Well its been a good amout of time since I started writing in this amazing platform known as prose. Its been an amazing time and I really enjoyed it. I started writing so that I can escape from the real world. But I now understand that the real world needs me. So I think its time to return to my own world. Although I am not quitting on this platform, my break would may or may not be a long one. I don’t know how much time it will take but I assure you all that I will be back soon. I will still read all of your lovely messages but I may be sometimes late to reply.

Meanwhile I want to give you all a small challenge. I want you all to write an origin story. Not just anyone’s story, I want you all to write your origin story. Your experiences and your journeys... I want it all in this story. You are allowed to alter the characters names except your name. Yeah... I know its basically an autobiography but in this case you can write it in a fun way. The story should cover some of your best and worst moments in life. I will give you all about 2 months of time to prepare this story. And then I will post a challenge regarding this post and you all have to submit your entries in that challenge. For any questions regarding the challenge please do ask me in my inbox (here) . Well then go on and write your own story......

Alright, I first thought of returning with an explanation for my frequent disappearances. Then, I thought an apology would be a better idea. But then, I realised that I wanted this post to have a positive tone. So, here we are!

I am not going to explain all the reasons that kept me away because, it's a bit complicated. And the reasons were different almost every other day, so I think it would be a colossal, massive waste of time. But I can assure you that if there was a way, I would have made it here the very next moment. Maybe, I had a way, but I got too caught up, and I am horrible in time management. If I had figured everything out sooner, I would have been here way earlier. This little place is too important for me now.

That's when I thought of a pardon. I owe it to this place. I cannot simply take off, and leave someone else confused. That's not fair. And it's a wrong thing to do. I am really sorry for that. But the more I thought about it, I felt it was worthless. My apologies are worthless. I am afraid I had been using them as more of an excuse rather than a pardon. Maybe, I didn't mean to, but does that change anything? I am sure it doesn't.

But I am sorry. I know I have come off as a disappointment to many of you in more than one occasion during the past few weeks. It wasn't what I wished for, but it was what I had to do. Or at least, that's what I believed so. And I can't run against time and do something different, so I guess the best thing I can do is to apologise. I was an idiot. I am sorry, and I will try not to do this again.

And that's another thing I am going to change now. Every time I use the word 'try' in an assurance, it seems like my mind always opts the weaker alternative. And I think I might have hurt someone with that word, no matter how much I meant and wished for those to come true. I am sorry, buddy. I will not do this again.

Well, it turns out that the post was not as positive as I thought it would be. That's on me. I am sorry about that. I will do my best to return to the always-energetic, way too talkative, mostly silly late teen as soon as I can. Hopefully, from the very next second. Wish me luck (: And slap me in the face if you ever see me do this again. I deserve that!

Lots of love,

Chacko Stephen

#nonfiction

my pen is dry, rusted,

formerly fueld by pain,

but now,

the skeletons

of my demons,

lay black against the page.

spelling out the ending

of my once and former rage.

loneliness is dry

and no longer salivates,

and I'm searching for an ending

that let's me recreate.

writers block

is a bitch

when agony fades

into peace.

and the last of my hauntings,

like char,

and stretched thin into letters,

and painted on nothing

except this imaginary page.

and if my scars are like braille

they will spell words of hope

and I will finally remember

how to read them.

and I will be grateful.

and I will learn to put

flame to page once more,

and save the paper with moisture

not made of tears.

but ink.

#onefortheflames

“The End.” The words kept flashing in strident neon in my face. But it wasn’t the ending. My life was just beginning after living so many years with such a miserable man. He was out of my periphery and had been for several months. I tried not to think about him at all as I felt sunshine and hope cascading in a protective aura around me.

I decided to call in sick to work this day because it was such a lovely Friday and I wanted to lie in the sun at the beach, eat whatever I wanted, and to feel beholden to no one. I felt so free and energized.

As I was closing my apartment windows in case it rained, a solitary robin flew in through the opening, flitted around the room and then flew out. I remembered my mother telling me that if a robin flew into a room, death would follow. What a silly superstition! I packed my beach bag with bathing essentials and at the last moment, threw in a mirror which fell out of the bag onto the tile floor, shattering into many shards. I disregarded the ill portent of the broken mirror and went on my way to the ocean which always drew me to its peace and beauty.

