You're not alone

 When you'll feel all alone,

   And the world has turned its back on you.
Give me a moment please,
  To tame your wild heart.

When darkness is upon your doors,
  And you feel like you can't take anymore.

Let me be the one you call,

  If you jump, I'll break your fall.

Lift you up and fly away,
  That nobody found you in any way.

If you want to fall apart,
  I'll mend your broken heart.
If you want to crush then,
  Go crush and burn.

But you are not alone.

    Quill...

The great betrayal

An old fashioned tea shop, with dusty wooden furniture. Well lit with fancy candle designed bulbs.  The aroma would remind you of hand-made cookies and cakes mixed with freshly brewed tea. What made the shop alive was the mixture of constant chatter rising from each table and booths and with the clinking noise made by the cups and pots. The front door opened ajar; slapping the wooden wall behind; she walked inside. Dripping what seem like sweat on her face, she scanned the area and found her at their usual booth. Near the fireplace.

"Okay, I came as fast as I could. Leaving him half-naked. So, this is better to be good."  Roma said annoyed and curious at the same time. Catching her breath, she sat down right opposite to our protagonist.
"I think, I cheated death." The protagonist said half scared half confused and extremely tired.
"Again?!" Roma grasped. "Wait, he is not here, is he?" Roma scanned the shop without making any movement. All ready to attack.
"No, I think I lost him near the lake." Pensively, our protagonist replied.
"You know, this cannot continue like this." "We are putting people at risk." Roma cried.
"Do you think, I want to continue this?" Hissed the protagonist. "Every time this happens I feel like I am living a life on lease."  Irrigation and tiredness were clearly visible in her tone.
"Miso, I was wondering, if we-" Roma started.
"No, I am not going to that fraud fortune teller again. All she could do is print me another talisman. Bloody useless." Miso interrupted.

That's when the door of the tea shop opened again ajar with comparingly very less intensity, in which Roma opened the door. Both of my customers stopped their whisper and hid their crown behind the back of the chairs of their booth. Pretending to be a part of the chair.
A shadowed figure entered the shop. His presence put a stopper on the tea shops warm chatter. All remain was the minimum whispers behind the booths and constant low keying noise. Ignoring our usual customers and their juicy concern about how Miso, cheats death every now n then. My attention was now fully caught by our new character. His stone-cold lifeless eyes never left my solitude behind the front desk, yet the curl on his lips indicated his awareness of MiSo and Roma' bewildered face.

"The usual, please." Said in his bone-chilling voice. Approaching the counter front.
"Usually, you are not here at this time. Anything happened which wasn't supposed to?" I asked, pouring black tea in the cup for him.
He replied a smirk like he knew what his rivals next step would be. But never gave word to his thought.

On another table all of a sudden the typing noise stopped. The typer yawned loudly. Stood up and walked towards me. Finally smiled at me, he said.
"চা টা ঠান্ডা হয়ে গেছে, আর এক কাপ হবে?গল্প লিখতে একটু সময় লাগে. বুঝলেন দিদি!"

The language our writer used was unknown to most of my readers. But, understanding the request, I refilled his cup. He lifted his steaming refilled cup and took in the aroma rising from the cup. "Perfect!" He said. Raised his cup as a toast with our new character. Then he said, "why are you in an unusual timing, here?"
"Why can't you mind your own business, like the usual?"
"Trust me, I am minding my own business. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been here in the first place." The writer chuckled. And went back to his seat, to key down his never stopping thoughts.

It's true, wit beyond measure is the writer's greatest treasure. (J.K.Rowling, Harry Potter and the order of Pheonix)

