Jasmine and Rain
Beneath the monsoon clouds that engulf Old Dhaka,
with the sound of rickshaws clattering and cobblestone whispers mingling,
is Mira's homemade of clay and bamboo,
infused with the scent of jasmine and nestled against the sound of rain.
When the city is still dreaming, at the first sigh of dawn,
With her fingers writing the day's events with smoke and unsaid hopes,
she awakens the hearth.
Wearing a variety of colored sarees, she makes her way toward her purpose.
A tricky balancing act between responsibilities and dreams.
She carries earthen pots, laden with the promise of the day,
down busy lanes teeming with stories and spices.
Their contents, each drip bearing witness to her silent sacrifices,
are as valuable as slowly melting ice.
In the market's raucous heart, her voice—a tender vine—
Twines through the tumult, a soft yet enduring grace.
She peddles spices, each ground seed imbued
With the essence of her soul, a subtle, enduring trace.
Her hands, painted with turmeric’s ancient gold,
Sketch unseen tales in the vibrant air,
Echoes of ancestors whose spirits, bold and unyielding,
Shine through her gaze, fierce and clear.
As the expanse of the city is enveloped in twilight,
Mira retraces the fragrant pathways of the day—the sway of cumin, the call of cardamom.
Returning to her hearth, where silent plays are hosted by shadows,
And her dreams scale the walls, reaching for the silent stars.
She finds comfort in her small haven beneath the thick blanket of darkness,
her spirit's troubles lifted.
As the Ganges speaks of routes, beneath the moon's soft touch
Her story is intertwined into the timeless fabric of people who shape, not simply endure, as she winds down to the morrow.
An Ocean in a Drop
Above, a slate sky grumbled, its belly full of tempest. Below, the ocean heaved in sympathy, tossing and turning with restless waves. Amidst this turmoil, a single drop of water began its descent, plucked from the heavens by the pull of an unseen hand.
As it fell, the drop saw the world in a blur—an array of shifting colors and shapes. It felt the thrill of the dive, the rush of the wind, the anticipation of the impact. Then, with a soft sigh, it touched the cheek of a child.
The child, with eyes wide and sparkling with joy, looked up at the sky. Laughter bubbled up from within as more drops joined the first, a chorus of tiny voices singing against the skin. The drop, now a part of this joyous assembly, lingered on the child's smile, a moment of pure, unbridled happiness.
The journey proceeded, with the drop, now a part of a stream, meandering through meadows and woodlands, telling secrets to the stones it passes. It nourished the thirsty earth, watched as seeds sprouted, blossoming flowers, and life in all its forms dancing to the beat of the changing seasons.
The drop traveled farther, joining rivers, flowing past cities where it quenched the parched throats of the weary, washed away the grime of days. It became a part of lives, a momentary respite, a drop in the endless cycle of existence.
Finally, the drop reached the ocean, its journey coming full circle. It joined the vast, unfathomable depths, becoming one with the multitude.
And as the night embraced the world, the drop, now the ocean, whispered to the stars above, its voice carrying the memories of its journey—an ode to the beauty of existence, a reminder that even the smallest can touch the hearts of many, a drop in the ocean.
From the Corner Table
I'm sitting in the corner of Café Léon, a quaint spot that’s a stone's throw away from my apartment. The wooden floors creak underfoot. I'm supposed to be working on my novel, but the blank document on my laptop screen mocks me. Instead, I find myself lost in the steam swirling from my coffee cup, a tempest in a teacup, you could say.
Café Léon is my sanctuary, a place where I can disappear into the background and observe the world in its raw, unfiltered state. The barista, a young woman with tattoos crawling up her arms like ivy, knows my order by heart - a small cappuccino, no sugar, with a dash of cinnamon on top. It's the little things.
The café is buzzing with greater energy than normal today. The large table by the window is occupied by a bunch of college students, with their textbooks and laptops strewn around like pieces of a puzzle they're all trying to solve together. Lost in their own little world, a pair whispers softly to one another in the distant corner. Then there's me, the perennial bystander, taking everything in.
My phone vibrates, breaking the spell. It's a message from my editor, no doubt a gentle nudge about my looming deadline. My aim has been to write a book that encapsulates modern living, the interconnectivity of human experiences, and the beauty inherent in ordinary moments. But the truth is, I've been having trouble. Seeing life is one thing, but putting it into meaningful words is quite another.
I take a sip of my cappuccino and feel the comforting warmth from the cinnamon. I turn to look around and see that the source of inspiration I've been looking for is right in front of me. Every person at the café is a character with their own backstory, set of challenges, and victories, making it a microcosm of life itself.
