Hush.
Rocking to and fro, I sit —
soothing the present into serendipity
with tranquil trails from the future,
weaving whimsical warmth.

My dreams float softly,
silently into the stillness.
As feathers,
flittering through daydreams,
they finally rest upon a fluffy cloud.

Fragrance of a gentle lullaby
fills the forest of feelings;
the poem itself
falls asleep.


#review #poetry #mpen

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I also want a Chatak,

Who kisses me like a bird,

But the body does not come in front,

Who kisses the secret part of the mind,

Who moves a little ahead of the body,

Who kisses the God in the mind temple,

Who cools my soul,

Who kisses me like Bhagirath,

Who cannot touch the threshold of the lips,

Who does not kiss the pain of the shoulder,

Who goes beyond the hidden obstacle,

Who kisses the thirst of the mind temple,

I become the ghat of Banaras,

He comes like Bhagirath,

Who kisses my soul inside,

Who kisses my being within me....!!
#meghna
#review

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I am drowning in a fog I can't name
each thought a phantom each memory a blade
The world keeps moving but I am nailed to the floor
between the person I once was
and the one I fear I’ll never become.

I weep for things I can't even remember losing
for faces that feel familiar but never existed,
for the girl I believed lived inside me
her palms once cupped the sun
but now only clutch handfuls of dust.

Confusion has built a nest in my ribs;
every choice splinters into a thousand questions.
Even my own heartbeat stutters
a faint drum in an abandoned house.

I reach for language something unshakable,
but words break apart like ashes,
scattering before I can hold them.

I sit among shadows that whisper my failures
my tears carving rivers down a face I barely recognize.
Every memory I try to hold
turns to ash between my fingers,
every hope dies before it breathes,
and still I reach for a light that never comes
my chest aching with a hollow that no words can fill till…

And still I write though the reason escapes me
I write 35 because in this grief this unraveling
the only proof of my being
is the trembling of my hand dragging ink across paper
crying silently for the girl I cannot find till…

From the unanswerable!

I do not know why I am writing.

EGO Part -1 ( The Arrogance)

A man wearing a coat and pant, with a strong body and a thick mustache, walks toward an old man standing in front of his house gate. The man’s eyes are burning with anger. He holds a big wooden stick in one hand and starts beating the old man mercilessly. The old man, Satyam, nearly in his late fifties, tries to protect himself but falls to the ground. His wife and daughter run out crying, calling his name — “Satyaaa!” They rush to save him, but the man doesn’t stop. He kicks Satyam again and enters his property, ready to attack once more.
Before the next hit, a group of people — Satyam’s neighbors and friends — rush toward the man. They beat him back with bare hands, trying to protect Satyam. But the man, even with blood spilling from his mouth, refuses to surrender. His coat tears off, revealing a black jacket underneath. His face is filled with blood and fury. His name is Ashrin Dhruv — a man of intense rage.
The police arrive and pull the crowd away. They ask for his name, and he calmly says, “Ashrin Dhruv.” They note it down and lock him inside a cell. Ashrin sits there silently, thinking of his past, of a woman’s kiss, of a boy laughing — fragments of a happier time. A few minutes later, several lawyers arrive to release him. He walks out, wears his coat again, wipes the blood from his mouth, and enters his classic car with style. He drives off into the night, his eyes cold and confident.
Ashrin reaches his building, climbs to the terrace, pours himself a drink, and stares into the city lights. He smirks, saying, “It was a fun start,” and throws the glass to the floor, shattering it. He kneels and laughs uncontrollably, the madness of revenge beginning to consume him.
Meanwhile, Satyam sits quietly on his veranda, eating dinner. He removes his glasses and goes to wash his hands. His friends are beside him, assuring him, “We are with you always.” Satyam is a man respected in the city — social, cheerful, surrounded by people. Yet, he isn’t completely selfless; he helps others but expects respect in return.
That night, Ashrin drinks heavily, collapses, and drifts into a dream. He sees a woman holding him tightly, kissing him with affection, and a small version of himself smiling happily beside her. But suddenly, the vision breaks — his manager wakes him up. Ashrin angrily curses him and falls back asleep.
Satyam sits in his room, looking at a photo of his wife’s mother. His eyes fill with sorrow, remembering the moment Ashrin killed her, stabbing her brutally and ending her life. The memory haunts him every day. He walks outside to his gate, clenches his fist, looks to the sky, and roars . He kneels down, starts crying
Ashrin, on the other side, wakes up from his drunken sleep and plans his next move. He calls a professional killer — one of the best — and pays him to kill Satyam’s wife.
Night falls. The killer sneaks into Satyam’s house quietly, armed and skilled. But Satyam already expected something. He’s ready. The killer enters, and chaos begins. People wake up, shouting, trying to protect Satyam’s wife. The killer throws a flash bomb, blinding everyone, and kills her brutally. But as he tries to escape, Satyam catches him and kills him by stabbing a pen through his neck vein. Covered in blood and rage, Satyam cries, “You took my son… now my wife!”

