Poetry Drawer: apocalypse now: i am the one: brace for impact: endless worries: the world he brought you into by J.J. Campbell

apocalypse now

sitting here drinking
watching apocalypse
now for maybe the
thousandth time

when i was younger

i was about the
napalm in the
morning

when i got older

i was martin sheen
face painted, coming
out of the water

now that i’m old

i’m fucking brando

isolated genius
spewing madness
into a microphone

waiting for someone
to release me from
the horror

the horror

so, if you ever come
over and hear the end
by the doors playing
a little too loud

do yourself a favor
and duck

i am the one

happiness is as
elusive as a woman
deciding i am the
one

plenty think that
at some point
then, reality
settles in

between the abuse,
the poverty,
the emptiness
and despair

it certainly doesn’t
look as rosy as
before

and no one likes
a dream that gets
muddled with
some real life
shit

brace for impact

say
hello to
the most
beautiful
woman
you know
and brace
for impact

one of
these
days

she might
actually
acknowledge
your existence

endless worries

the lucid skies
of neon dreams

polluted with the
endless worries
of a population
under attack

divided

we have fallen

this
is what happens
when you refuse
to learn from
our history

the world he brought you into

every scar
is a memory

engraved into
your brain for
posterity

every lash

every harsh
word

every single
time your father
threatened to
take you out
of this world
he brought
you into

there aren’t
enough drugs
in the world
that will allow
you to escape
the pain

but, there’s
always a
bullet

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge.  He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads.

Poetry Drawer: Another Me From Heavens: The Azure Sea: The Bath of The Cool Breeze by Yuan Hongri

Another Me From Heavens

If blue is namely white and black is namely red
and gold is transparent as crystal
and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars
and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years
and back to the prehistoric giant city
and that giant is just like another me from the heavens
by the lotus throne in the golden palace.

天上的另一个自己
如若蓝即是白而黑即是红
而黄金透明若水晶而光芒令灵魂微笑忘了日月星辰
而汝醍醐灌顶一醉千年而回到了史前之巨城
而那金殿之莲花宝座上的巨人宛然天上的另一个自己

The Azure Sea

Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space
Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship
Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms
So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years
Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold

蔚蔚之海
今夜我想起那遥远太空之上的白金巨城
那儿没有昼夜巨人们乘坐飞船在星际航行
他们的词语拥有上帝的尊严而创造圣洁的王国
亿万年的时光是一幅幅灵魂的画卷在记忆的迷宫
黄金之城橚矗那飘洒蜜甜乐曲的巨人殿宇之蔚蔚之海

The Bath of The Cool Breeze

Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body
The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast
The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow
There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood
And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth
The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time
To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance

淸风之沐
史前的诸神之词语正在我体内醒来
那陌生星球上的白金之城在蓝色海岸上恍如梦境
那乘光而行的巨人男女不知道烦恼或忧伤
他们的头颅里有诸神的圣殿光芒如酒在血液里流淌
而星辰的乐曲在身边拂荡犹如地球之上的淸风之沐
他们乘坐的星际巨舰可以抵达时间的彼岸
让你一睹昨日未来之你神性之芬郁之光


Yuan Hongri, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.

Poetry Drawer: Some Commandments for the Dreamy Erlking by Paweł Markiewicz

Become a superb troubadour who loves
an eaglet in the starry night full of autumn miracle fulfilled in
the meek ontology!

Taste a beverage of holt-like fairies from a stunning tumbler – to wit
the cranberry juice and some dew enchanted
in the metaphysics!

Sit down near a propitious tumulus – where the archpriest
of the ancient Druids was buried with first
summer starling of epistemology!

Hum a weird-ravishing tune – whose words
have been hidden in the oaken hole in medieval time
full of the aesthetics!

Bee a pleasing trustee-friend of the King of Pixies – your
magician of dawn bewitched by the Morning Star
in a logical dreamery!

Give as a present a smattering of grand tulips – flowers
consecrated for the Apollonianly miraculous dwarfs
loving tender Zeus-like aesthetics!

Find out a gorgeous twig of a willow that was
adored by the most romantic poet in his more tender
poesy of historic ethics!