With renewed purpose, I begin to type. In my piece, I portray the barista as a striving artist who finds comfort in the routine of brewing coffee. I write about the students, each carrying the weight of their dreams and fears. I write about the couple because, in a world that frequently appears dark, their love is a light of hope.
After several hours, the café begins to close. The barista wipes off the counter and smiles knowingly at me. "Inspiration struck?" she asks.
I return the smile and shut my laptop. "Something like that."
I exit Café Leon and the cold evening air welcomes me. The world appears slightly more appealing and less overwhelming. In my book, I've tried to portray a little bit of modern life, but more than anything, I've rediscovering the joy of writing. And that's more than enough for now.
Under One Sky
Two souls, Adriana and Leo, who were unknown to one another but profoundly connected, resided in the center of the city, where skyscrapers kissed the sky and the streets buzzed with the beat of the restless. Their paths crossed every morning as the city awoke in a cloud of golden dawn; it was a brief moment of closeness, a near touch of destiny.
Adriana left Westside for the 7:45 AM train, her dreams nestled under her arm in the shape of a well-used notebook. Her days were spent creating the images that light up the city's nights in a cubicle on the twenty-fourth level. The same train left Eastside at the same moment as Leo, a photographer whose heartbeat in step with the heartbeat of the city. His mornings disappeared into the maze of streets, seizing moments that revealed the secrets of the city in whispers.
Their lives were a series of near misses. Leo went over his morning's work at the busy coffee shop where Adriana scribbled thoughts on napkins while their tables reflected images of each other. They would walk the same route around Central Park in the evenings, their footfall a silent duet on the meandering trails as the city painted itself in hues of dusk.
Up until the day the clouds parted, bringing with them a deluge of rain so intense that it became impossible to distinguish one place from another, the pattern persisted, a monument to the city's unwritten code of silence. Without an umbrella, Adriana ran under the bookstore's awning and huddled her notebook to her chest. Moments later, Leo, shielding his camera under his jacket, ducked beside her, both seeking refuge from the unexpected storm.
A spark of recognition ignited between them as their eyes locked—a recognition of spirits that had danced around each other for far too long, rather than just faces. The symphony of the rain fell about them, a curtain closing off the outside world.
"I've seen you before," Leo said, his voice a blend of curiosity and certainty.
"In the reflections of the city," Adriana replied, her smile a bridge spanning their worlds.
During that conversation, they found a common rhythm for their lives in the middle of the metropolis as their words flowed through the gaps between their nearly-meetings. Even after the rain stopped, they stayed put, unwilling to return to the flow that had kept them apart.
The city appeared different when they eventually parted, as if recognizing their newfound bond. Adriana and Leo rode the 7:45 AM train together the following morning and every morning after that, no longer traveling in separate directions but rather as friends on a journey altered by destiny.
One Day of Snow
A blanket of snow dampened the city's usual sounds as it awoke to an unfamiliar peacefulness. The sight was as stunningly gorgeous as it was perplexing for a place unaccustomed to winter's touch. With their faces pressed against the glass and their eyes wide with awe, they walked from the high-rise apartments to the old quarter's small lanes.
Breath clouds formed in the chilly air when Mara, a barista at a downtown café, stepped outside. The city seemed to have been born again, its hard edges softer and its relentless pace slowing. She observed children and adults alike, who were hesitant at first, as they ventured out into this unfamiliar environment and left their mark through footprints.
Across the city, Tom, a taxi driver for thirty years, sat in his cab, parked at the side of the road. The snow had rendered his job unnecessary for the day, but he felt no irritation. Instead, he marveled at the silence, the absence of the constant hum of traffic. For once, he wasn't racing against time; he was merely an observer to the unexpected pause in everyone's lives.
In the heart of the city, under the shadow of tall buildings, an elderly man named Mr. Chen walked his dog through the snow-covered park. The usual green had vanished under a layer of white, transforming the familiar into the magical. Mr. Chen smiled as his dog bounded ahead, kicking up flurries of snow. This was a day to remember, a stark contrast to the monotony that had seeped into his golden years.
The initial reluctance gave way to play and laughing as the day went on. There were snowmen everywhere—on parks' pathways, on balconies, and in varied shapes and sizes. Unplanned snowball fights erupted, bringing complete strangers into momentary fellowship.
Having never seen snow before, Mara closed the café early to help a group of kids construct a snow fort. Their laughter brought her delight; it was a sound so pure and contagious that it helped her forget the troubles that otherwise weighed her down.
