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Stories Varied delve into the possibilities of woman’s life in the man’s world. While Ilaa’s Ire takes one back to woman’s life and times in the Vedic age, ‘201’ Qualms depicts her predicament when torn between trust and duty. If “?” addresses woman’s marital stress in an alien land, Cupid’s Clue is about her acting on a rebound in the native place. Even as Autumn Love enables a woman to discover the void late in life, A Touchy Affair renders her amenable to her man’s other woman well in time. Just as Love’s How’s That inflames her old flame, A Hearty Turn brings the female lesbian leanings to the fore. As Love Jihad bridges lovers’ religious divide with a secular plank, Tenth Nook creates a marital gulf on the material plane. If Eleventh Hour is about woman’s lust for love, Twelfth Tale underscores her quest for power....

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“Why am I bogged down with this man-made thing without a thought for the man who made it all happen,” she thought on second-thought. ”He’s only to be blamed for that. Why not, he’s the one who maligned my mind with materialism, didn’t he? Or is it Mammon who had seduced my soul to the core? But how does that mater any way. He did desert me at the first post of adversity and that’s what matters. How shameful. Is it cowardice or callousness? How am I to know? Let him go to hell and I’ll brave it out regardless. But what about our kids, won’t they be worse off, left in the lurch?” From Tenth Nook...

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1) Ilaa’s Ire 2) ‘201’ Qualms 3) “?” 4) Cupid’s Clue 5) Autumn Love 6) A Touch Affair 7) Love’s How’s That? 8) A Hearty Turn 9) Love Jihad 10) Tenth Nook 11) Eleventh Hour 12) Twelfth Tale ...

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En ningún animal el desperdicio de una selva y la razón de un profiláctico.

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El amor lo puede todo, puede abastecer de alma lo imposible.

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The hilarious exploits of a domesticated cockatiel and an oft-forgotten yet faintly remembered celestial journey. A young woman trades away her life credits while a mother elsewhere gently chides her young son. What could possibly happen when a tribal chieftain meets a time traveler? What on earth is a wribulizer and why is the moon actually blue! How does an up-and-coming writer deal with the terror of murderous thugs ransacking her home while her scientist brother vanishes after leaving her with a secret formula? What is the connect between a golden apple tree and an old man tending to his potted plant? To enjoy all of these tales and more, read on!...

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" I don’t remember when I was born or how many times I was transported before I first saw “Chirp”, my human and her mate “Chirp-chirp”. I have heard it said before by Fuff-fuff, the resident sage of my first non tree nest (a yellow-red mishmash of colours and an upturned beak) that first impressions are often the truest but I have to admit, my first peek at Chirp and Chirp-Chirp was not positive." ****************************************************************************** " As my journey continued, I remembered how, I too, had once been worshipped and deemed important enough to be tracked in the ancient texts and star calendars. I had witnessed the birth of their saviour and the magi who had divined his birth by tracking my journey. The huge monuments that was raised in the honour of false gods and eschewed later. As centuries passed and their artificial lights lit up their homes, the humans now had the audacity to transmit probes and crafts for intercepting me. What had happened to their awe and their respect? Yet, I felt myself growing smaller and feebler on every journey past as I lose a little bit of my strength and...

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Burying her husband in the garden under the runner bean patch seemed the best idea. At least burying him there she would be able to keep an eye on him. Suzy had not meant to kill him and then she meets her old friend Lewis, would he help her, or make things worse?...

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SUZY Preview Chapter One Opening the hot oven door Suzy puts her gloves on and takes out the cooking joint of beef. Putting the hot tray onto the top of the oven Suzy turns the meat over and adds potatoes and parsnips to the tray. Putting the tray back into the oven she frowns as she stands up and thinks if all this effort is worth it; Doug, her partner had been very moody lately. Sometimes he came home with a smile, but that was rare these days. Doug's behaviour towards her recently had become nasty, aggressive and he was constantly accusing her of being unfaithful and calling her a liar. Suzy had not done anything wrong and could not understand why he had changed so much recently. Hoping that cooking his favourite roast dinner would make the evening a pleasant one Suzy lights the gas under the vegetables as she hears Doug's car pull up out front. Checking herself in the mirror Suzy shouts a cheery welcome as Doug opens the front door. Hearing no reply the frown returns to her forehead as she busies herself with getting two plates out of the cupboard. Doug slams the front door and stomps down the hall into the lounge as Suzy'...

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Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen...

