Come undone; Come unhinged

Treating agony and ecstasy in a manner that would have made Kipling proud

Viewing both misery and munificence as siblings of a passing cloud;

With a demeanour so incredible and an attitude indefatigable

 He never viewed any situation as one that was insurmountable or insoluble

 

But love finally ensured that the poor man came unhinged

One who was hitherto courageous and determined sadly brooded and cringed;

The remorseless and unsparing hand of Cupid which once seemed so pure and pious

Shattered a man who once proudly deemed himself from all emotions, to be impervious

Love vile and devious

Impervious.

(Word Count: 99)

Courtesy of Sammi Cox Weekend Writing Prompt#98

BlogchatterA2Z 2019: Theme Reveal

Bookcase

(A Random image of My Workstation)

Personally, writing for me has been an exercise in excelsis. While the art of writing itself infuses me with a joy that is unadulterated, imbibes in me a passion that is pure and inculcates a habit that is lasting, I realised that this very act of putting pen to paper was incomplete without one very vital tenet – feedback. Any feedback loop takes the concerned system output into consideration, thereby enabling the system to adjust its performance to meet a desired output response. Blogging is no different from any other system that is amenable for constructive criticism and feedback. Blogging establishes an unbiased and impartial ‘connect’ with fellow bloggers of various hues and cry thereby enabling a blogger to assimilate a stunning smorgasboard of ideas, suggestions and ingenuity.

This thirst for continuous improvement has spurred me into taking up the Blogchatter’s A2Z Challenge for the first time. With a paradoxical feeling of both confidence and caution, I signed up for this daunting challenge.

THE A2Z CHALLENGE ITSELF

This is an ingenious blogging challenge, nay, pilgrimage, where bloggers are required to blog a post every day in the month of April (except Sundays). Every such post corresponds to a letter of the alphabet- thereby making it one post for every alphabet. The blogger is provided the luxury, or the intimidation (whichever way one deems to look at it) of identifying a theme of hi or her choice. So without further ado, let me proceed to reveal my chosen theme. Please click on this link to explore other bloggers, and follow them as well, in the event, their preferred themes appeal to you.

VENKY’S THEME FOR 2019:

Books. Being an inveterate, impossible and incorrigible reader, I have decided to embark on a theme that would have at its edifice a review of 26 favourite books of mine. Each book review would be a sequential categorization wherein the title of the first book with begin with the first letter of the alphabet and so on until the exhaustion of all 26 alphabets. Thus: “Read and Review 26”

Looking forward to your support, succor and most importantly, invaluable feedback! Till such time we meet again on the 1st of April!

MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU! 

Life’s Cauldron

(Photo Credit: Dale Rogerson)

A Ferris Wheel. What could a slowly, irritatingly, lugubriously rotating hub with sitting capsules – containing within their confines a horde of screaming, shrieking, howling bunch of humanity – at the end of its multiple spokes mean other than chaos and confusion? Venky wanted to fling himself out the cauldron of hysterical laughter, harrowing colours and hounding lights. He could not even wrap his head around why he had brought a ticket for himself in the first place. The last time he was in one of these it was during Utopian times. It was when Ash was still with him.

This story was written as part of the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS challenge, more about which may be found HERE

 For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

.22 Caliber Bore Diameter

high noon

(Photo Credit: Crispina Kemp)

“High Noon Lane” – a glorified name for an inglorious location. An unassuming resting place for an unknown segment of humanity. They all lay here surrounded by an untenanted and untended grassy mound. The reluctantly sprouting flowers hid many secrets. Secrets brimming with euphoria and bursting with angst.

My neighbor had a hard time procuring his final resting place. Racked by poverty he required the intervention of the local gravedigger to get six feet under in peace and quiet. A combination of insult and intransigence prevented him from indulging in any conversation, meaningful or mediocre.

But the inveterate chatterbox that I am, my comrade’s reticence did not hold me back from sharing my sordid story with him. I even detected in him a shiver, when I narrated how the .22 caliber tore into my breast when upon going to meet her, I was greeted by a fusillade of betrayal and bullets.

(Word Count: 150)

Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #19 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.

NEPHTHY’S CHILDREN

Attempting to search for George Orwell or Aldous Huxley on the Cabinet supplied sleek electronic self-powered and booster enabled “V-Book-Ups” was rewarded by three weeks of isolated detention behind one of the hermetically sealed Ministry of Justice dungeons. Repeated offenses triggered even graver consequences ranging from forced labour in Gulag styled labour camps to execution by Minimal Invasive Liberation Outlet (MILO) methods.

‘Unlawful’ assemblies of more than 5 were located and dispersed with – initially warnings – and, for the more obstinate, by mild shocks, courtesy, Jarrings Of Limited Traumas (JOLTs) administered by humanoid UBTech Walkers. These robots patrolled the streets 24 hours a day in 6 shifts. Each one of these forbidding machines used 36 actuators and featured proprietary Simultaneous Localization and Mapping (SLAM) abilities for planning out paths and avoiding obstacles. The policing of the streets however, did not pose much of a headache for the Universal Law Enforcement Department since the only sporadic disturbances were in the nature of mutinies for additional packets of Frozen And Tested Edibles (FATE). Moreover, social unrest after all had to be preceded by the existence of a society. In a world populated by a mere four countries, society was but a bedraggled assimilation of income and wealth inequalities.

