Character Draft - Tom Yester

It is said that when he was born, he cried uncontrollably for days. Nothing his mother did would make him stop, and no one knew what to do. People thought the worst, and assumed the boy was cursed, possessed, or both. There was pain in the boy’s wail, and his eyes carrying a tremendous burden of some mysterious design.

The sky turned grey and the winds gathered to watch, going out of their way to see the curious scene. With a flash a man appeared, carrying a smile on his face and a whispering and whistling and then singing. The mother cried tears of joy, and little Tom giggled himself to sleep. The rain stopped pouring, and the winds themselves stopped by.

There was a glint in the man’s eyes, and the mother cried with joy and disbelief. He held her hand and hushed her back to sleep. She never saw him again, and little Tom stopped crying since. But the winds were witness, that little Tom spoke to himself that day, that little Tom met himself.
Tom Yester was a peculiar man.

The Grand Story

One fool runs through the rain
Another faces the windowpane
The third fights the inner sin
Another becomes wise within

Draft - Intro

What is going on?

The sky is dark, the clouds, black as coal… Rain… Thunder… Chaos…
Brilliant. Just what I needed to make this splendid day just a tad more memorable. Must be a Monday, another little entry in this bundled series of unfortunate events. This kind of weather is perfect environment for a heart torn lover, or a poet. They prefer this sort of thing. For some reason I felt as though they always expected it. I, on the other hand, am neither. I haven’t been in love for a long time, I’m a terrible poet, and this weather is shit.

I sleep for two hours, I wake up on the third. It’s almost as if sleep has decided to hold a grudge against me. Oh well, as I always say, it is a hell lot better than getting a visit from sleep’s elder brother: Death.

“Add French quote”  Hallo my friend.

Oh hell. Mister wit has returned to make my day more splendid. I should really see a doctor. I’m getting tired of this bastard’s sarcasm and marvelous wit and wisdom. As if my own didn’t suffice, as if my own train of thought did less to fuck with my head.
I was sitting by the window in my room. I was tired, restless, and frankly, a little annoyed with myself. As history dictates, most people have wisdom within them, collected over time, acquired through diversity and adversity, eclectic, pure, innocent. It takes its place in their head, occasionally, and usually, as the voice in their heads that stops them from doing things that would almost always get them killed.
Mine belonged to an extremely annoying moron, who cracked extremely bad jokes, spoke in French, and did a shit job of it. The intonation was off, the accent was wrong, and the phrasing molested the grammar like a grudging moneylender. I would argue, but I don’t speak french. Strangely, I got used to him. But that doesn’t mean that I approved of him. In all honesty, he was borderline maniacal at times, but he did help me get out of a fix every now and then.

Think of long velvety curtains, smooth as silk, caressing your gliding fingers at every touch, beautiful, filled with pride as they welcome your touch. They are hung facing the side of your biggest room, sharing Space with your fireplace. There is no window behind them. Only cold, hard stone. You did not know why. You fight to reason how. But you get no answers. No clues. No hint. you dare not remove them. And you are left with a consistent thought, a persistent question, ever curious, ever wondering..

I’m sure I saw them move. The curtains…


A strange voice in my head, a terrible storm outside the window, and the mystery of the moving curtains.
This is the story of a travelling circus of wise fools…

Electric Dawn - Unfinished Unedited Draft

Oh pretty one,from the sun
Shinin over everyone
Her whisper soothes, the greatest winds
Her smile brings me the best of things...

Talkin to, these clouds of rain
She thought she had heard them say
Holy lines, lines of grace
Talking of this time and space

She cries to me, out in the rain
Her tears i wish I could have seen
She walks to, the holy tree
Where children play in tomorrow's scene

Oh pretty one, oh pretty one
By the river on the sun
Oh yes its you
I'm talkin to

And then summer came
So did the sun
More sunsoaked bliss
And more than one

Peppermint glows on white-washed snow
And sunny sides to emerald green
She paints this here with shades of heaven
I paint these dreams right in between

Oh girl o'mine, won't you come?
To the river on the sun
Oh girl o'mine, let's overcome
This dream of ours has just begun
Oh yes its you, oh yes it's you
That I'm talkin to
Oh yes its you, oh yes it's you
That I'm talkin to

How i wish this dream would stay
And clarity would stay away
Just for a while, yet if not more
I wish to dream, but I'm quite unsure

Chapter m - Draft 1

The curtain falls. This tale has ended for one, and begun for another. It's raining outside. Vaporized clouds of doubt unquestionably decide that it is now time for them to pour on, to pour upon the alchemical fire burning within, raging, seeking solitude and peace, an illusion of serenity that is elusive yet mystic, hidden yet felt in the air. Noone's watching now. But everyone's waiting to find out the outcome of this glorious battle, merely because it does not involve them. Just their undivided attention. Their undivided uncalled-for attention.

Maybe it really is time for a Scene-2.

He picks up his umbrella and readies himself with the thought of waiting out into the rain. The selfless rain. Maybe it might take the load off his mind, distract him from the one thing that's been bothering him all day, making his insides turn over. Himself.

Dusting his anxiety aside, he replaces the thought of consequence with a far simpler one. One that promises to be true and simple. One without any strings attached.

Aller manger. Aller manger. Nous devons manger.
(Go eat. Go eat. We must eat.)

He walks slowly. Today was nice. No bloodshed. No crying faces. No reasons given and no questions answered. The rain gets harder. He doesn't care. If he could, he'd shoot it in the face.

That reminded him. The gun needed cleaning.

Note: In case you're wondering what this is all about, you might want to read this.. 