Tom, on the other hand, had left his taxi behind and was now wandering the streets capturing moments of joy and surprise on his phone. The city, which had always seemed so familiar, had changed to become a place of joy and exploration.
And when Mr. Chen got home, he sat with the snow falling outside his window. With his wife gone for the last five years, he thought of how much she would have enjoyed this day. He felt connected to something more than himself for the first time in a long time.
The city shone under the streetlights as night fell, the snow turning the light into a million diamonds. The day served as a gift, a reprieve from time's unrelenting advance and a reminder of the wonder and beauty that may still astound and bring people together.
The snow would begin to melt tomorrow, and the city would resume its regular schedule. However, they would always be reminded of this day and its fleeting enchantment; it was a shared experience that brought them together and taught them to appreciate the beauty of the present as well as the unifying power of shared wonder.
In the rain, an old man visits two graves: his wife's and son's. Alone, he returns to an empty house, echoes of laughter long gone. Silent dinners, photos gathering dust. Tears blend with the rain. "Happy anniversary," he whispers to the cold stones, heart heavy with memories, aching for lost embraces.
The Illusion of Still Waters
From where I stand, the lake is a mirror, reflecting a sky so vast and untouched it might have been plucked from a dream. They say water has memory, that it carries the whispers of the past within its depths, swirling beneath the calm like secrets waiting to be told. I used to believe in the serenity of its surface, in the illusion of its stillness. But that was before.
My name is Alex, and my life, much like this lake, was once a portrait of tranquility. Or so I thought. I had a routine, a path so well-trodden it could have been carved into the earth: wake, work, sleep, repeat. The occasional ripples caused by family dramas or minor inconveniences never seemed to disturb the overall calm. But beneath the surface, something was stirring, a current strong enough to pull me under without warning.
It began with a photograph, an old, faded snapshot I found tucked away in the pages of a book at the local thrift store. The image was haunting—a lone figure standing by the edge of a lake, so much like this one, under a sky bruised by the setting sun. There was a familiarity in its composition, a sense of déjà vu that clung to me like a second skin. I bought the book for the photo alone, driven by a curiosity I couldn't quite explain.
Over the next few weeks, the image became my obsession. I researched every detail, traced the location to a secluded lake a few towns over, known locally as Still Waters. The name was a misnomer if there ever was one. The more I learned, the clearer it became that the lake was anything but still. Legends of its haunted past, of lives swallowed whole by its depths, filled my nights with restless dreams. Yet, I was drawn to it, compelled by a force as inexplicable as it was irresistible.
So here I am, standing at the edge of Still Waters, watching as the sun dips low, painting the sky in shades of fire and gold. The air is thick with the scent of pine and something else, something faintly metallic. I step closer to the water, the photograph clenched in my hand, and as I do, the surface stirs, as if awakened by my presence.
A whisper floats up from the depths, a voice so faint I might have imagined it. But then it comes again, stronger this time, calling my name. Alex. The water before me ripples, and in the reflection, I see not my own face, but that of the figure from the photograph. Our eyes lock, across time, across realms, and I feel a pull, a longing to step into the water, to become one with the image, with the lake itself.
But I resist. The illusion of still waters has been shattered, revealing the chaos that lies beneath. The voice fades, the reflection distorts, and I am left alone on the shore, the photograph slipping from my fingers into the lake. It sinks slowly, consumed by the darkness below.
As I turn away, the calm returns to the surface of Still Waters, as if nothing had occurred. But I know better now. The lake is a keeper of secrets, of stories untold and lives unclaimed. And mine, for now, remains my own.
The road back to the life I knew is long and winding, shadowed by the trees that line the path. I walk away from the lake, from the whisper of voices and the pull of unseen currents. The illusion of tranquility is a siren's call, luring the unwary to their doom. I've heard its song, felt its embrace, and emerged wiser, if not unscathed.
And in the darkness, the lake whispers one last time, a farewell, or maybe a warning. I don't look back.
The Last Ember of a Dying Fire
The world was a blur of gray and white the day I decided to burn down the past. It was an overcast afternoon, the kind that threatens rain but never delivers, mirroring the empty promises of a childhood lost too soon. My parents had passed away some years ago, leaving me with nothing but a legacy of pain and a house full of ghosts. I had distanced myself from them the moment I was old enough to understand that not all homes were battlegrounds, not all words were weapons, and not all touches left bruises.
