BEFORE YOU READ | What you are to read is a reverse poem. You may first read the poem from top to bottom. Read it then from bottom to top to know […]
Author Nicolas W King first started writing when he was thirteen years old. ‘And it was a bad X-Men fanfiction,’ laughs the writer, beginning his interaction with The Literary Juggernaut. Stating, nonetheless, that his first original story was a one-act play, which he gave to his theater teacher in high school, Nicholas, who works his day job in IT Support and tends to write at night, lets on with a smile, ‘She enjoyed it but could see I needed a lot more practice!’
His water brush draws
the mirror for the sky:
the vast lake beneath
captures the continuum
on its refractive surface
in deepening silence
Her voice was poised,
and when she addressed us
for the first time
a wave of silence descended
as if it were preordained
that a shrilled silence would dawn
when she worded the thoughts
she had in her mind,
for silence was a word
not in the dictionary
the students of St Mary’s used.
Come join me on my imaginary beach
The night will be warm, the moon full
The sand will sparkle in Luna’s light
The calm ocean will set the rhythm
With waves lapping quietly upon the shore
Oh, I wish I were with you up above
So we both might make love afresh each day
And pen grand sonnets that no man shall shove
Out of their dying yet unending way.
Well, troubling thoughts alone could be dismissed
On those hills where the band settled to play
Songs and lays and all they’d learnt, known, and seen
In those years that were past and months between.
The mornings greeted by hens that did lay
Would be gone when they’d depart; they’d be missed.
So many memories
Stored in our hearts,
The good times get reminisced,
Now that we are apart.
A professional ballerina whose father is a classical philosopher, military historian, and writer and mother a teacher, dancer, and choreographer, Anne, we learn, also loves the high romanticism of Baroness Orczy and her Scarlet Pimpernel series. She tells us that ‘romances’ in the old-fashioned literary definition, the tales of nobility, loyalty, daring exploits, and the great love match between the hero and his wife make for stirring reading. ‘However, I plowed through them feverishly as a child; and I still re-read them today when the mood strikes,’ she lets on.
Oh, the birds greet mirth and mirth births love
When winds wind their ways through woods of this land;
And the days turn sound with the nights that shove
The light that brightens the homes that here stand.
The murder of a top detective is the tipping point in the entire story. The slayer, who has his own very special modus operandi, is smart enough to escape the nation (the United States of America) where he has committed several gruesome murders. He flees to Mexico, adopts a new identity, and assumes he will never be apprehended. On the other hand, the son of the murdered detective joins the famed Los Angeles Police Department, his sole goal being locating his dad’s killer and giving him what he deserves – a body without a soul. But does the young detective obtain what he hankers for? Or is his plan foiled? Well, that’s the part that will make you read the book, right? So, we’d better zip our lips for now!
When the night is blooming
In the realm of its own artistry,
A spec of moonlight
Dares to caress your charming face;
I stoop to plant a kiss
On your sleepy lips.
It’s that moment when my love calls…
A love that refuses to outgrow!
When asked if becoming an author was a conscious decision she made, Barbara, who is also a member of Screen Actors Guild – American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, says she was working as an actor, which gave her a lot of down time, and she needed an outlet to keep from worrying herself to death between jobs. ‘I have always loved reading, and I thought I would see if I could write a book. I mean, how hard could it be? It looks so easy! Well, it was not easy, but it kept me occupied. And I learned I prefer writing to acting, so I switched emphasis, which is good because as a woman of a certain age, my acting career was stalling out.’
Lightnings of fury and pain
Were flung to burn a painful hole
Through its joyful core.
They kept pricking it,
Trying their best to cause- destruction;
But it wasn’t built to shatter.
Right here where tough deodars burgeoned for years
With blooming flower beds and brazened beasts,
I now behold concrete blocks with my peers
And swirls of dust rising upon tarred streets.
Conceding that she writes when an idea or inspiration strikes, implying thus that she does not have a calendar per se, Cat, who considers herself an eternal learner, tells us that Bosco and the Bees is a work of love. ‘I have written, re-written, edited, teased, swapped and fused certain characters into each other. It’s been fun!’ she explains. ‘It started as a fun idea when my kids were younger and becoming avid readers. Bosco is a young fairy searching for his life’s path, something that speaks to his heart. It’s the kind of story I would have loved growing up,’ adds the writer, who admits working on the book has required a lot more discipline and dedication than ever before.
He sits up and swings his legs off the slab, then looks back at that precious white face. Yes, she wants to stay. Maybe a little while longer wouldn’t hurt, after all. Rising to his feet, he straightens his tie and buttons his cuffs before heading for the door. He stops abruptly, letting out a slight sigh and pulls the tag from his pocket. He replaces it around the cadaver’s big toe and steps from the room, making his way down the corridor to his office. He picks up the telephone.
The knight that night with might set right
Each plight of men with tempers frayed;
The men then penned their thoughts then light
And journeyed to far lands as aides.