The Missing Butterfly

The Missing Butterfly: The world was contemplating , A senile caterpillar kipping an entire season. Daylights turned into- Jaded hours of darknesses , And jake frost was ending for its own reason. They anticipated to see it’s forewings , With portrayals of snow and summer. Even so , Fanny Adams were coming out , Neither…

One Last Rain!

The house is heavy with grief. Twisting an escaping strand of my curled hair in my finger, I bite my lower lip to stop myself from getting emotional. Outside, as I hear thunder, a sudden smile of secrecy escapes my pursed lips. Abandoning my family in time of their need, I take one step back, listening to…

MOTHERLY!

“Dear Diary! All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am. This day is when many embark on new journeys. Some start small time resolutions, some quit unhealthy habits and practices….

When I Would Meet Myself!

Dear Maya (8th August,2058 — 65 Years 8 Months Older) Hi! You must be looking as sexy as I am now Ha Ha! I always fantasised how would I look when my hair would turn grey. I hope that you are healthy and strong and that you are living a good life. Do you still have long hair…

Handwriting

I was left with the fresh taste of impending doom and the piercing sound of the squealing tyres as I crawled onto the pavement. In a sudden moment of clarity, my past bore into my conscience. In effect, my wall of heroic nonchalance was reduced to smouldering ashes. I could literally see the flames dancing…

A Fairy and The Blue Butterfly

7th July, 2008: A Beautiful evening of my life — One boy, One Gulmohar tree and a Blue Butterfly! Inspired by a true happening of my life and the plot was initially developed by a friend, ‘Fortune_Cookie’ and further modified by ‘Travel_story_of_a_girl’.  The Boy Says: “On a Friday afternoon, I  have returned from college early. There was a…

Editorial: Just a Different Writer!

If there’s one thing an author might fear losing, it’s her eyesight. How can a writer continue to work having lost the faculty to see the sliding of the pen or the movement of letters across the screen? Reading, too, becomes a struggle, forcing the author to depend on books being read aloud or to…