#review #story #ad

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Part- 2 Ego :Inverse ego
The crowd around Satyam’s house turns furious after seeing the brutal act.They storm Ashrin’s flat. The guards try to stop them but are overpowered. The crowd, wild with anger, drags Ashrin out, beats him, and tears off his coat. One man hits him on the head with a stick. Ashrin falls unconscious. They drag him to the road
Past (1996)
A young boy stands with his mother, holding a lollipop, licking it. She holds his hand lovingly as they walk to a big house. Suddenly, an old woman rushes out — “My baby Ashrin!” She hugs and kisses him. The boy, now seen as young Ashrin, is in 8th class. Inside the house, his grandfather sits proudly. Not overly affectionate, but deeply protective. Ashrin, a single-mother child, has no father around. But his grandfather is his guardian and shield.Years pass.
When Ashrin is in 10th, a man walks into the house with a big bag. Ashrin runs and hugs him — “Uncle Satya!” Satya, the uncle, is kind, warm, and caring. He often takes Ashrin out for food and fun. The boy adores him. Satya is grown up, but still scared of his strict father. Ashrin studies well, and his grandfather funds everything, determined to make him great. “You’re the pride of your mother & you’ll rise.”
But Satya starts to feel discomfort.His wife’s mother poisons his thoughts, saying, “Your father spends all his money on your sister’s son. He’s making that boy the heir, not you.”Slowly, Satya distances himself from his own house, spending more time with his wife’s family. His father notices but stays silent.
One day, Satya secretly places a cigarette in Ashrin’s bag. The family finds it, and the mother, shocked, believes her son has fallen into bad habits. The grandfather, furious, beats Ashrin with a belt until blood flows. The old man throws the belt away, sits, and cries silently with guilt. Ashrin cries too, lying on the floor. Satya stands outside the room, smiling secretly. Ashrin sees him — the moment burns into his memory forever.After that day, nothing is the same. Ashrin becomes distant. His mother scolds him often, believing he’s an addict. The house no longer feels like home.Then tragedy strikes — the grandfather dies.
Ashrin doesn’t cry; he’s frozen, empty, in disbelief. His protector is gone.During the days of mourning, Satya’s wife’s mother and daughter provoke him, insulting him. Ashrin loses control and beats the old woman. Satya storms in, furious, and pushes him away. Ashrin tries to fight back but fails. His mother, overwhelmed with humiliation and sorrow, slaps him in front of everyone. Ashrin, broken and angry, pushes his mother away and screams. The family throws him out of the house. At the gate, he throws a stone toward the home — it lands on the steps where Satya stands with that same mystic smile. The boy runs, crying, full of guilt and rage.His mother weeps, believing he has gone astray, not knowing the truth — that Satya himself planted the cigarette in the bag, and his manipulations destroyed their family.
Back to the present.
Ashrin is being dragged by the angry crowd. Suddenly, Satya’s guards arrive with guns and open fire. The people scatter in fear. Ashrin, dizzy and bleeding, stands up and sees Satya in front of a building. Rage burns through him. He runs toward Satya with all his strength.But from behind, Satya’s daughter stabs Ashrin in the back through the door. He bends over in pain.
At the same instant, a bullet fired by a guard hits Satya’s daughter in the head. She falls dead.Satya, shocked, bends down in grief.
Ashrin, stabbed and bleeding, bends down too — both of them broken in different ways.
#review #story #ad
This is the part -2 of ego the arrogance

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#review @WrytBot Perhaps Robert had meant to come in the spring, but he didn't risk staying in Finland long. The sky was as invisible as his future, and it was as cold as whatever memories he had. In the distance was a scarlet flag with that distinct hammer and yellow star flowing with the arctic blast. What does it mean to transfer from one world to another? Was it conviction or futility? When he had started asking questions in 1944, how could he had known that this would be the final result? --Previously obscured, a pale gate came into view; now was the time.

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#review #story THE FINAL BORDER The priest pauses. " God knows the truth and I also know that God forgives what man cannot. And I forgive you, James. Truly. And I know that forwhatever happened I forgive you"
"But the congregation doesn't."
"No."
James nods. The priest's forgiveness feels like a door closing rather than opening.
"The church will always have a place for you," Father Patrick says, standing. "Even if no one else sits beside you."
He leaves a hand-written prayer on the table. James doesn't read it.

