the sacred snake.

I clean my face.
Because I hate security.
I'm afraid of normal people.
These idiots make me happy.

I'm crazy, dearest, I'm crazy
your acolyte
You think I'm manic, don't you?
Tell your psychologist that something is wrong.
Everything in the corner is crazy.
you better not fly
Tell me your secret, I'm not afraid
What if I go crazy? it is the best

the elite are hidden crazy
it is the best

where is my medicine
Doctor, doctor, listen.
i threw out
You Alice, I can be a smart hat.

I clean my face.
Because I hate security.
I'm afraid of normal people.
These idiots make me happy.

I'm crazy, baby, I'm crazy
your best friend
You think I'm psycho, don't you?
Tell your psychologist that something is wrong.
Everything in the corner is crazy.
you better not fly
Tell him the secret without fear.
What if I go crazy? it is the best

you think i'm crazy
You think I'm not there
What if I go crazy?
it is the best
I think you are crazy too.
I know you're gone
Maybe that's why.
Be careful

I'm crazy, baby, I'm crazy
the bloody claws
You think I'm maniac, don't you?
Tell your psychologist that something is wrong.
Everything in the corner is crazy.
you better not fly
Tell me your secret so I won't be afraid
What if I go crazy? it is the best

The mirror stood at the center of the room, supported by a black metal stand. Sometimes, I’d imagine myself doing mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of all?, and it would respond, illuminating me and declaring myself to be a woman of great beauty. I would stare at it for an hour or two, looking at the mesmerizing reflection of all the elegant luxuries of world. Sometimes I would touch it,