Carry a divine tunic of ancient sibyl of Artemis
who liked the dreamy-meek butterfly of wood loving
the stoicism!

My dreamiest Erlking!!!
Tarry until the first moon-time
from Ionic philosophy of nature!
Enchant all morning starlings
and evening starlets – the beings
from dreamy muse’s hearts
Yes – no woe – they belong to Apollon

Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.

Poetry Drawer: Never To Die by Saikat Gupta Majumdar

Men are praised for their doings
Long they are alive
But only a few deserves so
When they no longer glow
After they pass away, their deeds survive.

I want never to die
But my work will remain alive
In the memories
In the hearts of the crores.

To live long without achievement
Is basically no living
But to live long after death is fruitful surviving.

So keep doing such a way
That you may live in the hearts of the crores
And your glory does not fade away
But it spreads more and more.

Inkphrastica: The Trees and Beyond Mars by Marius Fate

The Trees

Here
in the trees
of people we
hide from the
sound of their
wooden bones
that crisp
and creak we hear
them whisper about
us their voices
control us
the voices
we speak to,
type to,
at night;
they are trees.
They are trees!

Their voices control
us they shout
as one they
shout the trees
shout the trees
of people.

The trees
of people
silence us
make us scream
inside
the trees
make us
scream.

The Trees on Spotify

Beyond Mars

It was cold as the Twitter-scape.
It was fake as electric vape.
There was only a sense that there could be more than this.

There was nothing about the place
but a sign called hope
close to the door,

and the sign said
watch me singing karaoke,
hear me playing my acoustic,
latest internet sensation due,

drug me, stop me feeling sad,
out here in deep space, far away,
on a planet beyond Mars.

Make a wish upon a planet.

We began to feel ill again.
It was time for a pill again.
They were given out for free so it was not hard to refuse.
To be honest they gave a certain sense of not caring at all,

makes it easier to
keep on singing karaoke,
keep on playing my acoustic,
keep on following the facebook feed,

helps me, stops me feeling sad,
out here in space, far away,
beyond Mars.

Beyond Mars on Spotify

Get your paperback copy of The Modern Game by Marius Fate.

Catch Marius Fate on Twitter, Facebook and Spotify.

Poetry Drawer: In The ICU: Lakefront Property: Prognosis by Robert Demaree

In The ICU

Before surgery
It had not occurred to me
To tell the church,
Have them put it in the bulletin,
Make an announcement
On Sunday morning.
But the day after,
On a brief, tentative
Supervised stroll around the ICU
I happened to see our pastor
There to visit a parishioner
Who would not be going home.
Don came to my room
And we visited a while,
And he offered to say a prayer
(Like a good lawyer, I thought,
Representing your interests in court).
And when he prayed,
He did not say
Be with Bob as he heals
But rather he spoke of the goodness
Of the world and life God has given us,
Which sounds like good theology to me,

But with the other family, though,
He may have used
A different text.

Lakefront Property

The forty-pound kayak
Slices across the pond
To inspect new construction
At Caleb’s old place.
A woman on a paddle board
Passes across my bow,
No lifejacket.
She could have had three kayaks
For what she paid,
Latest fad born of
That unholy marriage of
Marketing and design:
People will buy it
Because they can.

The framing is up.
Already there’s a Seadoo on the dock.
Caleb had hoped someone
Would restore his parents’ house.
Columns for a gated drive
Have replaced the old colonial
Where he grew up,
Facing South Main Street,
When this was another kind of town.

Prognosis

My friend, seventy-six,
Three years my junior,
Had been for his annual check-up.
The doctor asked if he had
A living will.
Did she mean anything by that,
I wondered. My friend,
Professor and poet,
Knows what John Donne knew,
And Shakespeare,
That we will encounter darkness like a bride
And hug it in our arms,
And, with Billy Collins, regards
Poetry as “a megaphone
Held up to the whispering lips of death.”

Try telling poets
No more poems about death
And they’re out of business.
I read the obit page,
I know the facts, see what happens,
But I’m not buying it.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.

Poetry Drawer: Always Almost You: Before I Knew Love: Gentle and Fierce: I Might As Well: My Poems Arrive by John Tustin

Always Almost You

It was always you,
It was almost you,
In all ways you,
Always almost you.

