Let the winds from the moon,
Whisper in your ears,
The odes of travelers,
Let the sky drizzle stars,
And lakes be filled with lights,
In which you bathe anew ,
Let your brush on canvas,
Unravel a new story,
That which be told for ages,
Let the incense from clouds,
Descend as petrichor,
And Waft with you to the hills,
Let your voice strike a cord,
And music flow through ,
the veins of the leaves,
Let a cold summer breeze,
Dangle your beach cut hair,
Let your dreams take you there,
Where galaxies finally meet ,
All the lost dreamers,
Let the night sky turn darker,
And the oceans bluer,
Let the cities get calmer,
And you lose yourself forever,
Let your lips smile at the world,
With your eyes speaking your heart,
Let you travel the time and space,
And be the wanderlust ,
who has a summer dream.
BATMAN VS SUPERMAN!!! dark knight and the kryptonian -batman vs superman: fantasy, poem, superheroes, batman, superman, wonderwoman, justice league, BATMAN VS SUPERMAN

“Look there. We must find one before the dawn breaks”, the commander thundered.
He felt a film of water cover him.
“Look there”, he heard the voice but faintly.
As he regained his conscious he realized that he was in a pool of water. Perplexed at his survival, he tried swimming out to breathe. In the haste to do so he did not reckon the face that he was already breathing. He moved his hands over his neck to feel the new pack of gills that he has developed. Now he could hear the water gushing in and out of it. He tried moving but a sea plant entwined with his body obstructed his advance. He threw a glance at his legs and his heart skipped a beat. He did not have his legs. He had a huge fish tail instead. The scales on his lower body were dazzling in the moon light. He had turned into a mermaid. Everything was so surreal that he thought he was dreaming. With his golden red scales glittering in the light, he seemed as a perfectly normal mermaid to the soldiers. They immediately threw a net to capture him and before he could snap out of his thoughts, he was caught in it. The sky roared and the tides were conjuring waves of godly powers. The soldiers on the boat pulled the net with great force. It took four men to get a hold of him and another two to transfer him to the wooden tub, resting on a chariot on the bank of Trilbrone River. He tried speaking but all that came out of his mouth was a soft scream. He could hear the whip of the rider and neighing of the horses before the trolley moved. For the rest of the way he stared at the sky and heard the clamor of the soldiers who were riding along.
        The palace was a huge building, mostly supported by pillars ending in a pantheon. The entrance was 15 feet high with guards standing with spears on either side.
“Lift it up and bring it to the magician’s chamber”, he heard a commanding voice order.
The tub shook and water was spilled out as six soldiers tried to move it into the palace.  Footsteps were in perfect rhythm which halted in front of a huge room. The beautiful ceiling of the palace diverted his mind for a while.
“We got one”, the commander spoke kneeling down in front of the magician.
The magician shifted his gaze from the book he was reading to the six men who were carrying a huge tub at the entrance.
“Put it on the table”, Reanese spoke while closing the book of spell.
“As you desire sir”, the commander obliged.
The table was one of the widest that the palace had and could house three such tubs which were each ten feet long. Four men pulled him out of the tub while his slipping body made their job more austere.
His hands were now cuffed to one end of it and his tail was tied to the other end of it.
His endeavors to break the bonds were all in vain.
“Leave now”, Reanese spoke while staring at Mehan.
The soldiers with their commander left in a highly disciplined manner.
Mehan lay on the table, gasping for breath, tried to speak again but all in vain. A shriek escaped his throat. Though his gills were drying, he did not feel dying. Reanese walked towards him, drawing a dagger out of his cloak.
“Your blood will save the king”, he whispered while putting the dagger right above his heart.
The silver blade ending in a golden handle glittered in the light from the fire torches.  He tried piercing it through his heart but when it touched his skin, it melted and flowed over his chest like molten silver.
“You cannot be”, Reanese murmured in astonishment.  “You cannot be him”, he added.
“Who cannot he be, Reanese?” a shadow spoke from the dark end of the room.
“Your highness, the mermaid…” he gasped for air.
“What about it?” the trembling voice made clear to Mehan that the man was elderly and not in fine health.
The king slowly moved out of the darkness and with his shaking hands touched the end of the table. His skin looked like a viper’s and his face was covered in wrinkles that hung like dead mass. His structure was skeletal and he could barely stand without support. To Mehan he looked dying.
“What about the mermaid, Reanese?” he demanded an answer.
“The prophecy is true, sire. The brothel has played its trick. It is you from the future”, the magician spoke while genuflecting at the statue of an unfathomable structure.
“You have destroyed the brothel and the mermaid’s curse was killing you. The curse could be only broken when your soul takes another body. This mermaid is nobody but you and by the trick of words a part of your soul is in this mermaid’s body”, he spoke while still holding the dagger’s handle.
The tattoo on Mehan’s arm glowed when the king touched his body. A sudden rise of cosmic waves consumed the room.  He remembered seeing such waves before.