As I got out of my car at the beach, a stray black cat ran in front of me. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I coaxed as I took crackers out of my purse and scattered them on the ground. I noticed that I stepped on a crack on the sidewalk but disregarded it because I didn’t have to worry about breaking my mother’s back because she had passed long ago. All of a sudden, it dawned on me that today was not only Friday, but Friday the 13th. “Nothing will go wrong today,” I reassured myself, “in fact, everything will go according to plan!”

When I heard my cell phone ringing insistently, I dug it out of my beach bag and answered. It was the police department telling me that my ex-husband had lost his brakes, crashed into a bridge abutment and was dead. Well, it positively was “The End” for him, I laughed as I pretended that it was karma for all his evil deeds. But in the back of my mind, I knew that it had nothing at all to do with the superstitions that had befallen me today.

Oh no! I smiled as I remember my father teaching me how to take care of an automobile, a lesson that had come in handy. On the way to the beach, I had stopped at my ex’s place of work and cut his brake lines. Oh yes, it certainly was unlucky for him! I rolled over and applied more suntan lotion, pondering the certainty of his fate.

But what about me? I had to do what was best for me after all those years of misery. Sometimes, you just have to make your own luck!

I never have given my car a name, which feels like a shame now. It’s not a car I’d buy if I had the money to buy one but it’s treated me kindly and it carries on the soul of my grandmother. She sold it and I bought it for half of what it’s worth after her sons had to finally tell her that they don’t want her driving anymore. There is plenty of emotion warped up into my grannie’s ’06 little Chevy Cobalt to warrant a name. But for now, it remains without one.

She’s taken me West of the Mississippi twice and only broken down once. This would be a good time for a metaphor but I’m not that good a writer. Both times I came West I owe to sickness which cannot be cured, tagged by Merle Haggard in the 1960’s as Ramblin’ Fever. A disease in which a man cannot stay in one place, where the settling somewhere unsettles and rattles the spirit, where one must up and leave for new territory, new horizons. And when one has it, there’s nothing he can do, save for head up and head on.

My first venture shorted my imagination awfully. I lived in a beautiful part of the country only to work 6 days and 70-80 hour weeks in misery, spending my off days in bed resting up and recovering. After I had taken all I could take, I turned in my two weeks and then drove out to California, up Highway 1 searching for something across the Pacific, the stars, God perhaps, the design of my own soul. We were delivered not.

I came back home to Tennessee after Covid hit, and I came back like a horse that had just been broken, beaten and straddled and sold, and rode hard and rode mean. I was in awful shape.

It took about a year before I accepted a job out West again, a couples miles off the Navajo Reservation basically in the middle of nowhere, in a desert so dry and without life, the prophets from the Christian bible likely used it as inspiration for writing about all those men being tested in the desert of old, and a desert so hot and mean, you can almost see the shape of the devil rising up and forming out of the heat waves. Or it is a mirage. But probably it is the devil.

I came out here to write Westerns but I’ve been unable to write for an equivalence to the biblical forty days and forty night. So now, all I do out here is clean toilets and make beds. I’m a housekeeper, if people ask me what I am, the answer is housekeeper. If there’s an art to it, it’s an art that has totally evaded my skill set. When my supervisor looks at the bed I’ve just made and says it needs to be tighter and with the quilt squares lined and matching and with proper dimensions between the pillows, all I can think to say is, Who gives a shit.

They say guests will leave behind hundreds of dollars in the Bibles but this has proven to be bullshit. Occasionally they will tip a few dollars but mostly what they leave is vomit in the trash cans, stains of shit and stains of piss on the toilet and bathroom floor, and a collection of pubic hairs in the tubs. When people ask me why I always take shitty jobs, I tell them it’s because I don’t ever want comfort as an excuse to quit writing. I often regret my life choices.

Sometimes I can see my own reflection in the yellow waters while I scrub the toilet bowl and I wonder what in the hell have I done with my life, if my existence in its entirety has been wasted.

When I first saw Audra cleaning a table after serving the customers breakfast at the restaurant, I wondered no more. Her murky and maple eyes seem to be globes of forests invented by Shakespeare and her long hair falls down her back how water falls down rapids at the Grand Canyon. Shimmering the sun, golden rays ringing off her black strands and when I first saw her, time froze and Michelangelo painted her and I stood witness.

I introduced myself and asked her on a hike, and I still remember the song that played in my headphones while I worked the rest of the day after she said yes. We climbed down desert slopes of the hike called Cathedral and talked about horses and baseball and sat and watched the mystifying and violent rapids of the Colorado score our conversation like concerto strings from the chorus of God.