I stood now at the threshold of the house I once called home, a structure that seemed smaller than I remembered, less menacing. Yet, the air around it was still thick with the echoes of screams and the scent of fear. It was a mausoleum of my darkest days, a monument to misery. And today, I was its executioner.
I've always been drawn to fire—not because of its destructive potential, but because of its cleansing properties. The flickering light of a candle gave me comfort as a boy in the middle of chaos as it was the only source of light in my otherwise gloomy environment. In the depths of my misery, it served as a ray of hope and a symbol of rebirth. Today, it would be my salvation.
I made my final entry into the house, holding a lighter in one hand and a canister of gasoline in the other. Every step seemed like walking through a gallery of nightmares, every chamber like a prison where a fragment of my soul was held captive. I poured gasoline all over the walls, the liquid drawing the contours of countless memories, each drop a tear shed in silence.
I stopped in the middle of the room that used to be a living room and was now a courthouse, where I was both the judge and the executioner. This has nothing to do with seeking retribution. It had to do with breaking free from the bonds that held me to a past that threatened to suppress my future. It was about turning suffering into strength and hopelessness into resolve.
I inhaled deeply and ignited the lighter. I let it fall, and the home burst into flames. I watched as everything was burnt by fire, the darkness that had covered my heart for so long being broken by the light.
I didn't stay to see the fire go out. I knew that the final traces of my history were turning to ashes even before I saw the embers disappear. I strode away like a man reborn from the flames, a phoenix rising from the wreckage of a life that was no longer mine, not as the broken boy who had previously traversed those hallways on shaky legs.
And so, as the house turned to ash behind me, I did not look back. For the first time in my life, the way forward was ablaze with light, and I was ready to walk into the dawn of a new day, a phoenix born from the ashes, free at last.
A Great Big Pile of Broken Things
I live surrounded by enormous mounds of shattered items. the remnants of lives lived, dreams realized, and lives abandoned. Every piece, a reminder of an era long gone. My reality is a database of splinters, an atlas of cracks. Here, in the midst of a junkyard that stretches out beneath an uncaring sky like a city of ruins, is the isolation I have chosen.
I sought solace here from a reality that seemed too real, too harsh. I found comfort in the embrace of trashed goods, feeling an odd connection to the broken and outdated. Here I found a haven, in this cemetery of the once loved. A place where the broken are honored and where the silence of the present coexists with the stories of the past.
I spend my days meandering through forests of splintered wood, rivers of shattered glass, and mountains of metal. Every step is a revelation, every finding a long-kept secret from another time. I try to rescue as much as I can, not because it's valuable but because of the memories and stories they hold.
On a day when the dust-choked sky held the sun heaving overhead, I found her among the ruins. A porcelain-faced doll, her hair matted with years of filth, missing one eye. The weight of indifference nearly erased her existence as she lay buried beneath a mound of abandoned toys. I removed her from her tomb, wiped away the dirt, and noticed a reflection of my own soul in her shattered face.
I named her Clara.
In the shadow of deterioration, Clara became my confidante and quiet observer of the soliloquies I enacted. I told her about my hopes, my anxieties, and the plethora of reasons that brought me to this abandoned spot. I saw empathy in her one-eyed stare, a mutual acknowledgment of being an outsider.
She listened even if our chats were one-sided. I was able to find the answers to questions I was afraid to speak out loud in her quiet. I learned the grace of acceptance and the beauty of imperfection from Clara, with her cracked smile.
But the junkyard, for all its stagnant serenity, is not immune to the passage of time. Storms come, winds that howl like the ghosts of industry, rain that falls like the tears of a world mourning its lost innocence. They rage against the bulwarks of my sanctuary, tearing at the edges, threatening to consume what little I have carved out for myself.
I lost her during one of these storms. My domain's topography was altered when a deluge of water carried away Clara, my silent sentinel. Through mud and mire, in the midst of the storm's mayhem, I looked for her. But she was gone, as if the very ground that had hidden her had taken her back.
I felt hollow in her absence, a void reflecting the holes in the broken objects all around me. Her passing served as a lesson on the transient nature of connection and a reminder of the impermanence of everything.
Clara’s short stay, in my life, demonstrated to me that even amid brokenness, there is beauty to be preserved and a tale worth sharing. She showed me that living amidst devastation means to rejoice in the ability to endure rather than to wallow in sorrow.
I reign over a nation where the broken are hallowed and every piece of debris is a shard of survival and resistance. In this place, I am both royal and subject. Here, among the immense mounds of broken things, I have discovered a home.