Showing posts from December, 2017

The Antichrist | The Rape of the Secretary

Her eyes could not focus on the man she was talking to and agreed or disagreed with something she could not remember; all that mattered was going after Jack.

“Did you see them?” Rachel said while closing Jack’s office door shut.

“Everybody’s talking. I couldn’t believe it, but everybody's saying you’ve seen them. Did you?” Rachel's trying to be polite or not to sound too curious just failed.

“Come on Jack, tell me what you saw.”

Jack stayed silent for a moment while he was enjoying everyone begging him to know what he saw the other day. It was not two days ago when people barely said hi to him, not even when they came face to face with him, but he was the man of the hour with the top-secret scoop which almost everybody in the office knew about, except for Rachel who was away on a business trip.

“You know I have seen little, but it is obvious that the manager is having an affair with the new secretary. The other day, when I went into his office without knocking, I saw them …,” …

Identity | Crazy Like God

Crazy, like God–
everyone believes in me,
yet everyone does not give a damn
about whence I came,
they all but hold a guarantee
that I never leave.
So sure so secure
when they have me–
coins in their pockets,
a raging river with endless uproar
a body melting towards the sun
angels or demons’ wings soar
against the wind, I’m there
fueling their fantasies like hell,
hot wheels on an eternal fire
burning yet never turning to ash–
like death, for me to be,
I need to keep them alive.
Crazy, like God–
everyone believes in me,
they shy away from truth–
too bashful to name me
the one and only king;
I buy them power
I give them sovereign rings–
every lash to remind their slaves’ backs
my whip has struck,
every dash for a chance against all odds
to fleetingly own the heart of a stranger
was the might of my buck,
to own the floor and dance like angels
was forever guarded by my demon spawn,
for their words to nod every head
taking a glimpse inside their pockets
where the dragon’s lair
everyone has learned to revere;
they think th…

Classic Man

They say I am a classic man. They say I am afraid to venture into new genres and styles because I am too classic. They say that I love classical music because through its rigorous measures and rules lie the true colors of my character. They say I love classic literature because it was written at a time I was supposed to be born in. They say I still hold on to the classical views of yesterday’s heroes because I failed at being a hero today.

I must say they are right about most of what they say except for a few things here and there that might make all the difference or might simply slip their minds without being even noticed. Yes I am a classic man and I belong to an age that may not exist now anymore, or maybe it still does in me, and I am the one who is going to revive it, but I live in my world most of the time inside myself first and then I venture into the wide world and know my place in it because I know what I want and who I am.

I never cared about how they lived and I never min…

Creative Writing Prompts and Tips | Prompt #04


The Third of May 1808 by Francisco Goya depicts the horrors of war, no doubt, but if we dig deeper in this image, we might find some other interesting themes in it. Goya himself was a liberal, who believed in the initial intentions of the French Revolution, but found himself in a hot spot when this noble revolution turned out to be as bloody as any other movement to seize power and grab the chair of honor, or the throne from the current man in the authority. Wasn’t that the intention of all revolutions in the history of humankind? At least wasn’t that what they all turned out to be in the end? Why is there a rapist to every revolution good people start? In every good revolution, there have been some people who act like crows, or eagles feeding on the dead body of any government falling. It doesn’t matter who they cheer for at the beginning as long as this rash fool is going to put them on the throne in the end.


There has never been an easier solution than to execute men in…

Robert Frost and The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963), American poet, who drew his images from the New England countryside and his language from New England speech. Although Frost’s images and voice often seem familiar and old, his observations have an edge of skepticism and irony that make his work, upon rereading, never as old-fashioned, easy, or carefree as it first appears. In being both traditional and skeptical, Frost’s poetry helped provide a link between the American poetry of the 19th century and that of the 20th century. See also American Literature: Poetry.
Robert Frost’s Life
Robert Lee Frost was born in San Francisco, California, the son of William Prescott Frost, Jr., of New Hampshire and Isabelle Moodie of Scotland. He was named after Robert E. Lee, the commander of the Confederate armies during the American Civil War (1861-1865). When Frost was 11 years old, his father died of tuberculosis. The Frost family then moved to Massachusetts, where William Frost wanted to be buried. Frost a…

The Scream | A Man Just Died

Hold on,
There on the news
the other day was killed
a Jew—
a Christian cheered,
a Muslim rejoiced—
a sign from heaven
taken by each.
Hold on,
There on the news
the other day was killed
a Christian—
a Muslim exulted,
a Jew did not care;
for he never existed at all
or failed to see the one.
Hold on,
There on the news
the other day was killed
a Muslim—
a Christian thought one less to go,
a Jew sensed victory;
one less nobody, they thought
was out of the way.
Hold on,
a man just died;
no one cared—
a whole life filled with emotions,
all the love rippling around
all the good and all the bad,
all came to an end—
a perfect human just died
and no one cared;
a flesh and blood just died
turned to some political pawn—
and they thought one day
there would ever be
a checkmate.
Today you kiss the hand that killed,
blood will soon be on your hands, too—
weren’t you supposed to love them all?
wasn’t saving one soul like saving the world?
wasn’t killing one like killing them all?
I look at you and see myself—
when did you break the mirror

Who Are You

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell! They’d banish us; you know!
How dreary to be somebody! How public like a frog To tell one’s name the livelong day To an admiring bog!
Who Are You?