“Who are you son?” the lady asked.
“Why are you here?” she added.
He flinched at the sun rays when he tried opening his eyes diaphanously. He pushed himself against the well to get up.
“Where am I?” he asked flabbergasted.
“The brothel ruins boy”, the lady answered. “Did you sleep here all night?” she asked with a little concern on her face.
“May be”, he answered while staring at the well in confusion.
Come here and have your sleep, hear my story as I sing you a lullaby deep”, he heard the fishwife hum the lines as she walked away to the sea. 

“No! Mehan you cannot go there”, Brilin spoke ardently.
“It’s just a ruin, Brilin, not an entrance to hell, let me go”, he jerked his hand away from his wrist.
“But they say it is enchanted, men do not return from there”, Brilin sounded concerned.
“People make all sort of stories, don’t you know that?” he spoke while adjusting his dowdy shirt “I just wanted to know, what is there now”.
“All right go and when the warden asks me where you are, I will tell that murky old lady that you ran away”, he smirked.
“Would not that be the best thing to do? Who wants to suffer in that torturous orphanage? I should have run away before”, he spoke while gazing at the dark entrance.
“Think once again, Mehan”, Brilin urged.
“Tell the warden whatever you want to say”. Mehan started walking towards the brothel.
The tall pillars that stood at the entrance were entwined with creepers and the engravings of mermaids on it were conspicuous. Built in the outskirts of pearlbrot, the sea port of Elsefort, it was often part of fishermen’s folklore. They talked about how the brothel was run by mermaid witches who often tempted men with their godly beauty.
Brilin could not see him anymore as if the dark of the ruins swallowed him completely. He shouted his name thrice before running back to the orphanage after a sudden rumble scared him.
     The creepers starting turning blue from green as Mehan moved further in. Ruins of small houses enveloped by all sort of shrubs did not scare him as much as did the skull of a stag lying at the feet of a disfigured statue. He kept moving with the courage he could foster, which often stemmed out of his curiosity and  in the darkness, his tattoo of an anchor on the arm glowed for uncanny reasons. The rumbling was more frequent and clouds conjured as if for a conspiracy which looked diabolical to him. Vandalized houses, uprooted streets, untamed growth of creepers were enough to tell him that he was at a wrong place at a wrong time. The night matured with the elegance of a slithering silhouette and his gaze quickly fell on a well that somehow marked the center of the brothel. It felt like a normal one from far but as he moved near, with his heart pounding at the howling that seemed to come from nowhere, he could see the engravings that became obvious in the moon light.
“Mermaids?” he whispered.

“I am dying Reanese, you have to cure me”, the king gasped for breathe whileReanese examined his skin.
“I will need a mermaid’s blood, your highness”, Reanese spoke.
“Send a troop of soldiers to find one”, he ordered.
Reanese signaled the commander, who was standing at the entrance of the royal hall, “Go to Trilbrone River and search for a mermaid”.