Category 10 cyclones (yes, you read it right), sea level rises exceeding 150 cm, acidic oceans, unfathomable increases in global marine heatwaves and a near complete erosion of the tropical forest had all contrived to wipe the greater good of humanity off the face of the only Planet which hitherto was habitable. Two categories of people survived this macabre dance of wanton destruction. The categories themselves were privileged choice and pure chance.

The wielders of the privileged choice comprised of the so-called “1 percenters”, who in a paean to their vulgar displays of wealth, watched the unfettered and brazen destruction of Earth from the serene confines of space. Defying both gravity, and the wrath of Mother Earth, these noveau riche ensconced approximately 250 miles above the land mass. Here they, along with their families, shamelessly and smugly bore witness to a massacre whose origins had these watchers themselves at its core. Relentlessly and repetitively orbiting the shrunken, shriveled and scorched Earth at a speed of 17,500 miles per hour, the parvenu lived in space capsules, each of which had the volume of a eight-bedroom house or five Boeing 787 Dreamliners. Capable of supporting a family of 10, plus ‘floating guests’ these capsules all put together covered the area of 1654 football fields including the end zones. Stacked with the finest of foods and stocked with the most sophisticated of spirits, the floating emperors shrugged off the doom below them like ducks shrugging water off their backs.

The ’victims’ of pure chance meanwhile, were those unfortunates who had either intentionally or accidentally wedged, nudged, crammed, coiled, and got stuck in nooks and crannies, crevices and caves, attics and air vents. Physically seared by injuries and psychologically scarred by destiny, these children of a lesser God survived by scrounging, the dark streets for scraps, left overs and tolerable detritus. The sight of a child prowling an almost translucent street at night, (or was it day) passing by ghost buildings set against the backdrop of a foreboding eclipse, became a common sight. Because of the depletion and damage to the ozone layer and some orbital peculiarities caused by the global warming, the moon more frequently blocked the Sun.

(Photo Credit: pixabay image by Natan Vance)

After 25 years of chaos and calamity, an eerie calm prevailed over Earth. The spacemen, with a great deal of reluctance and a bit of rancor floated back to Earth. Immediately upon arrival, the self-proclaimed leaders of the world, divided the spatial region (or whatever was left of it) into four sovereign nations. This division was based on an equal representation of flora and fauna, fertility, finite natural resources cultivable land area and maintainable infrastructure.

The children of pure chance were shepherded into the four countries and plied with the responsibility of working both the land as well as the wishes of their Masters. Forbidden to use their own names, they were all given uniform, standard and ‘harmonised’ names. The naming conventions seemed as if they had their genesis in The Harmonized Commodity Description and Coding System, also known as the Harmonized System (HS) of tariff nomenclature – an internationally standardized system of names and numbers to classify traded products. A factory worker manning a lathe machine was named 10-10.6-1006.10 where 10 represented the factory, 10.6, the engineering section and 1006.10 a lathe machine. Man thus, became indistinguishable from machine. Food was severely rationed and distributed at designated intervals in packets called FATE. Leisure was strictly codified and the publication of books was a managed industry.

Specially manufactured robots patrolled the streets in self driven amphi-bots. In an example of exquisitely dripping irony, the controlled toiled long and hard in sophisticated laboratories and design centres creating their own controllers. The controlling monarchs watched derisively as the controlled dutifully set about birthing their controllers.

Till one day, when either an extremely intrepid or an extraordinarily foolish lad of 23, clandestinely mass produced copies of a revolutionary work. The author was an egregious and eccentric philosopher named Karl Popper and his book was titled, “Open Society and Its Enemies.”

This is a piece of fiction piece written for D. Wallace Peach’s monthly Speculative Fiction Writing Prompt. 

Wednesday

(Photo Credit: Anshu Bhojnagarwala)

What was once a paean to melody was now a monument to melancholy. A perfunctory examination of rotting wood, the asymmetric smattering of mud on top and a reluctant profusion of motley crew of flowers made the top of what was earlier a piano now seem a spontaneous grave.

The keys long gone to the vagaries of nature and the vicissitudes of neglect eerily resembled elongated skeletal fingers. Yet this very lifeless piano struck terror in the hearts of the residents at the midnight hour every Wednesday by beating out an immaculate version of Chopin’s “Nocturne” in E Flat Major.

This story was written as part of the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS challenge, more about which may be found HERE

 For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

Buckshot

With sparkling eyes, and a fluffy tail, out clambered the curious fox

One furtive glance and, alas he was clasped firmly in a pair of claws

Remembering his mother’s words, “Never venture out on an Equinox”

Ruminating on his folly all the while getting closer to the bear’s steely jaws

 

The woods reverberated with the sound of buck shot

Stung by which the bear dropped the little fox

The ranger with his gun barrel still hot

Told the lucky survivor, “Today is Equinox”

Courtesy of Sammi Cox Weekend Writing Prompt#97