We’ve since fallen in love, a love unparalleled by any other woman I’ve ever met. We’re going to live the rest of our lives together, a life I never pictured for myself.

I tell her that I’ve come all over for her, 2000 miles twice and even up and down the California coastline, and done come 28 years too searching for her. She says what took me so long.

I have negative thirty dollars to my name and I work a trade each morning and afternoon that I hate and when I hold her in my arms every night I finally wonder, of my life, how did I become so fortunate and blessed.

Merry sounds here and there,

people waving off the edge,

children screaming with festive joy,

As the beauty set its sail.

No one knew

Ever for sure that

Death may come

And that death may reap.

Everyone felt safe,

Safe in the ship,

Safe as in heaven,

Safe as at home.

Then it happened

The merry sounds turned

Into raging screams

As the white ghost hit the vessel.

The vessel did shriek,

It did turn,

As everyone realised that

Not all of them would be saved.

The Captain shouted;

″ Let the women and the children pass first,

And let them be saved;

My dear brothers, Remember our Country

Be British, Be true. ”

The whole crew stood by his word

And they all stared back at death,

As he stood behind the wheel.

The women and the children were saved,

Saved by the courage of these men,

The men who will forever remain,

In the walls of history.

As we looked into the sea,

Seeing all those boats sailing away,

Knowing that all hope is lost,

Soon began playing our favorite song,

′ Nearer My God to Thee’.

The ship soon did sink,

Into the depths of the sea,

And our last grand performance,

Still echoes in the walls of history.

© Amal_Z

#poem #titanic

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I’ve been busy these days, looking for what to study in the future. So please do spare me if i did not respond to any of your messages, tags, posts, comments, etc. :)

At this point I feel like I'm the problem

I feel like my emotions are an overreactoverreaction

I'm going from place to place trying to fit in

but how do you fit in

how you become happy

When every mistake or moment of self doubt you have leads back to the same place

Why wasn't i good enough for them they both left

The only two people who should have loved me unconditionally left and replaced me

California, November 1849

"No, no, don't cry, sweetheart. It's alright. No one will hurt you as long as Mommy's here." Roberta whispered to young Frannie and May, knowing every word she told was probably untrue. There was no way to evade the hands of the vicious beasts. At least, not anymore. They had hidden and retreated for long, but it was no longer a choice. They were trapped, left with no way to survive like they did the entirety of the previous year. And the helplessness in Randolph's eyes was the final piece of evidence that the unfortunate family required.

The powerful thuds on the tiny front door grew louder and louder by the second. The cries turned to wails, and the wails turned to whimpers. Randolph and his little family sneaked behind the stairs, trying to prolong their eventual fate, waiting for a miracle. But their hopes were not growing true- With a loud stomp, the front door collapsed, losing its battle to defend the family for long. It was all coming to an end.

It did not take them forever to find the weak, unprotected family from the darkness lurking behind the stairs. And the sight of an armless guardian, a meek young lady and two petite children did nothing to conceal the cruelty of the monsters- their eyes only brightened at the enormous heaps of gold, and their laughs only appeared after their valiant conquests. Trying to seize the little ones from their mother's hold, the two soldiers jostled their feeble father to the ground. But their youthful enthusiasm was ineffective against the strength of love the mother had for her children.

Disturbed for a moment at the unfamiliar strength of a woman, the men backed away for a while. But their captain was too courageous and manly to withdraw from a challenge. And that too, raised by a woman. He uncovered the shotgun that he kept away for the most formidable of opponents, impressed by the act of the young mother. But Roberta stood brave, even in the face of a shotgun, because no weapons could ever defeat a mother's love.

And she was correct. Moments before the captain pulled the trigger to end the frail woman's senseless act of courage, an arrow pierced through his ribs, splattering his warm scarlet blood across the woman's face. The children shrieked at the terrifying form of violence- an obscure image to be stacked in their pile of memories forever. The captain fell back, surprised at the unexpected assault. He immediately went into a shock- deep long breaths struggling to recover from an inevitable fate. But the darkness pulled him towards a void of something he had never felt before, and it was too strong for him to push back.

The other soldier was also immediately taken down with a sharp bullet to the forehead, adding to the grim scenes of brutality the children had to endure in a day. His end had not lengthened unlike the captain, quick and nearly imperceivable, he dropped aback- unable to even scream through the agony of his brain getting torn apart. The remaining soldier hastened towards the door, bewildered at the unexpected turn of events in the late evening. Nearly making it out before another arrow and a bullet, the soldier fled from the little cottage, never to return to this forsaken land.