Pictures of fishermen dancing around mermaids were depicted excellently. This did not bewilder him as did the state of the well. In the remnants of ruins where everything was vandalized, the well was in perfect structure. It did not show marks of destruction or even scratches of attack. Piqued by his curiosity, he climbed the three steps that led to the brim of the well. The breeze whispered in his ears at it passed him. A chill rose over his spine as he stared at the dark in the well. Beads of sweat formed on his temple and one of them fell into it. A sudden glow of cosmic powers seemed to emerge from it and the dark well turned into a furnace of cosmic waves. The anchor tattoo glowed in harmony. He felt a sudden thrust push him into it. He screamed at the top of his voice but the deserted ruins seem to stay dead and unheeding. He kept screaming as he fell deeper and deeper until he hit the surface of water. He heard a voice recite into his ears the poem he was acquainted with as folklore of the fishermen…
Come here and have your sleep,
Hear my story as I sing you a lullaby deep,
You think I bewitched you with my beauty?
Am I demon turned into a woman so pretty?
I am cursed for my soul is tainted,
Decreed by lust to lurk in brothel,
To seduce men, young and charming,
And suck their souls once they fainted,
To throw them into the cosmic well,
So that as mermaids they later dwell.

The last thing he saw before going unconscious was the closing of the cosmic ring as if it were a gate to another world. 
             (To be continued......)

Like the dew of the early dawn,
Slipping from the petals of orchid,
Your thoughts slip over my psyche,
Bewitching and slowly,
I drown in it,
Helpless I am,
And when I hear the breeze,
Rising from your meadows,
It sings ode of your persona,
Of which I wish to be a stanza,
The one with relentless rhyme,
For when you sing your life,
Your lips must hum my name,
And when I write my life,
My pen must ink your reign,
Dear friend,
What are you?
If you are not an addiction.

Wake up from this salubrious sleep,
End this enchanting devil’s dance,
For you know the time shan’t return,
To give them another chance,
Bewitch the forlorn and afraid,
Arouse the valor with wizardry glance,
Take the poison rubbed arrows,
Foster the calm archer’s stance,
Another night, while the dragon sleeps,
Unsheathe the sword, sharp the lance,
When the ogres merry the night,
Slaughter the werewolves disguised as lambs,
Let the uproar of their deaths echo,
Along with your wizardry charms,
And then it will be time to go,
To again end an enchanting dance,
In the black mystic woods I think,
Miles away from your magical France.    

I see men come and men go,
Like the wind on meadows that flow,
I hear them whisper deep desires,
Like the arrows that the mind fires,
I see them chase the city glitters,
To finally fall like the tree that withers,
I feel their agony behind the smiles,
Which sparks a heart-fire from miles,
I see them curse the dawning sun,
And not see the amber melt in the sapphire ocean,
I see them walk like a lifeless herd,
All clamoring but none to be heard,
I see them whimper silent weep,
And the endless grey in their eyes deep,
I see them fall by a breeze of pain,
Drowning in its endless daunting rain,
I see them and when I finally see me,
I see a great desire to be free,
But when I ask, for what good of life
Have you homed the dead willow tree?
 Quiet and masked in the vicious worldly glow,
They leave me to see hapless men come and go.

(This poem was to celebrate World Book Day on 23-April. Thanks for reading)

