मारला तर मारला वरून फोटू बी काढला असा कसा रे देवा खेळ मांडला जगाच्या पोशिंद्याचा बरा संसार कार विस्कटला? ज्यासाठी तो रात्रंदिस् राबला तोडी आला घास कारे पाठविला? भाताचा खाचरातच भात केला कोंब फूटले सोयाबीन बाजरीला मक्यावर आली लष्करी आली भूईमुगाची शेंग मातीतच काली द्राक्ष बागेतच झाली शॅम्पेन डाळीबाने फेकली केनच केन कपाशीवर पडला लाल्या केळीच्या बागा सपाट केल्या कांदे झाले वाकडे अन तिकडे उले टाकूनच मोडले कंबरडे! दिवाळीला तू कहस्च केले रागनी इको फ्रेंडली फटाके फोडले! बळीराजाला मारला तर मारला वरुन आणि फोटू बी काढला। आता तू एकच कर लांबण वरून एकेक दोर गळयात अडकवून येतो वर!
submission
Baichi Jaat | मराठी कविता: बाईची जात
दोन कुळांचे नाव काढते नात्यांची वेल वाढवते लज्जारक्षणाकारता प्रसंगी जीवही घेते …बाईची जात. नऊ महिने ओझे वाहते आजारपणात रातभर जागते सर्व गुन्हे पोटात घासते बाईची जात. पै-पै करून पैसे जमवते नवऱ्याला उसने देऊन गमावते ढेरी सुटली असंही म्हणते उरलेला भात प्रेमाने वाढते …बाईची जात. पारखून निरखून साड्या घेत्ते घरी आणून कपाटात कोंबते असली दागिने लॉकरला ठेवते नकली घावून अशी मिरवते …बाईची जात. इतरांसाठी प्रेमळ असते किचनमध्ये हैवान असते दळते रगडते, मळते कापत्ते उकळते, तळते आणि भाजते सोलते, कुटते आणि ठेचते कोणते क्रियापद प्रेमळ वाटते तरीही ती सुगरण असते …बाईची जात
Tya Doghi | त्या दोघी
त्या दोघी आत शिरल्या फतकल मारून दोधी त्याच्यासमोर खुशाल बसल्या. तो हसला, ती हससी तिच्या आईदेखत त्याने, तिचा हात पकडला. अर्धा तास तब्बल हात नाही सोडला. जीव कासावीस झाला तो थोडाही नाही लाजला वरुन विचारतो शहाणा. ताई नास झाला नाहीना दातओठ आपण खाऊ नका रागानेही पाहू नका हेवा त्याचा करु नका अर्ध्या तासानंतर मात्र दोघीही हलकेच हसल्या बांगड्यांचे पैसे देऊन दुकानाबाहेर पडल्या....
Book Review: The Second Death of Edie and Violet Bond
Synopsis
Edie and Violet Bond know the truth about death and the beyond. The seventeen-year-old twins are mediums, spending their time traveling and crossing into death-- just like their mother. While Violet can open the veil between life and death, Edie can cross into the mist of the spirit world. But when it mattered their abilities couldn't help them when their mother died and their father wanted to have them committed to the state-run insane asylum.
Now on the run, Edie and Violet are a part of an act of traveling spiritualists show, of women that although has to demonstrate real abilities hide under the guise of communing with spirits. But when Violet's act goes wrong, on a night they need everything to go perfectly, Edie learns that the dark spirit responsible for the death of their mother is now taking other mediums. As they investigate the true identity of their mother's final client, they realize they've been set up, and they are next.
My Thoughts on The Second Death of Edie and Violet Bond
This story was so enthralling. As with most books, the synopsis sounded so good, I decided to pick it up. It was easy to follow and had me hooked from the first chapter. This paranormal fantasy was very original taking inspiration from the author's great-grandmother and her twin sister. I loved seeing Edie and Violet grow as they struggle through a society that was made to condemn, touching on things in current times like women's rights that of course were a struggle during the times. You watch them be independent but still support each other, keeping the bond that they have tight despite the fact that they each have their own desires, and never truly want to be apart.
This novel is definitely one you can sit and binge-read for hours without stopping. And I definitely did NOT expect that ending. The more I read the more nervous I got because I really wasn't sure what was going to happen. There were so many ways that it could have gone. I definitely was giving this a reread.
