|
The moment I stepped down the dais reporters thronged me with flashing cameras. There were also the fans waiting with autograph books. They stopped me on my way for a short interview. I am Surya, the artist, a well-known celebrity in the art circle. I had come there to attend the meeting arranged to felicitate me for the most prestigious award my painting "The Mouse Trap" had won. My interviewers found me in a genial mood.
|
|
Last Updated on Thursday, 19 November 2009 13:17 |
|
If there is life anywhere in India then it has to be Mumbai. Literally life runs on the two parallel steel rails all the time—from Vasi to Thane… Thane to Vikroli, Ghatkopar, Dadar and life goes on. Yes! Here I am talking about the local trains of Mumbai which are the lifeline of this metro city named the city of dreams Mumbai. This old iron coaches hold together the city of diversities. They say dreams are sold in Mumbai but little do people know dreams are sold in local trains and also shattered there only.
|
|
Last Updated on Tuesday, 17 November 2009 16:16 |
|
Pain. Lots and lots of pain. No sense of direction or time or existence- just pain. Where am I? Chris thought through a haze of agony. He tried to move his hands, but daggers of pain shot through his body, forcing him to abandon the attempt.
Bracing himself, he opened his brilliant sapphire blue eyes to find himself in- a hospital. Everything spotlessly white, beeping machines surrounding him, and as his eyes riveted around the room; a doctor in an equally impeccable apron.
The doctor smiled (a tad bit too brightly for Chris’ comfort) as he noticed that his patient had regained consciousness. “You’re in a hospital.” The doctor said gently.
|
|
Last Updated on Monday, 16 November 2009 18:17 |
|
|
“I will not utter Her name, for it is forbidden in the Craft to pronounce a spell- and Her name is the most potent enchantment that our kind knows.
Lillith, my child, place another log in the fire. It is cold, and my power does not warm me as it used to. There, now, that will do.
Come closer now, my children. Sit by me, and listen. Listen to the Tale of Her Who We Adore. It is a tale of rapture and agony. Of life and death. It is a tale of magick.” |
|
Last Updated on Tuesday, 13 October 2009 09:39 |
81
(1 vote, average 4.00 out of 5)
|
Darmuid’s waking hours were filled with splotches of violent crimsons- wherever he dared to look, furious red bled into the landscape.
Rip. Tear.
He shivered and curled up tight in the fetal position: hoping, praying and begging for it to leave him alone.
Please, go away. Leave me alone.
In answer, a caressing murmur reached him.
|
|
Last Updated on Tuesday, 13 October 2009 22:12 |
|
|
|
|
|
@Admin- 
Literature Blogs 