                                              The warmth of the sharp beam of sunrays brightened the aura beyond his closed eyes and his diaphanously opened eyes flinched at the brightness of the rays after the night’s storm. He was lying with his face down on the sand and his black hair were muddied. His smooth Virginian face which had the growth of the most inconspicuous facial hair despite his 23 years of age was buried in the sand. The sea Gulls which pecked at the fishes were now swirling above his head. He tried getting up but his swampy clothes felt heavier than ever. The sun flinched him and he realized that he has managed to survive the ghastly night, though he remembered nothing of how he was flung out by the waves on a piece of floating wooden plank from Isabella and how the waves cradled him through the storm while he lied soullessly unconscious on it.
         He thrust his hands on the ground and pulled himself up. He was on the shore of a desolated island. The rocks that arranged themselves between the palm and shrubs were taller than him. He could see the shore take a curve on his either side. The tress that covered the entire island were not familiar to him except for the coconuts and the banyan. He saw the gulls tear snatch the dead fish and a crab slid to his feet with the wave.
                     A sudden noise caught his attention and he turned around to see a pack of swallows soar high clamoring above an antique house on the edge of the cliff. The house looked tiny from the shore but he could tell by its air that it was not inhabited by anyone anymore. A sudden cloud of smoke rose from the roof after the noise and he kept staring at the house in amazement. A man with a similar built as his stormed out of the house to see the cloud of smoke rise above it. A rush of bliss ran across his veins when he saw the structure of a human on the cliff. The man who was staring at the house, now shifted his gaze on him.  Zack was already waving his both hands to grab the attention of the man. He screamed but soon realized it was all in vain. The man waved both his hands in synchronization and before they could exchange any more signals, Zack rushed into the thick bushes to climb the cliff.
                      The palm trees stood at the entrance of the forest and he had to push his way through the big leafed bushes that hampered his advancement. It was a small uphill climb but the marshy soil made it hard for him to do his best at running. He pushed every branch, torn open the creeper coverings, jumped over the rocks to finally reach the top of the cliff. From the top he saw the ocean stretch till horizons in every direction. His gaze fell on the house at the edge of the cliff where he saw the man from the shore. He rushed towards it to look for help. He was panting breathlessly for air and when he reached at the door of the house, he halted to smuggle some air into his lungs.
                              The house was an antique built one. With the scribbling of some gibberish and the texture of an art that felt like that of Mayan era, it was nothing less than a haunted place. He flung open the door and threw a quick glance in every direction to find anybody. He also shouted “anybody there?” to be left with no response while his voice echoed in the dark house. The windows were blocked by a pile of planks and the little light that smuggled in from the roof top fell on a string hanging from the roof. Mistaking it to be some kind of a pull switch, he pulled the string hard. A loud noise burst out from the chimney of the house and he could hear the swallows scream and flutter away in fear. He stormed out of the house to see what had happened. He saw a cloud of smoke rise from the roof top and the swallows soar high. His gaze immediately shifted to a man standing on the shore with his both hands waving at him. He looked a lot familiar, for he had the similar coat he was wearing and his built was same as his. He thought he was the same man he saw a little while ago on the cliff and before they could exchange anymore signals he rushed down the hill from the other side.
            He threw himself to slither down the hill like a plank slipping down a soft elevation. He crossed the thick bushes and dodged the branches to finally reach the bottom of the hill. He ran out of the thick bush across the beach to reach the point on the shore where he saw the man. It was exactly the same place from where he saw the man on the cliff. He looked around desperately but found no one. He suddenly heard a loud noise from the cliff. A cloud of smoke rose from the house and the swallows soared high in fear. He again saw a man storm out of the house to look at the rising smoke. He started waving with both his hands again but now he could make out a bit that the man looked exactly like him from far. A chill flowed his spine and his heart rushed blood so ghastly that he felt dying when he realized it was none other than him and he was struck in a loop of situations. His lips trembled in fear when he realized he was caught in the mystifying Time Warp of the Blues. 

(And yeah this was the ending of the series.....hope you enjoyed it)