The book, The Second Death of Edie and Violet Bond will be released on October 4th, 2022.
Wink
Whispers wink
in acrobatic
air
Twisting to breaths
on hopes you
share
As words leave
lips on gentle
kiss
Softness is hard
as
catalyst
Language of
two, duets as
one
Harmony shines
just like the
sun
If skies could
sing when love
calls
The land would
catch all that
falls
Spicing up COMPLICATED
Cooking up a mouthwatering recipe for love in the main course.
Cooking on the grill. The outside fire, the flames, the smells, tingling your taste buds for something juicy and delicious. Firing up all senses is a dream come true for an author. Only if I could write to where you could smell each mouthwatering word.
Family! You can’t live with them or without them. And it's one of the most complex things in life: a marriage. We can't pick and choose our relatives. But you can choose your partner. No matter how you spice up life, there are complicated adult things we run into, like divorce. Not that divorce is the fix-all. When the bonds of marriage break, it is sad. Two people once in love fall out of love. Why can't love last forever? When the conditions for love are no longer met, the bond fades. A shared commitment between both partners can replace lost love and hold the relationship together for years to come. And then there are the couples whose bond is so strong they can't live without each other. Couples who have been married for 40 to 60 years or more are fascinating.
So what's the recipe for a long marriage?
The million-dollar question. From what I have experienced in life, the answer is, "Love fades and becomes a lost love." We crave to be loved. Love is a lot like basting a chicken on the grill, with a great chicken rub with all the right spices. I had to compare love with food, which we also crave. The universal meaning of love is always to baste your love with tender loving care. Studies have shown that we think love is in the heart, but it mostly comes from the brain. Romance does not have to fizzle out in a relationship. Maintaining a goal like all good things in life requires energy and devotion. It’s all in what you put into your relationships. Couples should strive to spice up with all the trimmings. When you keep the fires burning, it will never go out.
Treat your love like the main course, not the garnish.
Jackie Lynaugh
About the novella COMPLICATED, by Jackie Lynaugh.
First, yes, I am experienced in divorce. Once was enough. I know of many people with 4 to 5 divorces under their belt. I imagine the more the divorces, the more the complications. The story is about marriage, lost love, newly found love, children, family, careers, home, and the characters Lee and Scarlett. Not so much in that order, but the topics are about what we all share in common, life. I was married for 10 years to my first husband, and 40 years to my second husband. So far, so good. The second time around has been heavenly. I hope you enjoy the novella, COMPLICATED.
When A mother puts her own future happiness ahead of her first-born
It's difficult for any parent to sacrifice their children's future happiness. This tale has the power to motivate everyone.
My husband is interested in genealogy and researching his family’s history. He discovered that his great-great-aunt, Emily Bowen, emigrated from England to Australia in 1882 with her husband, Ernest Saunders, and her two young sons. His research also showed that they left their five-year-old daughter, Lilian, in London.
As a mother of three, I could not begin to understand why any mother could travel to the other side of the world, probably never to return, and leave one of her children behind. Why would she do that? What possessed her to put her own future happiness ahead of her first-born? I had to find out more.
Thus, my work on ‘The Lost Seed of the Pomegranate’ began. It was a novel that took me two years to research and write. During that time, I travelled to Adelaide and met up with members of the Saunders family. I had to get into Emily’s very soul to work out why she should do such a thing. I believe this is what happened…
On the way to her wedding, Emily Bowen already carried the child of the man seated opposite her in the cramped compartment of a horse drawn carriage. Her husband-to-be, scion of the Twining tea dynasty, also carried the seed of a dream, to break the bonds of his Quaker heritage and emigrate to Australia.
In 1882 it took one hundred and one days to sail from London to Adelaide. Emily faced the biggest sacrifice a mother can make: to leave Lilian, her five-year-old daughter, behind. Her family settled in Adelaide, she worked relentlessly to have Lilian join her, suffering heartache and misery over the years. Thirty years later, Lilian made another huge sacrifice when the first and only love of her life went to war.
I believe I have created a heart-warming tale of love, duty, and commitment on both sides of the world, which led to a final and heart-breaking reunion between mother and daughter.