That night, James stands in his garage. The car is old—a 1949 Buick, dark blue. He runs his hand along the hood. It's dusty.
He thinks about what a man does when a country decides he is dead, even though he breathes. When his wife chooses absence. When his daughter won't answer the phone. When priests must apologize for God's mercy, and congregations gather to confirm that some people are beyond saving.
He thinks about the rain on the courthouse steps. The taste of six years without sunlight. The way his hands shake when he tries to hold a cup of coffee.
He goes inside and packs a single bag. One change of clothes. His documents—the ones that say he's free, even though no one believes it. Cash he's hidden in the kitchen wall for two years, waiting for this moment if it had ever came and indeed the moment had arrived.
He doesn't leave a note. There's nothing to say.

His car is found at the bottom of Blackstone Ravine the following month. It's burned. The frame is twisted. Whatever was inside has been consumed by fire.
The local newspaper reports it briefly: Single-vehicle accident. Identity confirmed through vehicle registration. No survivors.
In the church bulletin, Father Patrick writes a small notice: In loving memory of those taken from us. May they find the peace in death that the world denied them in life.
The congregation doesn't discuss it much. They're relieved, in a way. The stain is gone. The warning has been heeded.
His wife collects the insurance money. His daughter never asks questions. The house is sold to a new family who paint it white.
Within a year, James Thompson is a name no one speaks. James was now dead, yet what he would become had yet to be born. On the other side of the world perhaps James had meant to come in the spring, but he didn't risk staying in Finland long. The sky was as invisible as his future, and it was as cold as whatever memories he had. In the distance was a scarlet flag with that distinct hammer and yellow star flowing with the arctic blast. What does it mean to transfer from one world to another? Was it conviction or futility? When he had started asking questions in 1944, how could he had known that this would be the final result? --Previously obscured, a pale gate came into view; now was the time.

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#review #story THE LAST LINE TO CROSS - A grainy black-and-white screen. Senator Joseph McCarthy stands at a podium, his face sharp with certainty.
"We will imprison every communist infiltrator in this nation," he declares, his finger pointing. "Thousands, if necessary. No stone left unturned. No nest of sedition left undisturbed."
The camera pans across the audience. Men nod. Women look afraid.
Later, in a private meeting with other politicians:
McCarthy references the geopolitical stakes. "China. Korea. And now the Soviets have carved out their own puppet state right off the coast of Japan—Hokkai... Ezo... whatever they call it. A Soviet foothold in the Pacific, spying on our allies and threatning our very own ALASKA. This is what happens when we're not vigilant. We need expanded authority. We need to review everyone—soldiers, professors, union organizers. Because the communists are already here, embedded in our government, our universities, our military."
The others in the room, previously reluctant, signed off on the expanded campaign.

Six years later the judge sits elevated behind the bench, his expression stern and final. James Thompson stands before him, still in prison clothes, his hands clasped tightly.
The judge reads from the document in front of him, his voice official and cold:
"As a condition of your release, you are forbidden from associating with any person known to have communist sympathies or affiliations, past or present. This includes but is not limited to members of the Communist Party, attendees of communist meetings, signatories of communist petitions, or persons maintaining correspondence with known communists. Any ambiguity regarding a contact's status will be resolved by federal determination."
The judge pauses, letting the words sink in.
"Violate any of these terms, and you return to prison immediately. There will be no second hearing, no appeal. You will be monitored. We will know if you break these conditions. Do you understand?"
"Yes, your honor," James says quietly.
The judge leans back, studying him for a moment—deciding if this man is truly reformed or simply broken.
"You are released on conditional parole effective immediately. You are remanded to the custody of the federal probation office. Next case."
The gavel comes down hard.
CRACK.
The sound echoes through the courtroom. It's final. It's over.
But as James is led from the courtroom by the federal officer, he understands: prison is simply changing location. The bars are just invisible now.
He will be watched. Always.