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Ya casi me había dado por vencido con la poesía; ni siquiera era capaz de apreciarla, la sentía insípida, machacada y repetitiva. Me parecía que todos los poetas del mundo se habían puesto de acuerdo para escribir y cantar sobre los mismos motivos de siempre: un mal amor, unas metáforas y analogías poco convincentes, e indiscutiblemente un gusto desbocado por la obviedad de las cosas, cautivados, sabrá Dios por qué, por frases de redes sociales del tipo: “He caído pero me levantaré con los pies” ((((Obvio))))....

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Ya casi me había dado por vencido con la poesía; ni siquiera era capaz de apreciarla, la sentía insípida, machacada y repetitiva. Me parecía que todos los poetas del mundo se habían puesto de acuerdo para escribir y cantar sobre los mismos motivos de siempre: un mal amor, unas metáforas y analogías poco convincentes, e indiscutiblemente un gusto desbocado por la obviedad de las cosas, cautivados, sabrá Dios por qué, por frases de redes sociales del tipo: “He caído pero me levantaré con los pies” ((((Obvio))))....

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El Moscas era sicario, y de los más atroces. Su pelo encanecido le daba una áurea de sabio y bonachón. Tenía cincuenta años, una mente lúcida, y una singular condición física que no había perdido siquiera un ápice de su habilidad juvenil. Era una leyenda viva en el bajo mundo de la mafia. Como la antigua Roma, se decía que todas las historias de muerte, y las sentencias de los moribundos, llegaban a él. Célebres eran sus cancioncitas corrosivas que solamente él era capaz de disfrutar y su largo, pero no menos espeluznante, historial profesional: sus manos habían acabado con la vida de diez mil personas, una muerte al día desde que comenzó su mortal carrera, descontando los fines de semana, que ocupaba en desempolvar su viejo Roll Royce de los años sesenta. Semejante constancia le exigía la utilización de los métodos criminales más creativos. Era implacable. Jamás se le cruzó por la mente la palabra ‘arrepentimiento’ y se ufanaba de nunca haber jurado en vano. ¿A qué santo sentarse a llorar por la muerte de un tipo más imbécil que yo?, exclamaba, ahogándose en una sonrisita torcida, jugando con un puro cubano en la mano, que encendía...

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El Moscas era sicario, y de los más atroces. Su pelo encanecido le daba una áurea de sabio y bonachón. Tenía cincuenta años, una mente lúcida, y una singular condición física que no había perdido siquiera un ápice de su habilidad juvenil. Era una leyenda viva en el bajo mundo de la mafia. Como la antigua Roma, se decía que todas las historias de muerte, y las sentencias de los moribundos, llegaban a él. Célebres eran sus cancioncitas corrosivas que solamente él era capaz de disfrutar y su largo, pero no menos espeluznante, historial profesional: sus manos habían acabado con la vida de diez mil personas, una muerte al día desde que comenzó su mortal carrera, descontando los fines de semana, que ocupaba en desempolvar su viejo Roll Royce de los años sesenta. Semejante constancia le exigía la utilización de los métodos criminales más creativos. Era implacable. Jamás se le cruzó por la mente la palabra ‘arrepentimiento’ y se ufanaba de nunca haber jurado en vano. ¿A qué santo sentarse a llorar por la muerte de un tipo más imbécil que yo?, exclamaba, ahogándose en una sonrisita torcida, jugando con un puro cubano en la mano, que encendía...

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Nunca me había atrevido a escribir esta historia por dos razones: la primera, porque le parecerá inverosímil al leyente, y la segunda, quizá la más tétrica de ambas consideraciones, se debe al contrato perenne que somete a aquel que lea el mensaje contenido en el dorso del billete negro que cayó en mis manos ese día oscuro de noviembre. Decía así: «Si usted está leyendo estas palabras, le sucederá todo aquello que desee su corazón. Ríase si quiere, pero ciertamente ocurrirá»....

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Nunca me había atrevido a escribir esta historia por dos razones: la primera, porque le parecerá inverosímil al leyente, y la segunda, quizá la más tétrica de ambas consideraciones, se debe al contrato perenne que somete a aquel que lea el mensaje contenido en el dorso del billete negro que cayó en mis manos ese día oscuro de noviembre. Decía así: «Si usted está leyendo estas palabras, le sucederá todo aquello que desee su corazón. Ríase si quiere, pero ciertamente ocurrirá»....