Based on a true story of the Bowen/Saunders families from 1878 to 1929, "The Lost Seed of the Pomegranate" by Gillie Bowen
Visit Gillie’s website to read more about her novels and cookbooks: www.gilliebowen.fr
Blue Pyjamas
Blue Pyjamas
“Come on young man, time for bed.”
Mum called me from my newly decorated bedroom. The sun was disappearing behind our garden’s lonely apple tree. I padded barefoot from the bathroom, proud of myself. Two days running now, I have brushed my teeth all by myself.
“There’s a good boy, let me see.”
I opened my mouth wide. The minty smell of Colgate escaped, causing us both to grin.
“Good job. Do you want a story?”
I handed her my Rupert The Bear Annual, battered and old. It was my dad's. I not only loved those stories but more much more. I could remember dad reading to me. I sniffed the odd scent of aged paper and clambered under the new light-blue duvet. Everything was new, except Rupert and his friends.
“Do you like your room?” She asked, flicking open a page.
I chose the wallpaper. It was cyan. At least that was what the man in the shop said. It was light blue to me. I had another shade of blue paint on the woodwork. Everything was blue, my dad loved blue. The desk was now covered in my artistic creation. A large sheet of paper with dark trees and bright green leaves in the background, a winding footpath with a scattering of red, yellow and orange flowers on both sides. Rupert was missing because my scissors weren’t sharp enough to cut him out of the thick cardboard. Mum had lent me her dressmaking scissors. They lay next to the bear. I will get on with that tomorrow. Then glue him beneath the tree, and it will be finished.
“Now, where were we? Here we are, Rupert goes to the woods.” She thought I wouldn’t notice her mouthing, ‘again.’
Looking around before I settled, my other books were on the shelf, teddy bears sat under them. My toy chest lid needed shutting before I could sleep. My mum caught my eye.
“Okay dear, I’ll close it before I go downstairs.”
Rupert’s adventure ended as my eyes closed. Mum kissed me gently on the forehead and crept out. She forgot to close the toy chest. My eyes were shut, but I knew.
Did I doze then fell deeply asleep, for how long? I did not know. I woke with a start as if Rupert had jumped on my chest. I turned and faced the wardrobe. The toy chest was still open. Naturally, I didn’t expect it to close itself, but my mum should have done it before she went to her bed.
Never one to fear the dark, and enjoy the gloomy glow of night. We don’t have flickering candles, just my nightlight. I grinned to myself. Should I close the lid? Later, before I sleep again.
It seemed darker than usual. I peered across to my dressing table. Yes, the dim light was still on.
A brighter light showed under my door as every night, mum always left it on in case I needed the toilet. What was that? Is mum still up, maybe she needs a pee. I chuckled at the thought. Straining my ears. Were the stairs creaking? Pulling the bedding tight to my throat, I hid under for a second before peeking at the light under the door. It darkens briefly, then lights again, as if someone walked past a light. Was it mum, not a peep from the bathroom? The hallway was carpeted; the floorboards were quiet. How come I could hear a creak? There it is again. Is someone there?
Where was my Rupert book? I needed its comfort. I dashed to the desk, knocking the scissors aside as I grabbed the volume, and hugged it tightly. Two giant strides and I would be safe. Taking one step, as a thought struck me, gently lobbing Rupert to my bed, I turned and reached ahead. Stretching my fingers, I flicked the toy chest lid down. At last, I breathed as I jumped into bed.
No more odd sounds from outside, no more strange light flickering under my door. A big cuddle from Rupert’s cover and then I could sleep.
After what seemed like ages since I was last awake, brilliant light flooded my room from a gap between the curtains. I looked at my clock, that’s odd, mum normally wakes me by now. I’d only just learned to tell the time, so couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure. Kneeling on my bed, leaning against the headboard, I looked out of the window as I opened the curtains fully. Beautiful, the sun was fighting its way through the tree branches opposite. No neighbours or delivery people ruined my view of my front garden, my stretch of road and my fields across the way. At least I could believe I was the king of all I surveyed. Grabbing my book, I offered Rupert the chance to be my prince. What a wonderful start to any day! The bear nodded.
