Jane Austen Always

India

Literature was not born the day when a boy crying “wolf, wolf” came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born the day when a boy came crying “wolf, wolf” and there was no wolf behind him.

Message to Readers

Feel free to land your thoughts on this land.

In Echoing Magiota

August 12, 2021

The ocean trailed her blood on the branches. It made the fire dance on the disheveled waves.
‘Dad-I will- do-anything…please-come back.’
The sun drowned in the sand. And the clouds shattered into a million murky shadows.
 
‘Sacrifice your beloved to meet your beloved.’
 
His photo blinked. And a thousand faces opened their eyes.
Scream!
 
‘Honey! Honey! What’s wrong?’
The steps followed the terrifying shrieks. But the breeze melted away the stairs. And the bones disintegrated with the moving gasps.
 
I am sorry, mom-’
The sacrifice will offspring the soul you wish to see…

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  • August 12, 2021 - 10:22am (Now Viewing)

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