Minutes later, a tall man with a pistol and an Indian with an arrow arrived at their doorsteps. Still cautious of their surroundings, the Indian lingered outside while the other gentleman went indoors to ensure that the family was unharmed. "Are you alright?" His deep, steady voice slightly reverberated inside the little cottage. The family, yet to realise that the threat was no more and their rescuers stood before them, remained blank at their courteous inquiry. The mother embraced her little daughters a little closer, securing them beside her warmth.

Randolph rose from the floor, feeling incapable and pathetic about himself, to respond to the good Samaritan, "Thank you." His words of gratitude were cut short with the horror of the dreadful events that just played out before his eyes. The young man realised the pitiful state of the family, leaving them alone to their homely solace. But before he could walk out of their tiny dwelling, he was taken aback by a question, "May I know your name, good sir?" The young man smiled at the request, realising that he has earned their respect, "James, ma'am. James Kincade."

New York, Christmas Eve, 1849

"And the prince and the princess lived happily forever." Owen got to the conclusion of his made-up fantasy, leaving his limited audience quite empty. Nevertheless, he did succeed in pleasing the youngest member of the gathering, Ms Maria Veronica, whose cheeks turned remarkably red at the joyful ending. "Oh, look at the way she blushed." Hope nearly squeaked, trying to tease her naive daughter, who was for her, indeed, a little princess. Though Owen's story was an overstretched melodrama, it paved the way for more enthusiasm in the comfy, renovated chamber.

Christmas Eve, throughout the centuries, remained a day of festivity and reconciliation between families dispersed across the globe. And it was no different for the Kincades- Aunt Flower and Uncle William joined them a week before, Oliver came back from his little tour, and Owen and Hope decided to remain at their residence. To add a little commotion to the happy mixture, the little children ensured that no soul could ever remain idle on a couch or by the fireplace, not even for the tiniest fraction of a second. So when Aunt Flower took Samuel out on a peaceful evening walk, the rest of the crew had to listen to the whelms of the other sibling, who was way more adamant than her evil twin.

While the mother and the toddler still debated about the truth behind the blushing, Owen crept his way to Oliver, somehow proud of the little story he just made. Though it was Christmas, Oliver was much of a workaholic, spending his time in front of a notebook or a piece of parchment paper, whichever was available. But Owen was in no mood to let his youthful cousin kill Christmas on parchment papers and the scent of ink- he began taunting his brother with pats on the shoulders and stroking his long brown hair. To further add to the discomfort, Owen started asking him questions that made no sense at all, solely for him to cease working. In the end, Oliver surrendered to his cousin's restlessness, immersing himself in the joyful conversation- patiently waiting for an opportunity to take revenge.

And as the cheers went on, Owen finally proposed the question that lingered in his mind. He never was a fan of fiction or fairytales, but the story he accomplished to create within the few ticks of a wall clock created ripples in his mind. Owen neglected the possibility of a probable humiliation, as it seemed irrelevant against the doubt that prevailed in his heart. Was his story good after all? But that particular Christmas Eve did not mark the birth of a revolutionary author, though Oliver ultimately got the opportunity for his vengeance, "No! You are spoiling your child, Mr Kincade."

The family broke into laughter at his quirky remark, and almost immediately, Owen regretted following his intuitions. But little Maria's roaring laughter was not one Owen could endure. He swiftly picked his daughter up from the comfort of the bed, altering his voice into that of a menacing monster, "Suddenly, a mighty dragon swooped in and carried the princess away, squeezing her within its enormous arms." He swayed her in the air, making her chuckle out loud of the excitement- he loved to make her laugh, as any father would do.

"Kids, playtime's over." A call muted the ongoing hustles in the little chamber. "Time for dinner." Diana continued, resulting in a tiresome sigh from the youngest member in the crew, "Coming, grandma." Grandma. It always made Diana feel rather special to be called grandmother. She was one of the very few individuals who adorned their greys, and for a fact, Diana appeared even more elegant with the greys. It made her look beautiful. Every time she saw herself in the mirror, unlike many, she ensured that her silvery strands either hung down or were visible with her usual ponytail.

As the young ones slowly marched out of the room, one by one, Diana remained there, ensuring that their journey made it to the dining hall down the stairs. Even though they had all grown up, they still required a push from the elderly to stop snooping around. But before she returned to the kitchen to help William with the turkey, Diana strolled to her room to see if Tyler was awake. His piercing headache following the afternoon meal reached a better state only by the evening. And when he decided to have a peaceful nap without the bustles of the children, Diana, too, felt it would be the best thing to do.