Come and join the society of nobodies. Can you handle that? Can you wander around the wide world without being known or pointed at? Can you keep the secret of our kind, the nobodies? Can this life go on without our being involved in some faction, sect, religion, community or tribe? Will you accept me as a man who belongs to no other man? Will you no longer belong to anybody, but yourself?
How hard is the question of doing what we want to do in this life without being noticed or known? Can we pass by the tree we planted, see others eating the hell out of it, and do nothing but planting another tree next to it and move along the way? It is not easy to be your own judge and your own eyes that can see the path without the help of others’ spectacles.
I don’t wa…

Identity | The Rain Must Fall

So stained a heart
that is of man’s—
right down, the soul,
cold-blooded conscience
struggling for the sun
to reach its intimate core,
but nothing seems to run
in those veins of old;
no sweat or blood—
all seem under control;
no tears to falter now—
a heart as hard as stone;
mindless species you are and I,
have been fighting all along
for what must be ours
but never yours or mine alone—
an apple only tastes like heaven
when no one else is holding one;
a taste can always be divine
if tasted by no one else.
The rain must fall
to wash the stains
down in a pool of mud
mixed from the dirt we have within,
the scars like a paintbrush
have also added a shade of blood;
we might have known
to whom we do belong,
but minds enchained as slaves
to an eyeless greed
foreseen by no one
and seen by no one,
for we can only know
only what we can see
only what we do want;
The rain must fall at once
like that on Noah’s arc
nonstop, only this time
I doubt, he will choose
to save, anyone.

The Antichrist | The Emergency Room

It was getting late, and that night in the emergency room of City Hospital was uneventful. There were a few normal fractures, a man who thought he had a heart attack after a heavy meal, two naughty kids that needed stitches, and a teenage was here after a so-called suicide attempt, in which she took the right dose of non-lethal pills and let everyone know what she would do in time to save her. So, the night was uneventful.

I never thought assigning me to head the night shift of the ER was the right decision, not for a doctor of my caliber, anyway. I have graduated with honors from Johns Hopkins, and I was the first in my class all my life. I felt I had already lost my touch and knowledge for I hadn’t been using them at all down there.

I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee to help me stand the few hours left in my shift when the miracle I was just asking for happened. I heard an ambulance approaching and then came the sound of chattering that got louder as the man was br…

Creative Writing Prompts and Tips | Prompt #03


Look at this assembly of beautiful creatures, gods, and idols with Venus in the middle of the picture and the graces dancing blissfully unaware of what's happening around them. Hermes to the left, the messenger of gods is present as well, and Cupid is flying above his mother shooting one of his arrows of love blindly to ignite this eternal purpose of life—love. It seems like a happy painting, doesn't it? Yet how about Zephyr to the right depicted in a rather violent scene of raping Chloris, who seems to be shown transformed into Flora as the third person from the right, a goddess happy and content in her marriage life after Zephyr feels ashamed and takes her as his wife. It's quite a complicated painting it seems to mix love with sex, ignorance, and violence, but it apparently leads to a happy ending. Master Sandro Botticelli might have spent over a year painting and perfecting this painting, but it was definitely worth the effort.


Now let's think about the…

The Scream | A Game of Cards

A game of cards—
eyes on the table sneaking past
the watchful discreetness
of each hand holding on
tight to those hidden cards—
dealt, stolen, forged…
Inside it felt as if
something was wrong,
but I kept on
playing anyway.
All the numbers
do not matter;
a great hand is full
of jacks and kings and queens;
aces like veterans clean
and secure the win—
kill all the numbers,
leave some to serve the later king;
undermine the aces,
sacrifice the jacks,
stab the king in the back,
and hijack the queen—
the royal bed is yours,
today, yet
tomorrow it may not be—
you have become the king—
new players lining up
all the way filling the ring
from numbers you left behind;
unappreciated aces who have their eyes,
too, on your queen;
unworthy cards will one day grow—
Glorious Rome was never short
of a cunning Caesar or a Brutus, cowardly
with eyes seeking only vengeance—
a bout is over; another soon begins.

The War Edition | A Boy's Story of War

A head or two blemished the image
smeared my view of who might that be
what stands between me and you
a block or two, a window, a wall
I can duck behind if I’m lucky enough
I might race you back to the start
reset and go like an endless runner
bound to hit an obstacle and fall
a couple of extra lives well spent
a new day, a new player takes on the reins
with a plan or no plan, a veteran or not
the game goes on; it’s never over.
A story which sounds so teenish
to see war naked should not make you shy
the sound of one so beautiful once
once upon a shade of a woman
running away from being raped
for the tenth time, today
her hatred can never grow greater
to fit all these faces and all these men
it’s a time of war my boy they said
spoils lie everywhere you have bled
look into the enemy’s eyes
squeeze her neck and take what’s left
it was such a disciplined art
by rank and order, they all lined up
I was a mere private, alas…
a colonel started, I had to watch
and tremble for the truth I had to hide
my heart inside woul…

The Antichrist | The Sole Track

The stands filled with people eager to watch the race. Some even came here early in the morning from all the country to watch these aspiring drivers race against each other in one of the most prestigious race tracks in the world. This event would always attract the lead scouts of all the top motorsport teams from the least significant competitions to Formula One.

Each of the drivers had a fan base, but no one enjoyed the huge fan base of Ramon the Bullet. It was his twentieth year in this competition, and Ramon had broken all previous records by winning twelve times. No other driver came close to that number. Ramon knew this track like the back of his hand. When you look at the man’s forty-five-year-old face, the little wrinkles might fool you into thinking you are not looking in the face of a champion. All other drivers stood little chance if any at all against this giant race driver.


Ramon was in the garage inspecting his car for the tenth time today. His focus was bent on win…