"Fascinating!" Roma amazed.
"What?" MiSo looked where Roma was looking.
"The language, the writer speaks"
"You like the language?"
"No."
"Then what's fascinating?" MiSo inquired.
"The way she understands his language, without speaking it," Roma stated.
"Anyway, tell me, what do you want me to do? No, wait!" "First tell me what happened this time." I heard Roma whispered to MiSo on their booth.
"So, I was on the bus. Coming back from, you-know-where." MiSo started. Giving Roma a knowing look. "The bus was on its usual speed. And all of a sudden a lorry came from the right side and crashed into our bus. But, just like, earlier times. I saw the lorry coming through. As if it was possessed by something, or maybe the driver was... I don't know." Coming out of her pensive mood and finally looked at Roma's very attentive and curious face. "But Roma, right before the lorry, touched the bus. I was as if transport from my seat to across the street. Like, one moment I was there in the bus watching the lorry rushing without any breakthrough my window. The next moment I was at the on the street across and saw the lorry hitting the bus." "I don't know how it happened. Bit it just did. In a bizarre and unexplainable way, Roma, I cheated death! Yet again!"
"Stop blaming yourself. You just survived." Roma consoled her friend.
"How?"
"Well, that's what we have to find out, right?" "And, where was he ?"
"Right there near the bus, very furious."
"Argh! This is not going anywhere. We have to talk to someone."
"Do you have somebody in mind?" Putting more emphasis on the word "you" in a sarcastic tone. MiSo said.
Roma thought for a while concentrating and then said like she finally solved the problem. "How about grandma?" Nudging her head towards the table right beside where the writer was typing in his constant pace.
MiSo, giving a thought to it, said, "how could we avoid her pry sight"
"Which is why, not here," Roma explained.
And they left the shop together.
.......

To be continued...

Cry of a Poet

When I admire your healthful beauty
And I try to describe it in ink,
I cry...
...for not being competent enough
To defend your holistic with it.

I'm no Wordsworth, nor the famous Tagore.
Not here to create another history.
But you.. being here...
Is a cry.. for the poet within me...

You are the beauty of the night
An oasis for every traveller.
The symbol of dedication and achievement,
Vessel of perfection.

You are...
the nymph of night,
shining so bright.
Petrifying my words and my mind...
And I'm just
The hungry poet tonight.

~Quill

The boy with ginger hair

Just like every other evening, I drove back home, tired from the long sessions at court. After changing into my white satin nightgown. I prepped the oven and the meat that was to go inside it. I opened an already opened bottle of wine. And after gulping my first glass in one-go, the bittersweet taste of wine hit my tastebuds and my thoughts drifted to work again. Today's session to be more particular. It was one hell of paparazzi outside the court today. The media is having fun with the amount of the news they got with the latest scandal about the CEO of ERC Industries.  "I could bet that the next few months would be no different, as ERC Industries is breaking down. Well, he paid for his sins. I still wonder how he could do that to his own sister?" whispered to myself. The crimson colour of the wine gave me blow in my heart which reminded me of the unbearable pain and loss. I sighed! I was going to reach for the bottle, to pour some more wine to forget everything, when the bell rang. I opened the door. In the next moment, my neighbour heard a gunshot and dialled 911.

I am a soul mediators. I can see, talk to the dead people or be more technical, their souls. As far as it could make you uncomfortable with the knowledge that I am someone with such capabilities with talking to the deads. I won’t lie, It is true. I am a paranormal activity expert, a person who can help the dead souls with their unsatisfied desires. And I'm also a public prosecutor. But that day I was neither the soul communicator nor the famous sword of the law. That day, I was just my best friend’s bridesmaid. Emma Marian Cabral. My soul sister.

Emma and I went to the same law school. We were seatmates, roommates and the famous inseparable. If it wasn't for Emma and her company in law school, with my not so normal identity, I would have been the weird girl nobody wanted to deal with. Post law school, when I decided to be the public prosecutor. She wanted to work for her brother's company as his legal counsel. Therefore, we went our separate ways, and with our busy lives, we lost touch. I was taken by surprise when while tending my fresh babies’ breath in my small garden, my mother gave me the invitation card of her wedding. I was so happy and thought I wouldn't miss it for my life.

I was there standing at the venue of Emma's wedding but why doesn't it feel like her wedding anymore? Everything has been said and done as for the plan. Yet, the decoration doesn’t offer a sense of holy matrimony. Walking around all the places, she planned so well with her brother. From the white carnations which her brother specially asked the planner to dress the entrance, I remember she mentioned over the phone. The wedding room where she and her groom were supposed to take their vows at the end of the aisle, and the sitting area, where her family and friends were supposed to witness the holy act of togetherness, all draped in silvery satin fabric and ribbons. And the aisle where the babies’ breath and the lush Tully heightening the wedding essence. The dining area, where after the ceremony her guests and her family where to join and celebrate the day, decorated with vanilla scented candles and white roses on each table. At a distance, the illuminated garden and the entrance of her house held a celestial vibe with the fairy lights. I found her there, she was walking towards her house. Or was she guiding me somewhere?  