She carefully unlocked the door so as not to disturb him in his tranquil sleep. Since the curtains were closed to keep away the annoying light from the streets, the room was mostly in darkness. She calmly trodded in her way towards him, trying not to generate too much noise. Even after she realised that her partner had left this world behind, caressing his lifeless frame, her wails of agony did not leave the room. She laid on his chest, knowing that she could no longer listen to his heartbeats.

Baltimore, March 1850

THE GOLDRUSH RAMPAGE CONTINUES

California: Since the day when an ordinary carpenter and sawmill operator, James Wilson Marshall, discovered traces of gold in the California terrain, the locality remains dystopian with immense violence and staggering death rates, along with the influx of foreigners. Though the count of death remains unclear, the critical scenario continues unchained, reaping hundreds of innocent lives. The natives are getting slaughtered in large numbers, and the circumstances can only reprimand with immediate external intervention. Meanwhile, in Baltimore, large hordes of men have withdrawn from the San Fransisco Fire Company, complaining of poor management strategies.

William set down the newspaper, unable to contain all the gore and the havoc that stormed the western lands over a piece of gold. He wiped his face with his palms as if to cleanse the visions of ruthless violence produced in his brain. Drawing a deep breath, William decided to exit his hour-long library routine to join the special Orthodontics lectures guided by Professor Chapin Aaron Harris, co-founder of their institution. He was eagerly waiting for these sessions for the past few months, and his patience received such a huge reward when he climbed up on the dais the previous day. He never expected that his answer would impress Professor Harris to such an extent that he would even arrange a meeting with him that evening. William had never felt this proud in all his life.

As he shouldered his way through the crowd to the auditorium, sending excuses and pardons quite frequently, he never expected to freeze in his course on the sight of something way more beautiful than anything he had ever witnessed in his entire life. The young woman seemed like a magnificent sculpture, unflawed even in the tiniest of details. His eagerness to arrange the front seat of the lecture was, for a moment, forgotten in the bliss. The curly strands of her heavy, brown hair dangled just above the shoulders. Her eyes felt as if they sparkled against the light- large and bright, conveying nothing but sheer delight. Her complexion matching her hair- natural and breathtakingly gorgeous, his jaws remained hung at her indescribable charm. Her laughter was, for him, the language of happiness.

William shook himself out of his daydream, glancing around to see if someone had noticed. But yet, he could not take his eyes off her. He knew it was a shoddy thing to do, but his mind was already miles beyond his grasp. When she descended the rest of the stairs to the third floor, William could do nothing but follow her in her path. When she came to a halt in front of the notification dashboard, William sauntered along. Although his route was sharply the opposite, his mind and body were in total disarray. Gathering all his courage, a few large breaths and tons of self-motivation, he approached her alongside the dashboard, "Hi."

Wrong! William screamed in the insides. He could do way better than that, and why a hi? A two-letter word, a single syllable! Though his features hid the internal discomfort to an amount, he could explode any moment with self-pity. "Do I know you?" The girl asked him in return, to which William had no prepared responses. After spending a few moments in revered silence and stroking his neck, accompanied with monotonous grunting and confused glances, he managed to procure a few words that he had no control over in the least, "I don't think so."

If he had a wall before him right now, William would have banged his head against it a thousand times. If a cliff, he would have leapt down without a second thought. What in God's name am I doing? Somehow, he managed to return to his present self, "Well, this is not the worst time in a day to create a new acquaintance. Is it?" Surrounded by dark clouds at noon, waiting for a downpour, the two stood in the crowded hallway. Create a new acquaintance? William, you are an idiot! Though his thoughts only meddled around in his mind, William knew this was a bad idea.

Trying to sprint away in the opposing direction, trying his best not to look back, William got petrified in his tracks with her next question, "Are you trying to ask me out?" Catching him remarkably off-guard, William immediately swung around at the inquiry. A sly grin now coated her face, leaving William way more overwhelmed, "If I was," William hesitated, careful in crafting the rest of the words of his sentence, "would you accompany me?" He ended in a note of tremendous confusion and doubt. But her answer overthrew William like a blizzard. It was swift as light and sharper than an arrow, "No. The name's Anna, though." She walked away with an odd smirk, leaving William dumbstruck where he stood.

#fiction