He knew he should not have trusted Philip this time but it was too late for him to repent his decision. Philip was long consumed in the waves and now, for the obvious omens of ill fate, he knew it was his turn. The sails of the mast fluttered with the fierce winds and the high tide waves of pacific were gigantic enough to swallow a small town. The storm stirred another gigantic wave and it lifted the ship and pushed it behind to have it slip on its back like a sudden drop on the roller coaster. While reaching the turbulent surface, the bowsprit of the ship pierced into the ocean and bounced out like it was taking a dip in the freezing waters of pacific Novembers. The storm had no mercy for the lonely sailor, Zack Foster, and the rumblings of the thunders lit the sky like an ephemeral twilight. A splash of waves has already destroyed the bridge on the deck and the wheel, that he used to control the ship’s direction, was struggling to drown in the never ending blue. He was still holding the stem of the mast with the sails mercilessly torn away, still thinking of the time when he urged Philip to drop the idea of sailing after he saw the black clouds lining. Philip, who now lie deep in the womb of the furious pacific, never believed that the weather forecast of Zack can be an accurately reliable one.
                      The rumbling of the thunder snapped him out of his thoughts and it was so loud that he could not hear his own screams of fear. The screeching rain fell like a never ending blanket of water from the cloud which managed to cover the view of everything beyond the stern of his ship. His rug textured overcoat and the soil brown trousers were swampy in the water and the frequent splashes of waves from the either sides of the deck were slapping him hard.
                       The wind was howling with all its might and the diabolic waves hinted clearly that he was going to drown soon with Isabella, that which he called his antique ship. Isabella came to him in legacy and the first thing he did after gaining the ownership of the ship was to change her name from the pirate sounding Decrotos to Isabella. The pride of his father and of his father before him, Isabella was the member of his sailor family since 5 decades. Her rusty iron cables and the anchor were polished and the mast was painted blue before his father, Granther Foster, handed it over to him for sails and trades.
                Her brown wood body bearing the texture of a cross knitted fabric with the vintage royal craft bulging out on her upper half of the body ended well in a mannequin of mermaid on the bowsprit. The sails of ivory color fabric had the rather disturbing family sign of a fork piercing a fish painted in gold and black. The deck was a huge plank of rare tree from his grandfather’s time who always boasted about the grand trees of his era. The wheel to control the ship’s direction was homed at the back towards the stern. The wheel had similar designs as of her body and on the façade of the mast’s stem two letters were engraved in depth, HF, which stood for his grandfather, Hugh Foster. She was an iconic beauty and when she anchored at the port people would linger around to touch her bulging engravings of royal vintage designs. She also acted as an inspiration to the vagabond artists who dwelled there to capture everything they see on canvas.
                    Another thunder rumbled and he saw the ghastly sky whipped by a great white lash. His cold lips trembled in fear and his freezing palm could no longer hold the mast with excellent grip. The deck was flooded with rain and the constant splash of waves. It was not far before Isabella would give up the fight and succumb into the depths of the furious blue. A wave of vicious intentions rose like a dead from sleep and before he could raise his head to see the height of the devil, it came to swallow him with uncanny powers. Isabella pierced into the façade of the wave and he saw the waves swiftly consume every bit of her. He was dragged with the ship and before he could do anything he saw himself covered in a blanket of cold blue water. His eyes started slowly shutting down and his body was freezing in the icy waters. He could not breathe but was released from the pull of Isabella, which before going unconscious, he saw drowning deep into the beds of the ocean. His eyes closed and he felt nothing anymore while the storm kept screaming on the surface of the ocean.
( Thank you for reading.... If you liked it comment your views here.... this is chapter 1 of the series... )