Your sex-scent on the breeze
That comes in through the window and mingles with the perspiration
Of my lonely sheets.
Your image just out of focus in my bedroom mirror.
Every slamming door is you leaving.
Every key jingling in a lock
Is you arriving.
Every car splashing along the wet road outside as I try to sleep
Is you moving past me unaware.

Lying in torpor, staring at the cracks,
Knowing you would heal them
With the wild branches of your hair
And the dark frigid oceans of your eyes,
Holding me in the shiver
Of beyond the second half of previously disused
Lives.
Contented in mirrors at last.

It will always be you,
Almost you,
In all ways you,
Almost always you.

Before I Knew Love

I loved you before I knew you,
Before I knew love,
Before I breathed my first breath
In this life.
I loved you before my first concept of love
And yet, here you are,
Telling me love is something
Reserved for those who pretend
But I tell you this –
Nothing I am and nothing I own
And nothing I was matters to me
Compared to your love
Because before you
Was before I could imagine,
Reason or pretend.
There was just me floating there,
Yearning for your arms around me,
Not knowing who you were
But knowing I would know you
When our paths finally crossed.

Now we are at a physical and emotional distance,
Your body breathing without mine,
Your heart beating without mine.
Music plays here as I sit alone,
Music I can no longer share with you
The way we shared so much,
But clearly not everything.
I listen to this song and all I can think
Is how much you would probably like it.
Searching for you all those years, finding you,
I imagined I would breathe my last breath
Loving you as I did before my first
And I will indeed love you when I shed this mortal coil
And after
But not the same.
Not the same but I will.

As I am about to live again after this body dies
I will likely love you again
Before I breathe my first breath
Just like I did before
And before that.
There is no choice.
There is just what is.

Gentle and Fierce

She took my words close to her heart

And laughingly told me
“You’re so gentle and fierce”

And then I pulled her close
And gave her a kiss so savage and so tender
She lost her breath

And she trembled all over, wet and melting like hot wax
Against the force of my eyes and my body
And my words and my lips and my loudly beating heart.

I Might As Well

I might as well shave my head.
I might as well wear a necktie.
I might as well turn off the music and get some sleep.
I might as well stop writing about her.
I might as well stop calling them on the phone.
It’s a new day! A new me!
A new day all about me!
I might as well get laid.
I might as well smoke cigars.
I might as well not love. Loving is hard.
Life is hard enough.
I might as well tell you all that it’s time to be about me.
I might as well shave my face clean,
Buy a new suit and lose some weight,
Waiting for the inevitable promotion or firing
That will only lead to more opportunities
In this wonderful America.
I might as well stop crying.
Tears have no worth.
I’ll turn off the music now
And turn in.
I might as well get a good night’s sleep.
I’ll shave my head tomorrow.

My Poems Arrive

My poems arrive
At your doorstep,
Sometimes one by one,
Sometimes in a bundle.
There can be weeks of silence
And then they arrive, these paper boats with paper sails,
One by one by one
Onto your shore
Under a dusky moonlight
And a light steady rain.

You hear the knock on your door at 6 a.m.
To find a poem questioning your love
Or comparing your eyes to the moon reflecting off of
The bottom of the sea.
It must be disconcerting
To potentially find undying love or petulant rage
At your door at any given time.
Often both.

My poems arrive
Singly or by the dozen
When you are making dinner
Or taking a shower
Or sleeping in your bed without me.
Some come wrapped in ribbon,
Some in undescriptive cardboard boxes,
Some in plain brown wrappers

But they keep coming
As relentlessly as the tide
And, like the tide,
There is no point in swimming
Against them.

John Tustin started to write again in 2008 after a ten year hiatus and his published poetry can be found here

Inky Interview Special: Jenny Quintana with Kev Milsom

Jenny Quintana grew up in Essex and Berkshire, before studying English Literature in London. She has taught in London, Seville and Athens and has also written books for teaching English as a foreign language. She is a graduate of the Curtis Brown Creative writing course. She lives with her family in Berkshire. The Missing Girl is her first novel.