Everything was as it was supposed to be. Without an error. Her angelic wedding gown, the heavenly arrival of the guests and her groom, who was so excited last night like it was all a dream. Yet, why the impulsive hurry of marrying my best friend has replaced with dorn devastation? Why, is nobody happy and celebrating anymore? All these decorations, why do they not make any sense anymore? Why is it no longer a wedding anymore? With all my Whys I looked at Emma. She faintly smiled at my confusion and dragged me to the crowd at her doorstep. Everyone was standing, some shell-shocked. Some, whispering. Then there were people clicking pictures for paparazzi. Everyone was there, her brother, her groom, his family, other friends and herself. She was there lying still and cold. Her body laid on the concrete pavement of her doorsteps with a scarlet pool around her.  

I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. Emma, standing-no, hovering over her lifeless, limp body. Where her extremely pale bridal gown united with her crimson pool. Living unified with the non-living. Standing there I saw, Emma, no! her soul, trying to touch her face with pale white lifeless hands. Her insipid face, now moist, looked like a part of nature, serene. Like she has received the feminine passivity, my Lady of Shalott. I couldn’t find my normal voice and finally whimpered.  

“How?”

“Correction - “who?” her soul said.

“This can’t be a murder?” Maybe I asked this question more to myself than her. I mean, who could murder the most powerful businessman’s only sister, that too on her wedding. I remember in our law school whenever we were to go outside the campus, Roland’s watchdogs were always around us. Even in the most crowded places. And this is her home. Who could dare to do such a foul thing to a bride, to my Emma?

“Murder? Oh! It’s an accident he would say. Or might just kill one of his goons on false charges.” She answered the question I never asked. But these words made me wonder.

 “Who?” I asked her again.

“The only man in a blue tux and ginger head, my brother, Roland! The company is under my name. Our father made sure of it and my brother loved money more than his family.” Her pain-stricken smiling face replied. Her face and her brother’s horrific deed made me go against ERC Industries. I swore to ruin him and his precious ERC Industries. EMMA ROLAND CABRAL Industries.

......

I was about to reach for the bottle when the doorbell rang. I opened the door. Before I could ask him, what he is doing here. He said, "Hi, I don't know if Emma ever mentioned about me, I am Peter." in a hopeful expression in his voice. 

Which forced me to welcome him inside saying, "Of course, You were the groom, Peter, I saw you at the wedding." 
The mentioned of the wedding must have broken him from inside, as he whispered more to himself, "Yes, the wedding which became her funeral."
This statement made both of us silent for a moment. To overcome this situation, I said, "I am really sorry, for what happened. Would you like to drink something?"
He chuckled, " I would love to have a glass of that." Pointing the bottle of wine.
"Sure. Please, make yourself comfortable." I smiled. "So, what made you come here, today." Handing him his glass and pouring another one for me.  










 He pulled the trigger. I saw the bullet pierced through my clothes, my skin, my muscles and then reached the organ which made the body system stop working. A ricochet occurred when the bullet hit me and it threw me towards the coat closet. I could feel myself falling towards the ground. Like my body doesn't have the power to reach act against gravity. With my last breath and soon to me lifeless eyes I captured my killers pale white face and ginger head.

…

         I woke up, I should be feeling tired or in pain. I was shot for god sake. However, I was feeling rather light and weightless. Like all the stress, pain, frustration is gone. Life is beautiful again, carefree. Nothing else matters. I looked around me, the place gave a sense of morbidity, like life as no hope at all. A question bothered me, where am I not in the hospital. This place looks like a lab. That’s when I heard someone said, “Time of death, 1938.” And I saw my body on the table. 

Quill~

A date with Wordsworth

It is hard, being a writer. There’s so much to write about. Yet so little you could pen down. I want to be a poet. I remember, how Wordsworth’s defined poetry as, "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity". What he meant was, poetry is born from flesh and blood of the emotions recollected in tranquillity. When I read through these words for the first time, my tiny muscles at the base of each hair follicle contract and pull them erect on my skin. An epiphany struck me, and I fell in love with him. My Wordsworth. Whose words were worth reading.

I could feel I was there with him wandering like a cloud. Witnessed the show of the immortal daffodils with him. The words in his poems were more like a whisper to me. They sang me a song and took me with the stream of melancholia to the reaper in the heart of Scotland. I saw the poet listening to the reaper. True, her voice was so serine never heard before. It was like the eolian harp chiming through the wind of the north. The waves of the grassland asking for more. And was she beautiful? Well, I don’t know. I only heard her sing in my Wordsworth's tranquillity.