suspense story, camera, girl, short story, Estella

                                                   Estella! Estella! The voice echoed in her head. She felt a warm palm touch her cold bare hands. The voice felt more intense, shouting her name, Estella! She tried opening her eyes but something uncanny seem to hold her eyelids shut. Her vision was still blur and the dark night in her eyes was much clearer than the young man that sat beside her bed. She fought against the clutching grip of sleep and managed to slit open her eyes diaphanously to see him sitting beside her bed. The beacon of sun rays from the window fell on his smooth face, glittering his blue eyes and the scattered dew drops on his upper red lips. The pale peach fur blanket that wrapped half of her elegant body did not allow the cold breezes to tickle and freeze her. Her blurring gaze got unintentionally shifted to the cherry blossom tree in the patio, the petals of which were already swinging in the wind, when the blue birds with the reddish plumage started chippering, sitting on their nest on it. Her bed which was adjacent to the window felt warm by bathing in the sun rays and through the stained glass pane the rays painted a symphony of black dots on her blanket.
                             Estella! The voice called again. She turned around to see him sit enough near for her to see him clearly in her drowsy gaze. His brown overcoat, wet in the dew looked much darker than it was. His cream swampy gloves were lying on the table-drawer adjacent to her bed. She could even smell the cologne that she gifted him on his birthday last time. “Lawrence!” she exclaimed. “Are you still alive? Where have you been so long?” She looked extremely perplexed.
                                            The question did not seem to surprise Lawrence, may be because of the numerous times he had answered it to bring her out of her perplexing agony.
“I was gone for a day to my friend’s chateau, Estella. I was not gone for long but just a day”. His answer which had conviction of a true man did not seem to satisfy her. Few strands of her brisk golden hair started lingering on the left side of her face by the sudden blows of the wind.
“A day! No. You were gone for many years and you have sent me the letters to reveal that you were a Russian spy who was about to get killed”, she seemed ardent that he was lying because she felt she had the proofs.
                               “No, it was just a day”, he had the pious smile worn on his face as if he knew he could convince her.
                         “Estella have you been again reading the stories of Russian spy and Cambridge 5?” he asked pointing out at the book that peeped out from the underneath of her pillow. “Were you?” he proclaimed.
                           Estella still having the visions of the night she endured seemed least enthralled by the query and found it not important to answer. But when he asked again, she replied out of curiosity, “Yes I was, but what has it got to do with the situation?” she could not get any implication that Lawrence was trying to make.
                                    “Estella, you know you have schizophrenia syndrome and when you read such mystery stories you start dreaming and imagining stuff”, he pulled a can of pills from a nearby drawer while still speaking to her. “You have dreamt again about the Russian spy and have thought it to be true. Also you sleep walked and left the main door open last night may be”, he poured out 2 pills on his palm. “Here take these pills and you will feel better”, Lawrence stretched his pam to her and signaled her to take them.
“But, what about the diary and the wall crack and the letters?’ she tried convincing him but all in vain. She drew him to the aisle to show him the crack and the diary on the adjoining desk. But there was no crack, no diary, and no letters. She felt baffled and everything seemed a lie to her. She stared at the painting mystified trying to fathom the truth with him standing behind her.
                                          She turned around and saw him with the deepest questions that she was fostering already. “But how could this be possible? I have dragged the diary out of the crack here and placed it on the desk”, she threw her gaze around to find the slightest hint of the crack. Lawrence knew that what could bring her out of her enigmatic situation and he swiftly pulled her to their room. He flung open the cupboard and hunted for a pile of files that read Medical report of Estella of 27, Rustic street. He pointed at her appalling mind-state of schizophrenia mentioned in the report. She looked at the report with a familiar air and when he brought the check he left her yesterday dated 11-august-1953 convinced her when the newspaper on her desk read 12-august-1953.   
                                           Lawrence realized her miserable condition and finally drew her into the reserves of his arms and said “Estella it was just a dream. Look I am here and I have not left you”. With no desire to resist the bliss she was experiencing for not having lost him, she wrapped herself around him and whispered in peace” Thank god it was just a dream!”

                    (This is the end of the Estella series. I hope you enjoyed reading the series. please comment in your views and also share it across the social media. Thanks for reading anyways :) )