Hello Jenny! Many thanks again for agreeing to answer some questions for our Ink Pantry readers. Many are aspiring authors and I’m sure they will learn a great deal from your experiences. May I start by asking you about your childhood literary influences and what books in particular gripped your attention?

I was lucky enough to have parents who took me to the library when I was a child and bought me books, which meant I gained an early passion for reading. I loved Little Women, What Katy Did, The Famous Five, Malory Towers. I moved on to Agatha Christie and when I was twelve, wrote my first novel called The Imposter. It was a detective story influenced by Agatha Christie, of course. My dad marked it and gave me an A. I went from there to Thomas Hardy, the Brontës and Shakespeare and all the classics which I loved.

At what age did you begin writing seriously, in the knowledge that this could become a career, rather than a hobby, Jenny?

I wrote stories from a very early age, but confidence stopped me from believing that I had anything worthwhile to say, and then circumstance – work, family and other commitments – gained more importance. However, the need to write didn’t go away and in my early thirties after I had my first child, I felt that I would be forever unfulfilled if I didn’t do something about it. I joined a local creative writing group and started writing short stories. I entered competitions, had some success, and that spurred me on to start my first novel.

Your 2017 début novel, The Missing Girl, (published by Mantle Books) attracted a lot of positivity from the literary world. Can you tell us more about how the seeds of the idea began for this novel, and how long it took to piece everything together? Also, how daunting was this project initially?

The characters in The Missing Girl came to me first. Two sisters – the younger one, Anna, idolizing the older, more popular and outgoing, Gabriella. I imagined what they were like and put them in the context of their family and the village where they lived. I decided the story would be from Anna’s point of view and then considered what was going to happen. By then I had written two unpublished novels and was beginning to understand what themes and ideas I wanted to explore. I was interested in ordinary people who are affected by tragic events and how they manage to make sense of them. I considered what it would be like if Gabriella went missing. Often in news stories we mostly see the effects a missing child has on the adults of the family, but what must it be like for the siblings? How heartbreaking for a child to not know where their brother or sister has gone and whether they will ever come home? I had the characters and the idea, but still I was nervous about embarking on another novel. I had spent so long by then trying and failing to get published, so it seemed very daunting. However, it isn’t easy to ignore the urge to write and I’m glad that I didn’t because once I had immersed myself, the novel took about a year to complete and then another eighteen months or so of editing with my agent, and then my editor.

Do you have a particular framework for writing? For example, are you an author who prefers pen and paper, or one who does everything on the computer? Also, is there a set location you have chosen for your writing?

I generally write straight onto the computer and do many, many drafts. Usually I write the whole novel quickly and it comes out quite short. I then edit and rewrite and edit again, adding texture and colour and depth. I have a very messy study at home where I work, but it is also a walkway between the hall and the kitchen, so I’m constantly interrupted by my family. I don’t mind really as I like to feel a part of things, but my most productive time for writing is early in the morning when everyone else is asleep, or when the house is empty.

Who currently inspires you creatively, both inside and outside of the literary world? How important do you believe it is to receive inspiration for writing, especially at an early age? What hopeful words would you give to someone seeking to find a career within writing?

Inside the literary world, I am inspired by writers such as Kate Atkinson, Maggie O’Farrell, Margaret Atwood and Sarah Waters because they are prolific and write great novels. Outside the literary world, I am inspired by people who challenge the system – especially young people who have the best sense of all. My children are young adults now and they never fail to impress me with their good sense, humour and outward view of the world. I think it’s important to have a similar approach in everything you do, including writing.

I do think it is an advantage to receive inspiration for your writing at an early age, mainly through reading, however, many people don’t have that opportunity and there is no reason that being inspired at a later stage should make a difference. What’s important for every author is to read as widely as possibly in order to understand how writing a novel can be done.

My greatest piece of advice for new writers is to persist. Ignore the doubts you may have that your writing isn’t good enough, or that you have nothing to say. Take small steps. If you are writing a novel, think only about the paragraph you are writing, the page and the chapter. If you consider how long the whole novel is going to take you, it’s all too easy to give up. From my point of view, nothing I have ever written has been wasted. I have reused characters, ideas and themes many times. Another piece of advice is to prioritise. It can be difficult when you have a job, a family or other commitments, but try to find some time at some point in the day or night which is for yourself and for your writing. I used to get up at 5 o’clock in the morning for example – I still do, sometimes. Make writing an important part of your life and above all give yourself permission to write.