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Cuentan que Amukhori, a los doce años y en las gradas de la catedral, fue el primero en desafiar a los curas del pueblo. Su nombre, anómalo en aquel lugar tras quinientos años de conquista española, pasó a ser motivo de respeto y asombro, en unas por su simplicidad y en otras por su rareza, puesto que nadie logró encontrarle nunca el significado, «el secreto», ni siquiera su madre Sigfrida. Su padre don Policarpo, que era el cartero de la comunidad, se justificaba diciendo que lo había leído en una revista venida del «Sol Naciente»; nadie le creyó, pero sí que lo asociaron con los viajes que el viejo repartidor hacía por el país entero, entregando cartas, y del que se sabía había vivido un tiempo con los hicaques en la Montaña de la Flor y los chortís que todavía se esconden en algunas partes de la provincia. Amukhori, aunque era suertudo, no la tuvo desde el principio. Don Policarpo murió estando él en pañales, y lo único que recuerda de su artrítico anciano fue lo que le contó un día la abuela: que al nacer, su progenitor había gritado al viento con orgullo y risa chabacana: «Acaba de nacer uno que va a llegar a ser el papá de muc...

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Cuentan que Amukhori, a los doce años y en las gradas de la catedral, fue el primero en desafiar a los curas del pueblo. Su nombre, anómalo en aquel lugar tras quinientos años de conquista española, pasó a ser motivo de respeto y asombro, en unas por su simplicidad y en otras por su rareza, puesto que nadie logró encontrarle nunca el significado, «el secreto», ni siquiera su madre Sigfrida. Su padre don Policarpo, que era el cartero de la comunidad, se justificaba diciendo que lo había leído en una revista venida del «Sol Naciente»; nadie le creyó, pero sí que lo asociaron con los viajes que el viejo repartidor hacía por el país entero, entregando cartas, y del que se sabía había vivido un tiempo con los hicaques en la Montaña de la Flor y los chortís que todavía se esconden en algunas partes de la provincia. Amukhori, aunque era suertudo, no la tuvo desde el principio. Don Policarpo murió estando él en pañales, y lo único que recuerda de su artrítico anciano fue lo que le contó un día la abuela: que al nacer, su progenitor había gritado al viento con orgullo y risa chabacana: «Acaba de nacer uno que va a llegar a ser el papá de muc...

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Nada en el exoesqueleto de la tarde, excepto el infinito ultraje del sol. Seguramente nadie nos aguarde porque la soledad sea una expectativa razonable. No creo en la belleza, únicamente en la vileza de lo bello. Es la hora del trabajo, la purga, la negación, y no se puede cavar con un kilómetro de mierda en el duodeno. La hermosura nos sirve para las horas bajas, la fealdad para las horas de bajeza....

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Cuando lleven tu alma inglesa a cabalgar infiernos, recuerda que solo los aristócratas cagan yesca. Trotando por el valle de la muerte con temeridad e imprudencia, la soldadesca se acaba convirtiendo en metralla de cosacos. La estupidez de un imperio crea mitos y leyendas, pero más valiera relinchar y comer yerba, galopar y fornicar eslavas, que seguir las órdenes de un muerto llamado Valor. Solamente padecen los que han nacido para perecer. Si regresas a la batalla piensa en el agujero más negro que puedas (no el de tu general, hombre de Dios, el de tu ramera)....

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There is no good war. All war is hideous. munir is a novel about Baghdad under Occupation. It is a story detailing the tragic intersection of intelligence personnel, militants, and Iraqi millennials....

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“Ah!” Majid exclaimed, realizing where they were. Spying their favorite nook in the city, Majid approached the cozy concrete to kick back. Munir had noticed this quotidian wonder many years ago when he was working part-time as a delivery boy. One ‘precision’ strike in 1991, courtesy of a 35-year-old B-52 bomber, had taken out a homeless shelter. The blast had also carved the ideal reading nook out of an adjacent wall. The shelter was eventually rebuilt, but the wall remained damaged and crumbling....

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A time when a boy faces himself in alternate realities

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The boy walked along the river bank quietly, watching the fish labour up river against the current. He wondered why nature had made them work so hard to spawn, while other animals mated without more than minor rituals, especially humans. As he moved further down steam he spied many fish who had died on the journey but there was one that was caught among the rocks and struggling to get free. The boy waded into the shallow water to free the fish but when it turned over the boy saw that it's belly was torn open. "You are dying." Said the boy sadly. 2 But then he saw a shining blue stone in the fish's stomach....

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This is a set of 9 poems I have written to match 9 paintings done by my 5 year daughter Pell. The poems are, imaginative, quirky, funny and adorable, and there is something for everyone. One poem is about Halloween, another about snowmen and a third about sea life. Read on and enjoy the colourful, vibrant paintings....

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On Halloween it's okay to be scary and bad It's okay to be nasty and evil and mad On this one day you don't have to behave It's okay to shriek and to howl and to rise from a grave ...

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The Snow People The Caterpillar And The Butterfly It's Sailing Away Autumn Naughty On Halloween The Bridge The Octopus And His Friends Flitting Moments The Night Sky ...