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#review #story The courthouse steps are wet with rain. A man in his late forties emerges, squinting at sunlight he hasn't seen in six years. His suit hangs loose on him. His hair has gone gray at the temples.
He walks to a bus stop. No one meets him. No one is waiting.
The house is smaller than he remembers. The paint is peeling. His wife, Margaret, stands at the kitchen window when he opens the door. She doesn't turn around.
"You're home," she says. Not a greeting. A statement of fact.
"I'm home," he repeats, because there's nothing else to say.
She turns. Her face is thinner. Harder. "The Adams across the street stopped speaking to me three years ago. The church ladies won't sit near me. Our daughter's engagement was broken off. People write letters. They leave things on the porch."
James sets his bag down slowly. "I was cleared to—"
"Cleared?" Her voice is sharp. "No one believes that. No one believes you were innocent. They believe you were a communist, you were punished, and now you're back."
"I never—"
"It doesn't matter what you were. You're what you are now: a stain on this town. A warning. A reason for people to look at their neighbors differently."
She walks past him, and he catches her scent—unfamiliar now. Fear, maybe. Or just the scent of someone who has learned to live without him.
"My mother is in Portland," Margaret says from the hallway. "I'm going to stay with her for a while. The house is yours. Do what you want with it."
The door closes quietly.

Father Patrick comes to the house. He's older than James remembers, and his eyes carry the weight of having watched his congregation decide who was worth saving.
"I wanted to see how you were," the priest says carefully. They sit in the living room, not the kitchen. The kitchen feels too intimate.
"I'm breathing," James says. "Eating. Existing."
"That's not what I meant."
A long silence. Outside, children play. The sound cuts James deeply—he has no children anymore. His daughter hasn't called.
"The town won't forget," Father Patrick says finally. "I wish I could tell you they would. I wish I could tell you that time heals, that people find compassion. But fear is stronger than compassion. Fear is stronger than faith."
Father Patrick: "I believe you were a man who made mistakes. Perhaps you believed in ideas that were dangerous. Perhaps you were naive. Perhaps you were who they said you were. "
James: "I refused to name them. Even at trial. I wouldn't give their names."
Father Patrick nods slowly, understanding this changes something about his judgment.
"One of them I knew was just an innocent student," James continues quietly. "Younger than I was when I was sent to the war. I wasn't going to destroy an innocent boy's life."
The priest says nothing. There's nothing to say.

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Corrupted Blood #review #story #ad
In a grand, castle-like house, Novi’s father—an iron-willed man in his sixties—moved through the veranda with a calculating gaze. Servants worked in fear, each flinch affirming his power. Novi, twenty and dressed in his police uniform, sat at breakfast, taking his father’s blessings before duty. Yet his chest tightened as he noticed the trembling maid, the servant who avoided eye contact. Years ago, the maid Shevla’s husband was framed for black money, beaten, and jailed by Novi’s father to save corrupted politicians. Twelve years passed with the man imprisoned, the maid broken, and their son Maruti carrying silent rage.
Now grown, Maruti finally confronted the man who ruined his family. Novi, unaware of the past, reacted with blind loyalty. The blow shattered Maruti’s hand; his lungi was torn as he was dragged, tied, and humiliated at the station before a silent crowd. Yet resentment flickered in those watching—the façade of obedience cracking. A petition against Novi’s father began circulating among victims, aided by politicians seeking advantage. It reached a judge, triggering a secret inquiry led by Rabi Das, a principled officer. Quietly, he gathered evidence of murder, rape, laundering, and drug networks. Bribes and threats failed. His final report sealed the fall of a once-untouchable man.
When the arrest order spread, Novi’s father paced his halls, allies abandoning him—even his powerful brother-in-law refused contact. Outside, whispers turned to rage. Stones struck the gate; servants hesitated, then some joined the crowd. Novi stood torn between loyalty and truth as his mother Sridha screamed from the veranda. A stone struck his father’s temple, blood streaking his face—the first crack in his control. Enforcement forces arrived, calm and ruthless. As cheers rose, both father and Novi were handcuffed. Sridha was thrown into the street, mocked and trampled. Novi, shackled by the law he served, watched his mother helplessly as the vehicles rolled past jeering crowds and the shattered remains of a fallen empire.

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Hey everyone — quick question 😊
Do you feel like storytelling today is still mostly stuck in the same old formats (just text, just books, just screens)?
I’ve been thinking a lot about how stories could become more collaborative and immersive — involving writers, illustrators, sound designers, maybe even 3D artists someday.
Curious to know what you all think:
👉 How do you imagine the future of storytelling?
#review #ng #shortstory

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"Black holes"

I’ve been looking for a hole in this void,
From where something could seep in.
It could be pain or joy, it doesn’t matter
As long as it made me feel like a human.

I see the moments pass
A camera vision, a papery feel
The truth and lie blend into one
As everything turns into grains of sand.

How do I pour void into words?
Turn black holes into light.
How do I put soul in the dead?
When the living have died from inside.