                                          The rub of the stick’s head along the match box body ignited it and her face beamed in the pitch dark. The candle that lay dead on the counter waited for her to pour life into it. She lit it and a portion of the diary’s facade was visible in the luminous flare while the other half stayed consumed in the darkness that the copper statue casted on it. Her fingers trembling in the plethora of emotions that now poured from her forehead as sweat even in that cold night of December.
                    “The Secret Association of Soviet Russia”, she read to herself. She knew that what might unfold itself in front of her tonight will demand her the strongest nerve to endure through it. The flickering flame and the screaming winds in the far were the futile signs by the nature to keep her away from reading it. But she flipped opened the leather cover, heavy as her panting breath, with her fingers, still trembling.
                               “It is hard for me to smuggle any documents out of Britain for the Soviet Union and I know that my days as the Russian Spy has come to a dreadful end. My spy brothers of “Cambridge 5” association have been caught and executed while their families have been sentenced to capital punishment. Estella turned me into the human I am. Her love taught me to conquer the memories of the petrifying days at American Refuge Camp and the pain endorsed with it. I never thought I would love her more than “the cause to destroy America”. But her green eyes filled me with the emotion, I dread the most – love. Her smile caresses my scars. But I know that I am failing to deliver the task entrusted and the dreadful screams of my brothers of Cambridge 5 and the sobbing of their families is still afresh in my psyche. I cannot conceive the thought of Estella enduring that. Before they come to know about me, I must abandon her for her own life. I will die when their bullets pierce through my heart but I will die in peace for I stood against her to have her live. I will not let them make her pay for my deeds. I must leave!! “
                               The blot of ink from his fountain pen, at the end of the sentence, spread to a larger area with the flow of his tear drop, Estella guessed it when a drop of a tear slipped from her cheek to fall on the ivory papers of the diary. She felt his trembling hands when his letters lost posture in the end. She remembered his smile when he bid goodbye to her last and the promise to return that he never kept.
                           She did not bother herself browsing through the rest of the diary, though a simple glance would have told her that the rest of it was spotless like her gorgeous British face and the golden hair that now fell on the rim of the diary while she wept in silence. The biting cold air which melted into fumes of mist did not draw her attention but a thud at her main door had her snap out of her agony.
                 Another thud, clear as the whistling wind made her turn around in the dim lit aisle in astonishment. She realized that something more awaits her now and the night grew darker and darker with ever tick of her clock. She left the diary to freeze in the cross-winds of her aisle while she grabbed the candle to walk her way to the main door.
                                  Every step she took on the staircase acted as a catalyst to her memories of him. His blue eyes, his brown hair, his English smile, his unusual laughter, his odiosyncracies, his breathe when he kissed, the calmness of his air, his placid love, everything sparkled like a series of reactions which lead one memory to another. She reached the end of steps while her candle dropped tears of wax on her freezing hand. But she chose to stay lost in the memories of her Lawrence. The gate which looked like a veil to the outer world grew diabolic with the aging night but she kept her steps synchronize to reach the door without stumbling upon her little kept furniture. The knob which had the gothic designs felt warm against her dead palm. She turned it until she heard the click. The door slit open into a diaphanous gap to smuggle the malignant cold winds which scared the flame the most. She opened the door to find the silhouette of a man melt in the darkness of the scrubs behind the rusty lamppost at the other end of her patio. Her gaze shifted to the little piece of paper that lied at her feet. Another paper, rancid with the stench of woods which she realized when she picked it up from the ground. Her hands were resonating in the rhythm of the howling wind which were not able to kill the uncanny flame.
            She brought the paper near to her chest in the vicinity of the lucid hue from the flare. Her stoic mind deprived of every emotion read to her the wordings in the paper like one would do to a dead.

              “Dear Estella,
                                         I know I betrayed you and I cannot forgive myself for it ever. But I had to abandon you to ensure that you are safe. Before I die I wanted you to know the truth and apologies for the last time. Forgive me. Your love………Lawrence”.

              The melting snow on the lamppost made it weep for her while she smuggled herself into the dark of her house after a gust of window finally killed her flame.    