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This compilation of 56 fictional stories has been interspersed, with a view to categorize these independent theme-based entertaining bits of literature, created by the author for that type of readers who do not like lengthy novels/stories. However, the three sections, namely Micro Stories, Short Stories and Long Tale trifurcating the complete book indicate to the fact that the author kept in mind the immediate availability of the time at the disposal of his valued reader at that hour of the `ever-fleeing` time. It has also been kept in mind that the piquant captians should be worth the substance below thereof. The reader may choose beforehand `the captivating item` from the List of contents provided separately for every category, vis a vis Micro Stories, Short Stories or Long Tales. My beliefs: Endowed with the personality that always remains inclined towards the truest secularism, I cannot afford to prefer one religion over the other. Therefore, it is not a difficult task for me to interact with a person of any faith. I cannot skip from my tract of `humanity before religion`. Being a firm believer in the existence of a `Supre...

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Female spouse of one’s brother is called `sister-in-law`; similarly the sister of one’s spouse is sister-in-law. Again, the wife of one’s brother-in-law is also called sister-in-law, subject however to the condition that the said brother-in-law is not the husband of one’s own sister. Thus, in Indian society, we find a vast variety of sister-in-law. However, one factor of commonality is often found in the cases where at both ends of this relationship, we have females. They say that this factor provides sauce to our family life, by swift maneuvers of their inimical or endearing postures towards each other. The author has picked up every variety of this relationship from the middle-class stratum of Indian society, while sketching his story for this fictional narration. However, in a given situation, we feel like addressing or being addressed as `MUY DEAR SISTER-IN-LAW`. To take the story forward, the author has tried his best to strew certain suchlike expressions coming forth sporadically, uttered by one or the other character, irrespective of his/her sex. ...

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Perched in his wheelchair, at the moment on 30th June, 2007, this erstwhile lover of Maya -law. Of course, this infirm oldie his first ever acquaintance with Vibha Ratra took place, when his family ... Our mother, though surprised to be getting acquainted by her son to Mrs Wilson as the bride's mother, chose to maintain silence about her knowledge of that lady's `swarthy` reputation in the residential vicinity, during their adolescence. Instead of consoling his father in a socially approved manner, the arrogant son had yelled out at the top of his voice, "Papa, you have had enough of her during the past 45 years. In case, you still need a woman's company, there is no dearth of this lot to provide warmth to your body. The following day, while exiting from the faculty meet, Vibha marked that Dr Rawat looked eager to join her, while she was proceeding towards the group of some junior teachers of her department, already waiting for their head of the department. Really, it's an agonizing account," Madhukar ejaculated following a long sigh. After a short while, he resumes, "You can bank upon, this humble friend for all support, whenev...

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This novel is based on the plot that describes the life of a young lady having worked as Assistant Professor at the University level. These days, she is engaged by a Trust, interested in promoting `mental illumination through peace of mind and self-confidence. She is going places to deliver lectures, keep in mind the aims of the organization as well as the composition of the audiences. In fact, since her infancy she is on the move from one part of India to another, even having no idea of the identity of the couple who parented her. Having been reared up by a domestic maid, she was obliged to inherit this type of job to earn for her livelihood. The onset of puberty in the proximity of unrelated men was to be withstood with caution and care for her chastity. These tours of lecturing around, once make her find a known lady in her audience in Delhi. This incident opens her the way to meet many people in this big city and take her to the person who fathered her. Here, she also gets the truthful information about her mother. ...

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Dear Madhu Ji, On my way back home I recapitulated, as my routine exercise, the discussions at the Coffee House. Can you recall the reaction of Mr Malik to Lal's outburst against the final outcome of Dhananjay Chakrovarty's legal battle to ward off the Capital punishment pronounced on him for rape and murder of a minor girl, when he himself was just 21 years? ……………..." I suppose Mr. Malik came out with some amusing retort, which made almost the entire group at the table giggle and I could not make out anything but only observe Mr. Malik move towards the toilets. Respected Sir, I clearly heard your `Guruji`, I mean Mr Malik, murmur aloud, “Is there any punishment available to your civilized society to punish an errant woman who voluntarily and actively seduces and commits rape on an innocent, uninitiated and in the prime of his youth?” “Do you mean a rape amongst a Lesbian fraternity?” Mr. Lal Singh speaks out smilingly. Mr. Malik simply hung his head down and spoke in his normal pitch, “I mean, on a companion belonging to the opposite sex.” Having uttered these words Guruji peacefully got up and moved in a gentle pace towards pu...