Many thanks Jenny for your insights. I know you have a new novel planned for release in 2020, Our Dark Secret. Is there anything you can share about this, and what other creative plans have you within the foreseeable future?

Our Dark Secret (Mantle Books) will be published in February 2020. It is another psychological mystery that focuses on two teenage girls, thrown together through circumstance, who form a bond based on the terrible secrets they share. It is about how decisions made in your youth can affect your whole life. It’s about sacrifice, friendship, loyalty and love. I am also writing a third novel for the same publisher which I have almost completed and have plans for a fourth. I started late and I am brimming with ideas that I am determined to get down.

Inky elf Kev Milsom is in the very early stages of his 5th decade, but looks at least ten years younger…possibly even fifteen on a good day, under beneficial lighting conditions. Currently training in holistic therapies, such as hypnotherapy, metaphysics and counselling, he is also trying to expand his creative writing knowledge and experience. As a devout ‘struggling artist’ he is working towards the completion of that elusive first novel, whilst fuelling a profound talent for procrastination by making notes on a possible second novel (alongside intermittent research for a third). He is proud to have achieved his goal of being independently published at least once a year since 2012, but is also currently exploring other aspects of writing such as journalism. His favourite colour is anything bright.

Kev’s Twitter

Pantry Prose: The Killer by Sunil Sharma

The killer was about to strike the unsuspecting victim, the gleaming dagger raised in his right hairy hand, cold eyes fixed and remorseless…

“Watchman?”

“Yes, Saab.”

“Go, check the water-level in the storage tank. Fast.”

“Yes, Saab.”

The killer was about to strike…

“Watchman?”

“Yes, Saab.”

“You must get up, when residents of the housing society come out of the lift or go to the lift.”

“Yes, Saab.”

“People always complain. Say you sit in the chair, buried in a fat Hindi thriller. Never get up. Never look up. Just that. Reading. Sitting in the chair only.”

“Saab, it is a good habit.”

“What habit?”

“Reading.”

“You are not paid to read on duty here.”

“I always remain in the lobby of the building. As there is nothing much to do, I read a novel.”

“Do not argue, moron. I am the secretary. I can fire you immediately.”

“But, Saab, I just explained. I read in the afternoons. It is better than sleeping in the chair, during hot humid afternoons of Mumbai.”

“I said do not argue. If you do that again, you are out. You guys! Very rude and lazy.”

The young watchman said nothing. The thin secretary glowered and then left.

“They pay only six thousands for a twelve-hour duty. Even that amount is not paid on time,” said the older watchman.

“They think they own us. Call us rude. Say all guards are rogues,” said the younger one.

“Do not worry. Things will change. Do your duty.”

“Do not think too much. We are poor folks. We have to be tolerant of these rich rascals. They have money. Power. We have none.”

“OK. I always do that. But it hurts.”

“But it does not mean they should insult us. Hurt us. We have no money. But we are human beings, like them only. We too have respect. Our Izzat.”

“Young man, be patient and calm. You have not seen the brutal side of the world yet. Treat yourself as lucky. You have got a job. A uniform of a private security guard. An I-D. In Mumbai, an I-D is gold. At least, you earn money. Other migrants are not that lucky.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then?”

“I felt hurt.”

“You hurt easily. Change. This is a jungle. Predators roam here…freely.”

The young security guard said nothing.

“Even I feel restless. They scold me, too. Once a drunk resident slapped me very hard. They openly abuse and curse those who watch their property.”

“The other day, a woman shouted at me. They make me run for errands. Some of the men fight on any excuse. Humiliating!”

“Yes. I went through all this. This is my fifth year. Guarding these rich bastards.”

“Where were you earlier?”

“A worker in a textile mill. It closed down 20 years ago. Did odd jobs. Got a family.”

“I know. You have to survive somehow.”

“I am school drop-out. Cannot do the office job. This one is easy.”

“Yes.”

“There were others. Many drifted away.”

“Where?”

“Crime.”