One day, I accompanied our familiar traveller to the abbey. Before I could speak about another poet and adventure of the ancient mariner, our traveller took me to the abbey. Again, with an eolian Harp playing with the wind in the background. There wasn’t any portal, but we time travelled. Whilst in his apartment, he took me through his knitted words. It was beautiful and green. I was exploring the Abby blinded by its beauty. When the music, the harp, stopped playing, I turned, and he again left me with myself in the bosom of nature.

Another time, two glasses, a bottle of rum and us together. That was then when Wordsworth drowned himself in the liquor named Lucy. I never met her personally. But it seems like I know her like I have lost her. Have touched the moss on her grave. Lost her in the luminescent night. 

This was my Wordsworth. My favourite poet. My lover. Have you seen him somewhere? Have you met him somewhere?

Quill~

Love

Darling, you know,
Neither Ecstasy nor a bottle of hemlock,
Or the ricochet of the bullet which pierced through my heart could force me to live again.
But the epiphany that this little fellow here,
lives every beat for you,
As a sapling grows into a tree.
I could be reckless sometimes, stupid, Yes.
Even unstable, vulnerable and restless.
But your smile does the magic every single time.
Darling you know, I fool myself every day about your existence.
Read your lies just to relive those moments, again.
Darling, you know... your frozen smile created a rhythm of life.
And forced me to live, love again.

Quill~

Statement of his Crime

When at last he got caught, the understated poems are nothing for the department. He is nothing but a criminal. 

Part 1:

Would you call it a crime? But he said, "That’s my art."
It wasn't a surprise, he made her aware of his arrival, 

a familiarly sickening melody.

The tune predicting the approaching anxiety.

An angelic face with the devilish eyes.
With a calm and sincerely frustrating heart.

That's all what the brain last registered.
Pale face with a pale heart.
The work was done. He left.

Dissolved in the air at a distance. 

And the remains were just the cold metallic smell around her sublimity he created.

That was His Art!

Her screams echoed in the valley of the dolls. Where every doll slept like her.

He fathered the art by ornamenting it with, duct-tapes, a clown in snow and rose-petals on her blood.

Quill~

Part 2:

He repeated the same melody.
Similar actions. Like you're hitting the button, REPEAT!

"Does that make any sense? You kill people for fun? for Art?", Spat the detective.
In response, he smiled and said.

"Killing is an exceptional Art.
I kill to create, create an Art nobody could dare to think of.
The art nobody has thought about.
I kill, cause I need to be fed.
You see, I am hungry. This hunger has no end.
I could never stop eating.

I kill so that I could feel.
Feel their anxiety, fear and pain.
Feel their last breath over my face,
Before their shutter closes forever.
My face forever with them.
Do you know how delicious is the sweet smell of blood,
freshly carved out of their soft skin.

It is an Art, just like fishing.
You go near the clear water
Pond, wait for the perfect
Moment. You stab the dagger
Right into the flesh and Voila!"

Quill~

WHAT IS POETRY FOR YOU ?

"What is poetry ?" This is the question my mother asked me today when I said I prefer poems over novels. But after this question, I asked myself. What exactly is Poetry? Is it only the art of reading an unsaid emotion and framing it in the form of a poem? Or is it just the literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm (well this is what Google said). Or as Sydney said, poetry is the first light-giver to ignorance. As he considered poetry as the oldest of all branches of learning? Wow! just think just give a thought to Sydney. Or like Wordsworth said, "poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings; it takes its origin from emotions recollected in tranquillity."

Well if you ask me, I would say I'm not certain what exactly it is.. as it can be an emotional outbursts ones long-suppressed feelings; the tears of a mother flowing as the ink in her daughter's letter; the curve of someone's lips after receiving long-awaited news; the longing heart of a lover or the just the frustration after listening to a repetitive refrain. Seriously speaking, I don't know which is the one. You cannot be definitely sure about it. Can't pinpoint it, "this is what it is" no, you can't. Because this is not mathematics. Here, 2+2 can't always be 4. It always depends upon the person who is counting, in which situation he is counting, why he is counting and what is the result he is actually expecting. Here you have to think. So think and tell me. What is poetry for you?