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Death Talkies: Wheel of Time [Apr/04 P66] (Page 54)

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ninand

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ninand

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Posted: 23 September 2011 at 2:51pm | IP Logged
Your piece reminded me of a classic short story I had read about an executioner and his son.. damn, I can neither remember the name of the author nor the title of the story..

But the disdain afforded to the family by the society in general, in your story reminded me of it..

well written as always.

PS: I specially liked that touch, having a 'key-maker' as a character... it somehow lends more personality and credence to the character without having to go into elaborate details, than a mere 'goldsmith', 'gardener' would have lent. or maybe I just made too much out of it.LOL


Edited by ninand - 23 September 2011 at 2:51pm

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soni4eva

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soni4eva

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Posted: 23 September 2011 at 9:05pm | IP Logged
wow awsome luv it
relii interesting plzz send me a pm 4 da nxt update
plzz cont soon x 

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mechantefille

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Posted: 24 September 2011 at 2:26am | IP Logged
a PM definitely. poochna bhi zaroori hain?

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Boogleton.Schiz

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hermoso

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hermoso

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Posted: 27 September 2011 at 12:16am | IP Logged
count me in .

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Escapist

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Posted: 28 September 2011 at 3:52am | IP Logged
I dunno why but reading the post..I din feel that the executioner is Satan in disguise  or something of that sort as some people have felt...neither did I feel he is an emotionless person who goes on with the killing...

He is just a pawn in the hands of the authority and I do not feel disdain in any form...though there is something that I felt for the young bride but I can't lay a finger at it..all I know is her husband is not a criminal and a sinner in the eyes of god...all he does is do a job..a job for his living that has been passed onto since generations and certain things are irreversible !
 
Yet at the end I will say, death was again explored in a new manner and my heart went out to the poor key maker and his family...feels like monarchy!

Do count me in for future !

TC,
Fatima

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Dedicated to -Aarya- for her last week in IF; critique and a friend. Your words here will be missed.


Season of mists

He runs his hand on her naked back, his cool fingertips bringing out goose bumps in its wake. A slight shiver slithers her back and thrums against his fingertips as they wash over her back retracing their path. To him, the goose bumps on her skin were like Braille to a blind man; they told him the story of their passion and the insecurities that hounded her when he left her in wee hours of morning. She shifts in her sleep making him stop his ministrations on her body.

It was time for him to leave anyway.

He slowly disassociates himself from the horribly tangled sheets and her body ensuring that he wouldn't disturb her sleep. He knows for a fact that sleep isn't a very frequent visitor in her life. His tentative steps are halted when he sees her stirring in her sleep. She mumbles something incoherent and falls back into slumber.

He lets out a breath that he isn't aware of holding. Like every other time, he doesn't want to see him leave her before the sky lost the depth of darkness.

On one foggy night she had lost her way home located at the end of town and took a wrong turn going towards the deserted part of the town the one no one would talk about and if someone did, it would be sheltered in an air of tragedy. She limped on her broken heel on a catatonic sidewalk littered with paper that glowed like fallen stars. Handful of moments later she saw the fog in front of her parting like a river allowing her the view of a man walking towards her.

She should have felt fear at the prospect of running to a stranger in a strange place but the fog that surrounded her enveloped her in a sense of calm and security, gushed about an once proud but now fallen prince. Don't ask questions love. Just feel, the fog warned her.

He carried her home and laid her next to the large bay windows in her sparsely furnished apartment. She shut her mouth and basked in the attention he was lavishing on her and didn't breathe out the questions that her mind was shooting off every millisecond. How did you know where I live? How do you know where I keep my first-aid kit? The gentle breeze that invites itself in to her apartment reminds her of the warning given by the fog. The fog outside is thick in trepidation. Don't break too many rules darling prince. You will only get your heart broken in the end, they seemed to say.  

She sighs deeply. I won't break his heart. I promise. She finds herself answering the fog. A smile breaks on her face when she sees the fog thinning outside. The first ray of moon falls inside the apartment giving it an ethereal glow.

She had kept her promise since then.

"Who are you really?" She had asked him once, after a glorious night of lovemaking and lying in his arms. His fingers that are running in her hair stop momentarily. She notices a shift in his breath and plea in his eyes Please don't ask me. She doesn't know how she understands everything his eyes say; the language came to her in a dream, she thinks. After that, she never brought up any question about his existence again. And for that, he was forever grateful.

They shared no real names, aspect of their lives or definition of themselves. But still he knows everything about her. She never asks him how he knows all that about her. If she did ask him, he would probably falter.

He always came with the fog and left before the fog was dissolved by morning light. She had realized it after several encounters with him. The observations she did during broad daylight made her question her sanity and rationality behind her relationship with a man whose very existence was in question. She wondered if it was exhaustion combined with insomnia that played trick on her every night making her imagine about a wonderful man who loved her like no other but left no evidence of his visit. But when she walked back to her apartment from work in evening, she casually conversed with the fog that wrapped around her like a young honeymooner.

The fog told her the tales of times when earth was young and moon was closer.  She particularly loved the tale of a prince who chased a songbird in deepest of forests and tallest of mountains. The songbird sang tales a woman who waited for the prince in a different time.

She wants to believe that the woman in story is her.

But she doesn't talk about it with him.

"Are you leaving?" She asks opening an eye. His actions freeze.  He turns and looks at her, his eyes betraying an emotion she has never seen before.

"It's going to be summer soon." He says helplessly, answering for now and future.

"I'll see you in autumn?" She asks him hopefully.

His entire demeanor changes with that one line. He leans in and kisses her languidly, lingering and setting a slow pace.

"Yes." He answers and walks out of the apartment without looking back.

She sees him disappear in the fog outside her window as the sky turns pale.

The fog melted just then removing all traces of him.

Again, she wonders if it was a dream or was it all real.

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