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This moderately sized novel opens before the reader, with an episode that took place, when after having driven over a hundred kilometers relating to the pleasure trip from Delhi to Kosani, a tourist resort situated in the Kumayun Hills a range of the Himalayas in the North of India, being undertaken by a group of very intimate three unwed oldies, all retired college teachers, when one of them is accosted by the owner of the roadside `Dhaba` (an indigenous restaurant) where they had halted for refreshment. It triggers one of them to recall his boyhood days. Again, at their destination, the other one is accosted by an ex-girlfriend of his, in the distant past. The `trio` who are given to such type of tours, happen to meet two other ladies, while staying in a very beautiful zone of Goa. Here, each of these women have had been connected with either of the two other Professors, who hasn’t yet met any such female pupil of his, during the various other tours, undertaken by them the `trio` till then. These chance meetings brings forth during the next few years, a bond of a purpose for a meaningful solidarity, eventually turning int...

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This story whirls around plot that opens up when two ex-classmates happen to meet inadvertently, one on his official duty, while the other on past-time, enjoying holiday touring alone. Their next meeting, brings a female classfellow of theirs at the hill-station to make them enjoy one another’s company. This re-union continues to grow further during the years that follow. The author portrays just an account of certain events taking shape in the social sectors of these persons, making, breaking or remaking a marriage based on the choice of the persons involved into matrimony. ...

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Hemant's intention in going to the H.P.T.D.C. hotel was, at the moment, influenced by the desire to meet Mr. Manmeet Malhotra, the manager. He also wanted thereby to express his gratitude to Mr. Malhotra who had arranged accommodation for him last night. Hemant was already under obligation of Mr Malhotra for his kind and affectionate treatment of Hemant when three years ago Hemant happened to meet him at the H.P.T.D.C. hotel at Manali where Manmeet Malhotra was working as an Astt Manager, those days. They were seeing each other after almost a decade since their graduation as students of S.R.C.C., Delhi. …………………….. "Well, how is `Bhabhiji`?" Hemant asked. For a few moments Manmeet held up his tongue tightly and only stared at Hemant with a smile on his face. Hemant thought that he had made a mistake. Perhaps, Triplem is still a bachelor like him. "But when I met him in Manali, he had told me that he had got married only three months before.” But Manmeet was quick enough to read the signs of perplexity in his friend's face and lost no time in explaining his position. ……………. He was not interested in knowing more about ...

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This book is based on one of the most talked person none other than Shri Narednrabhai Modi to motivate the readers with some fun and knowledge sharing I mean to say Gyan sathe Gammat. If you are with Modi, and his supporter and follower, then you will read this book. If you are against him, then you will also read this book just to oppose me also and if you have a neutral view for him, then this book will provide you humour, fantasy story, kahevat and a lot more, that too in Gujarati...

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“Nothing in this world that RajniCan’t, But if something that even RajniCan’t, Then of course its Modi’s cup of tea.” આપણો ચાહ વાળો બધુ જ કરી શકે !!!...

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પ્રકરણ ૧ - ટૂંકો છતાં વિશાળ પરિચય - ૧- પ્રકરણ ૨ - મોદીભાઈ નામ કેમ? - ૩- પ્રકરણ ૩ - હાય હાય... - ૬- પ્રકરણ ૪ - Rajni Can’t but Modi can. - ૮- પ્રકરણ ૫ - વાણી અને બોલી - ૯- પ્રકરણ ૬ - અપશબ્દ - ૧૨- પ્રકરણ ૭ - એક ગુજરાતી અમેરિકા જવા માટે કેટલી હદે જઈ શકે? - ૧૪- પ્રકરણ ૮ - જેવું કામ, એવું નામ - ૧૭- પ્રકરણ ૯ - છળ નું ફળ અને કળ સામે બળ - ૨૦- પ્રકરણ ૧૦ - મૂંગા ને પણ બોલતાં કરી દે - ૨૩-...

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Timothy Chyme continues his fantasy journey

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In a world where magic is commonplace, rogue abominations of nature roam the lands, and deities exist, a lone boy named Raphael seeks to exact vengeance against the very murderers that tore his life apart, leaving him the only hapless survivor of their onslaught. He joins the Hunters, a group of ancient warriors sworn to protect the lands of Agartha, with nothing but revenge on his mind. But soon, he finds himself becoming involved in something bigger than he can handle. Beasts, the Ancient Blood, the Deathless…The world of Agartha is growing old and weary, and he’s seeing its pains surface one by one. And they aren’t pleasant. Eventually, he finds that the question is no longer ‘how’ he is going to exact his revenge, or ‘when’. It's whether or not there's a point in him doing so....