She drew herself to the reserves of her French sofa, still panting and gasping for air to breathe. Her candle which has survived the sudden air blows at the entrance was slowly losing its battle to the daunting winter winds that let themselves in, so dexterously, through the open doors. She held the paper in her right hand while her left hand fingers entwined with the knitted sofa cover. “I am waiting for you…… your love, Lawrence”. She whispered it to herself again and again as if she wanted to use it as a wakeup call if she was dreaming in her sleep. But the dim lit street that seem to eye her situation through her door and the ice-cold breeze that tickled her bare arms made her believe that she was living her worst nightmare.
                         The silent winds that were daunting her candle’s flare drew her least attention but she, unmindfully enough, dragged herself to the door to shut the uncanny and troubling stoic gaze of the December night out in the patio. The little piece of paper which seem to have the manuscript in Lawrence’s handwriting, which she could tell with the most obstinate authority that it was his only because his handwriting has been imprinted on her psyche by the several letters she read and re-read and over read during the days of cold wars, had already managed to breach the walls of her sensibilities. She knew that her understanding of his handwriting could not be questioned, even by the most ardent disbeliever of her, but in the desire to prove herself wrong and give the letter a little less authority to disturb her traumatized psyche she started walking herself to the room on first floor where she had buried his letters in the most isolated drawers. Her lavender color gown with the most modest of embroidery of French origin slithered behind her ankles while she moved towards the staircase with a candle in her hand and the paper in the other.
                               The staircase, like the most benevolent lover of her after Lawrence, stood arms opened to embrace her slithering gown and the Cadillin cologne that she always wore for reasons even she could not justify. Every step she took made her heart pump faster than ever and the possibility of she being wrong at judging the handwriting faded with ever tick of the second’s arm.
                        “I am waiting for you”, the words which had her heart skip a beat were nothing so distinct from the rest of the text in the grey of her panic. But the obvious italic maneuver and flamboyant traits of it seemed more conspicuous now as if they were meant to convey more than what they blatantly meant like a cryptic cipher.
         She felt the chill across her spine, stronger than the one she thought she could ever be capable of receiving after reading the letter. “I am waiting for you”, she murmured while halting herself, staring at the wall in the arcade of her collections. She drew the letter closer again and read to herself the text in petrification. She felt a thousand pins piercing her heart and a rush of blood to her head that she primarily thought would burst out of her veins. She felt stoic as the dead when she realized that she has deciphered the message.
                        She stood staring with the most lifeless eyes at the face of a painting. The one she adored the most, not because it was gifted to her by Lawrence but because of the emotions he endorsed with it. The painting by Raymond Georges Yves Tanguy titled “I am waiting for you”. Her candle’s flare flickered by her panting but survived again to not leave her in the darkness of her fossilized despair. She dropped the paper in her hand and placed the candle on a counter adjoining the wall little away from the painting. The girl in the painting staring in the void did not help her senses to fabricate a reason for the script she received but she stood there staring at the painting wishing for it to unravel the mysteries for her.” Lawrence always said that this painting was the symbol of their love and if he wasn’t there with her then he would imagine her waiting for him like the lady in the painting does”, she remembered.  Nothing in the world could explain her why her husband chose to write her an enigmatic script and leave her bewildered. But she gasped as she seem to have noticed something by the edge of the painting that she could have paid no attention if it was not for the unfathomable letter. A crack line on the wall with its major portion being adeptly hidden behind the back of the painting. She heard a soulless voice scream in her head, urging her to bring the painting down and see the mysteries unfold before her. But she was too petrified to encounter anything that might have the potential to leave her faiths shaken. She stood there, still cold and death stricken but she decided to have herself given to the fate of this uncanny crack and anything that might spring out of it. She unhooked the painting and placed it adjacent to the wall. The crack which could have remained unheeded her entire life became conspicuous with a paranormal tint. She felt the fake façade of the wall and tore it down with the copper statue that sat itself silently on the counter beside the candle. She broke the crack open with the maneuver of a demolisher.
                                  The cobwebs and the remnants of the destruction glittered when she brought the candle nearer to the hole which at that state had a mouth-hole huge enough to swallow her both arms at once. She felt the presence of something peculiar in the hell hole which too shone in the candle’s flare, adequately enough to have her notice it. She stretched her arm to reach for it amidst the age old cobwebs and the pungent stench of a dead lizard. A diary, leather back, she guessed by its feel while she kept drawing it nearer to herself. She felt the rumbling plaster dust fall on her arm and the cobweb entwined to her fingers. With every inch of increasing grip on the cold diary she felt her nerves freezing while she drew it into the vicinity of the flare. In the red blaze she started reading the title. She murmured with her astonishment at the sight of the words “The Secret Association of S…….” A gust of wind which smuggled itself from her opened windows, killed the flame leaving her reading incomplete. She held the cold diary in her hand like a shroud less corpse in the dark. She was horrified.  

 ("I am waiting for you", painting by  Raymond Georges Yves Tanguy )

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