“Crime?”

“Yes. Crime is the other side of the story of a megacity.”

“How?”

“It is easy.”

“How?”

“Temptingly simple and fast. Good money in it. Sense of power, also.”

“How?”

“The crime bosses recruit the discontented ones from the mushrooming slums. Life stinks there for these half-animals. They are all a disillusioned, bitter lot. Desperate to do anything for money. Life is a big hell.”

“Yes. No power. No water. A 10×10 feet room of sheets and ropes. You go out to relieve. Long queues outside the three public toilets. Three toilets for more than a hundred people. Hell!”

“Crime offers easy money.”

“And a lot of women and drinks and good food.”

“Yes. And lot of cash.”

They grew quiet.

“One of my close friends became a hired killer.”

“Who?” asked the younger guard, the reader of the thrillers.

“Lal Chand. LC we called him.”

“How did it happen?”

“He was small and thin. A weakling. One day he got beaten by a person in his chawl. That goon always taunted his younger sister. LC objected. The local goon beat him black and blue.”

“Then?”

“Next morning, LC killed him before the neighbours.”

“Was that so easy?”

“Nope.”

The older one was quiet for long.

“In fact, LC had called one of his cousins, a sharp shooter for a dreaded gang. He hovered in the background. The goon was surprised to see a quiet LC and grew more aggressive. LC took out his revolver and with a shaky hand and goaded by the accompanying professional killer, his cousin, shot him three times. The surprised goon went down in a heap.”

“Then?”

“He became a local hero! That puny man! Once a timid who could not swat a mosquito, swiftly turned into a fearless hero.”

“Then?”

“The police were relieved at this elimination. LC did their dirty job. No witnesses. Nothing. But LC became the new goon. He terrorized. Drunk a lot. Went to bars and splurged money on bar-girls there.”

“Wow!”

The older guard looked hard at the younger one in his twenties. “The end was not that cheerful.”

“What happened?”

“The cops killed him in a staged encounter.”

“Why?”

“He was a threat to a powerful older don operating from Africa. That don paid the cops who killed him in broad daylight. Before hundreds of people. Killed him in cold blood.”

Before the younger guard could say something, a harsh voice called out: “Watchman.”

The younger one ran towards the A-Wing of his housing society.

That same night, a drunken resident abused him and hit him in the belly, for not standing up from his plastic chair. “Who has torn my bike’s cover seat? You blind? Bastard, can’t you keep an eye on the strangers coming into our society? You useless shit! Getting paid for not doing your job. Stinking idler. Bastard.”

The older one rushed out and pacified the drunk in his early 20s. The young guard cried in pain, doubled up on the cold marble floor of the well-lit lobby of the high-rise. The man shouted and stamped his feet and then left, cursing.

Same night, in his troubled dream, Raj Kumar Kurmi, 22, from a remote village, turned into a gleeful killer, going on a spree of killing and shouting hoarsely at the dead in a thin and piping voice.

The action took place in slow motion:

First: stabbing the landlord of the tiny village in the bloated belly five times. Long dagger, in the moonlight, dripping with fresh blood. He shouting: “This one for insulting my elder sister and raping my wife of thirty days.” Then, in a fast motion: Stabbing the money-lender for cheating him out of his one-acre land, at the edge of the village nestling in the region of the brooding Himalayas, near the border with Nepal; followed by the killing of a local politician who spread caste-hatred among the folks there, and then, fleeing from a stunned village, arriving in Mumbai and then, enraged and foaming at mouth, killing the rich of the high-rise and the young drunk resident, laughing manically, in the moon-lit night, while fresh blood dripped from his long curved dagger, a wolf, surprisingly, howling in a far-of forest, on that cold night; then, he, becoming that wolf in the jungle…

Setu

Poetry Drawer: Peaceful Dreams by Janine Crawford

Dreams of white sand,
And golden stars,
And silver bells,
Wrapped round the moon…
The moon whispered across the lands,
Peaceful dreams,
Sleep soundly,
For I will protect you throughout the night.

The Moon beams,
Down lights of silver rays,
As the silver dust sprinkles on the land,
And spreads throughout the night,
Giving sleepers of slumber,
Their peaceful dreams.