Time to daydream, before mum comes in? No need to rush.
I cuddled the battered volume and dozed.
Time had passed. How long? I wondered. I could see the sun's bright glow. It was only at the top of the branches. Where was mum? The toy chest was still closed. Good to see it hadn’t opened during my sleep. I turned off my nightlight and replaced Rupert on the desk.
My blunt scissors were there, where were mums? I will need them. Did she creep in to borrow them earlier? A drip smudged my artwork. Oh no. Then another, the trees and flowers welded together. I have dark red paint on my arm. What? How? I looked at my paint set; the lid was closed. My hands were browny red too, wet and sticky.
“Mum,” I called as I rushed to the door. My feet were sticking to the carpet, and small footprints, and a slightly darker shade mottled the carpet. Looking down confused, I compared the size and shape of my own feet. They were the same. Grabbing the door handle and shouting louder, “Mum, Mum,” I bellowed as I pulled the door back.
Sprinting, then stopping instantly, I tumbled over my mum. She was laying across the doorway, propped up on one elbow, head against the door frame, dressed in her nightie, soaked in blood, oozing from her stomach. She was clasping her scissors. I pushed myself up and away from the wound. I didn’t want to hurt her.
“Call the ambulance, go quickly,” she whispered. “My phone is by the bed.”
“Mum, what happened?”
“Oh, darling, can’t you remember?”
Dad forgot to close my toy box. It all came back to me. That was a sunny morning too. I’d better wait for some clouds before I make that emergency call. Smiling, I grabbed Rupert and turned the pages.
The END
...
Read more story like this
Icarus
All he could hear was the roaring of the crowds below him and his father’s warnings on how to control the instrument. Though his vision was fine he was blinded by the beauty of the clouds and mesmerized by the feeling of the wind of another atmosphere that no one had experienced before him. All of this was never planned but soon had to be because of his father Dedalus’s gift and the thought of losing his son. Even after jumping off the cliff with a perfect diver’s arc, his father kept on shouting and warning him not to fly too high or too low. All Icarus could think about his father was that He was confident about his new instrument, but not about his son. Funny!
Icarus did pay heed to his father’s warning until he felt his coral pendent flutter, which made him open his eyes to the reminiscence of its past owner. Chryses, he thought, how she would have looked right now, how her hair would look with the Hyacinth set on it, how this pendant would look on her petite frame, and how beautiful her golden eyes would look. Her golden eyes, he yearned to see them again like any other day, and like any other day, he looked at the sun. The only difference he could see was that it was bigger than usual. As he went on flying, he closed his eyes for a moment just to see her and only her in his memories. He had first seen her by the Hyacinth Garden picking the flowers and was as if struck by lightning. Her existence itself had left the young Icarus with such an impact that although they never exchanged words of greetings, he knew her likes and dislikes, her foes and friends, and her thoughts and wishes. Although he was never acknowledged by her he was happy with his unrequited love, but not for long. The very essence of a creature like her made the boy resolute in marrying her no matter what.
But who knew that fate had other plans, who knew that on the very day of her eighteenth birthday in the town square asked to marry her and before she could respond engulfed her in his embrace, that she would be called shameful, that she would leave him forever. It rained as if Nature were mourning the miserable fate of Icarus. As the raindrops falling on his face caressed him with pity, he saw his beautiful Chryses getting dragged out of the sea, her eyes still golden yet dull. With the unbearable suffering of grief and loss, he went on a hunt like a mad lover to look for those eyes. Those eyes that did not lack life and warmth in them, those eyes which would regain his sanity and his sunken heart back from the depths of the abyss. He did not care for the screams or the beggings but only for the love, he had lost. Soon declared murderer no less than a monster for blinding many a few women he was sentenced to death. But his search was still not over and thus he planned to fly out of the city to the other places in search of the golden orbs to befit his dead bride.