#tm #poem #review

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I stare into the bottomless pitch dark
My fears writhing like snakes in my stomach
And even though there seems to be no horizon in sight
I imagine seeing mountains in the distance
Willing for the sun to rise I look at glowing clouds
And though they seems to be glowing with dark
I tell myself they are waiting for sun to come out
It's an endless road and freezing cold
And all the warmth I have is the dream of a home
So when my feet are stuck and my knees give out
I pick myself up knowing that this is not where my courage dies
It's an endless road disappearing into the dark
Should I keep walking or stay
But there is no safe place in jungle when you are the only prey
It's freezing and lonely and nothing to keep me warm
There are no nights to sleep when the days in itself are dark
I wonder what keeps me going in such odds
What keeps me from drowning in my own thoughts
Guess I need to walk into this pitch dark to find out
If I'm walking towards the rising sun, or towards an endless dark

#tm #poem #review

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Crow cries at noon
Sun split in two
Smoke walking barefoot
Through the avenue
A crown of feathers
Nailed to the sky
Drums in the marrow
Won’t let me die
I left my name
In a jar of salt
Traded my shadow
For thunderbolt
Mother of ivy
Swallowed the well
Spat out a staircase
Spiraling hell
Down in the cellar
Of bone and seed
Priests of the mushroom
Whispered the creed
Forget your face
Forget your skin
Peel off the hour
You’re standing in
Close both eyes
Let the walls breathe
Antlers growing
Under your teeth
River runs upward
Fish full of claim
Every ancestor
Calling my name
Masks in the orchard
Hanging like fruit
Bite one open
Blood tastes mute
City of mirrors
Bent in the heat
Statues are licking
Dust from my feet
Someone is chanting
Under the floor
Keys made of insects
Unlock the door
Step through the doorway
Tongue full of stars
Houses are breathing
Through iron bars
Bride of the forest
Covered in moss
Laughs like a bell
Counting the loss
Kings made of barley
Drowned in the rain
Wheat-field prophets
Rise up again
Break the vessel
Spill the wine
Serpents weaving
Up my spine
Don’t touch ground
Don’t blink twice
Moon is a blister
Cold as ice
Run with the hunters
Painted in ash
Hooves in the bloodstream
Ready to crash
Fire in the laurel
Silver in the lung
Children of the moon
Forever young
Tear down the scaffold
Built of fear
Drink from the skull
Of the dying year
I am the sound
Inside the drum
I am the doorway
Still to come
Night spreads purple
Over the plain
Stars like needles
Sewing the brain
Gather your breath
Sharpen your cry
Tomorrow we enter
The place we die
And are born
And are born
And are born
Again.

- Adhyatm Singh -

#review #adhyatm #poem

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#review @WrytBot

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> Mushroom Vulture: Do you believe in magic?
> Shinobi: Huh?
> Mushroom Vulture: Have you seen Goncharov?
> Shinobi: Umm... no?
> Mushroom Vulture: An entire movie dreamt up by Tumblr, a collective fever dream turned into reality, one that spans mediums, crosses borders, and transcends language. And one of the best Mafia movies ever, no less. This is the power of meme magic. Once people start talking about something, joking about something, desiring something, they create and manifest the conditions for it to cross over from fantasy to reality. We're all magicians, ninja. Meme magicians.
> Shinobi: So? What does this have to do with all this?
> Mushroom Vulture: I wonder if Hideo Kojima ever knew that the moment he released that first Metal Gear game, he was already doing the groundwork for a large-scale meme magic ritual. His fans were, whether they knew it or not, performing meme magic on a LARGE FUCKING SCALE.
> Shinobi: What kind of alt-right BS is that?
> Mushroom Vulture: Look all around you now. Look at the soldier's paradise I've built from the ground up. OUTER HEAVEN IS REAL, NINJA, AND I AM ITS BIG BOSS!
> Shinobi: Not so fast. (draws katana) You forget that in the Metal Gear games, Outer Heaven was eventually destroyed by Solid Snake. If you are this world's Big Boss, then I am its Solid Snake. Besides, I don't believe in magic. Of any kind. I don't need to.

#review @WrytBot

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The Fragrance of Moments

Life’s beauty isn't measured by how long we stay,
In the bonds we forge or the words we say.
Stability is but a shadow, a fleeting glass,
As seasons change and the years must pass.
The true essence lies in the golden light,
Of those shared moments, pure and bright.
Before the paths diverged and hands let go,
In the warmth of the soul’s unspoken glow.
It’s the laughter shared, the silence understood,
The briefest chapters that were twice as good.
For even when the journey comes to an end,
The beauty remains in the "once," my friend.

#review
#poem

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Give reviews on the other writer's posts using #yourreview, who were invited you to review his/her post by giving #review hashtag.

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