As Icarus opened his eyes to reality he realized, he was close to the only object that reminded him of Chryses and he could not stop himself from nearing it. His father’s shouting, the gushing of the wind, and the crashes of the sea, all went dull along with his senses as he went on flying close to the sun while unsheathing his dagger with a longing heart. Now even closer how beautiful it looked to him and how much more enchanting it would look on his Chryses. The thought went on and on until the wax melted. The next thing he saw was the vision of the glowing sun growing smaller, barely visible now under the veil of tears, tears of separation from his beloved woman who was hiding behind the feeling of failure. It all ended in a few seconds with a splash and the surfacing of the panting breaths of the boy who knew that although he was far away from the sun, Icarus knew that he could no
longer live and welcomed life’s friend with open arms. With open arms, a smile on his lips, tears of relief that were not visible and only one thought in his mind, Chryses. After that centuries passed and the tale about ‘The fall of Icarus’ was changed throughout history as passed down from mouth to mouth. He was the boy who flew too close to the sun but alas! Not for his arrogance or his foolishness but for his longing. His longing for love.
The Benefits Of Writing, Not Typing, Your First Draft
The Creative Benefits of Writing Your First Draft
Writing the first draft of my novel longhand is something I’ve begun doing over the past month, and I’ve found it has a number of benefits. I began it because I had stopped writing my novel for a while (I had been reading a book about story structure instead) and wanted something to get me started again.
Writing longhand is linked to journalling, a private occupation. You write only for yourself, and you write whatever you feel like writing. It encourages the link between thinking, creative brain and hand, a link which has been a part of us since we first learned to write as children.
You may enjoy the process more. It’s a good way to tell the story to yourself. It has the advantage of making sure you focus on the story, not on its possible future readers. The first draft is for you alone. You are its writer and its reader.No-one else ever needs to see it. It’s an example of Stephen King’s often quoted advice abour writing the first draft ‘with the door closed’.
The informality of writing by hand in a journal encouraged me to jump in and write the characters and scenes I felt like writing, rather than writing in a linear fashion as I had been doing. Having already lived with this story for a long time and written about half of it, I found this easy to do. I found I was spending more time in the minds of my point of view characters, and learned more about them, and their backstories, as a result. I enjoyed the writing, and my wordcount crept steadily upward. I didn’t write every day, but I haven’t missed many, and the progress that I’m making is encouraging.
There’s plenty of opportunity to discover new ideas in the writing. Though this kind of discovery writing can be especially effective if you know what you’re trying to achieve in a scene or chapter, i.e. if you’ve already written some kind of outline. That way if you have a new idea, you will know whether or not it will fit into your story, and often even exactly where it will go and how it will nudge the story in one direction or another.
The quality of what you write doesn’t matter at all in this draft. It can be as messy as you like. (Though make sure you can read your own handwriting!) You don’t have to worry about finding the ‘right’ word or about the quality of your sentences. That means you can write faster, and get more words down. A draft written in this way will arguably have more cohesion than one that has taken a year to write.
There’s an editorial benefit too: you can do a little editing while typing it up. Though you can speak the words too, if your dictation software is good enough to make it worth your while. Not so much if you keep having to stop to correct errors manually.
Other Benefits of Writing, Not Typing
If ‘work’ to you means sitting at a screen, and writing fiction is not your job, why would you want to sit at another screen during your free time in order to write your novel? If you get yourself a notebook and pen you will be able to feel that you have taken a break and you will be in a more relaxed state of mind, whether you are sitting in a café or at home.
Your posture will be different (if not actually better; you will probably be hunched over the desk!) And you won’t be adding to your risk of repetitive strain injury from keying (though we did use to talk about writer’s cramp.)
It felt at first like going back in time to when I wrote my fiction as a teenager, but as we all now spend so much time repetitively tapping on keyboards in front of screens, it seems like a good idea to change our posture now and again, and who knows, maybe change the way our minds work as a result.
You can keep your handwritten novel in one notebook (or a series of them). It’s lighter to carry around than a laptop, and easier to open. (You don’t need a password. No batteries either.)
There are even smart reusable notebooks, The best smart notebooks for 2022 | Digital Trends you can buy from which you can upload pages and save them digitally.
If you have not created anything for a while, or even at all, and would like to, I would recommend reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way Home | The Artist's Way (theartistswaybook.com) and its sequel, to get you started. It contains inspiration and exercises to get your creative spirit moving again. It has been translated into many languages, and sold millions of copies, inspiring people all over the world.
So, have you considered writing a draft of your novel longhand? Or do you prefer the benefits of your keyboard?