-Faiz

Chapter n - draft 3

NOTE: What you see below is an excerpt from a literary project, a WiP(Work in progress). It is a teaser of something i hope to complete by mid-2010. I will be updating info on this periodically, though not very often. If you've read this, and have any feedback/advice/opinions(good or bad), please feel free to let me know. Thanks for reading.

"Se réveiller."
(Wake up)

A voice echoed in a broken man's soul, and in his mind it resonated like wave of shattered emotion, gradually and progressively building up into a volatile outburst. It seemed to be getting closer, and he felt as though it was creeping up on him. He felt weak and powerless. Perhaps it was conscience calling for reason, a subtle reminder of all that had passed, and all that was yet to come. Or so he thought.


"Se réveiller, mon ami. Se réveiller."
(Wake up, my friend. Wake up)

The voice spoke yet again, and kept repeating itself. He shook it off with a jerk, only to feel its return the very next moment. Every night was the same now, a constant battle between between cognizance and unconsciousness. He felt as though he was trapped indecisively between the two, driven to one end of the spectrum only to be pulled back towards the other. The hallucinations were more frequent now, serving as constant reminders of his past, taking his mind to places and people he wished to forget and avoid. Memories and thoughts played back and forth in constant repetition in his head. It seemed as though they were a part of his conscience now, an amalgamation of fragments juxtaposed at the advent of every awakening, and at the departure of every stillness.

There was very little he could do, but a lot that he wanted to.

Krane Hawksworth felt a freezing chill run down his spine. Another nightmare had taken its toll on him yet again. He got up in a start, his heart beating at a rate faster than it could handle, pumping blood to his already stressed brain. He was gasping for air, and was still in shock from the harsh reality that unreal dreams delivered to him so voluntarily.

Through his bedroom window, he could see the cold moon looking down upon him from the stars, smiling, shining, its soothing light radiating away into the night sky, declaring to all a selfless embrace of universal harmony, reminding him of every moment that had just passed him by without a single word of farewell or a slight mention of remorse. For that one moment he felt free, he saw hope, but before he could grasp it for himself his mind switched back into first gear and ran over his illusion of freedom. And so he returned to where he had started from.

This was not how he intended things to turn out, this was not where he saw himself in life, and certainly not what he had imagined in his blissfully ignorant mind, completely oblivious to what fate had in store for him. The revelation he got now was not doing much to ease the agonizing pain either. He sighed as he glanced across the room, his eyes looking around mechanically, searching for one sign of divine intervention, one sign of an exit from this painfully repetitive monotony.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux ?"
(What do you want?)

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux, vieux ami?"
(What do you want, old friend?)

The voice repeated itself, taunting him, mocking him, drawing him deeper towards insanity and delusion. He wished it would withdraw and take its departure, but it didn't. It stayed and tormented him, toying with every thought, every intuition. It seemed to make sense, but he wasn't really sure if it did. He wondered how long it would take before he went completely insane. He knew he was about to break, he just didn't know when it would happen.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux!!!"
(What do you want!!!)

The voice was no longer hollow and faint. It seemed like it was coming closer, creeping up behind him, waiting, watching. What scared him the most was that despite knowing the fact that it wasn't real, he had no control over it. It seemed so real and true that it almost made sense. He wanted to ignore it, but he couldn't. It stayed and kept talking to him, demanding answers and explanations. He wondered if he was going insane, or if it was just hallucination overpowering reason .

He sat by the window, eyes weary, heart heavy, his mind filled with nebulous thoughts of doubt and apprehension that remained in constant collision with thoughts instigated and actualized by rationale and logic. He realized now that he had landed himself in a fabricated chimera of his mind, a chaotic delusion waiting to implode. He also realized that it had given him a splitting headache.

Outside the window, the world seemed unaware of his predicament, blissfully ignorant and content in its own current completion and fulfillment. He looked around the room and noticed a flickering light bulb in a corner, its isolated filament lost in its own glass vacuum, shining away with a blessed innocence, and the privilege of not knowing the fact that its fate was inevitable, that its fate was the same. One with an end.

He got up, and started walking towards the kitchen. He thought he could really with a hot cup of coffee after all he just went through. He thought it would help with the headache, and since he was already up, a little caffeine in his system wouldn't make much of a difference anyway. Countless nights of sleeplessness and repulsion had brought about a chain reaction that embedded itself in his every thought. Death seemed like a reasonable option. What he was waiting for was an invitation, an initiation that would push him forward and release him from this inertia. To life. To death. It didn't matter. He wanted an initiation. He believed in Karma, an in the amalgamated unison of faith in a higher power that governed the Universe, but at that point, they both seemed busy, so he decided to choose for himself. It was not his way of looking at things, he had always fought the odds, emerged victorious, stayed humble and loyal to his
motives and condescending achievements, which is exactly why all this seemed so strange and new and unfamiliar. His eyes traced the outline of the room he was in, searching for some source of preoccupation, some source of distraction. There was none.

The coffee was ready and done. He grabbed a cup from the shelf and poured the coffee in. He then dropped two cubes of sugar and just the right amount of milk. He liked his coffee rich, and sweet. But not too sweet. Across the floor, a little farther than a step, was a table. On one side he placed the cup of coffee. On the other, was a PPK, a single action pistol, a German fire arm that saw extensive service in the German government and military during World War II. It was a smaller version of the PP, and was made to fill the need for a compact concealable handgun used by undercover police officers. He had it from the days of war, and of all his weapons, this was his favorite. It was small, compact, and good enough to trust a life with. It was also his loyal friend, who always obeyed and held its own against most of his most dangerous foes. It would soon, perhaps, turn into one itself. And once again, it would do justice to it's role. It was a part of him now, and he felt that it deserved to take a part of him as well, if not all. He had to choose between the gun and the coffee. He wanted to drink the coffee and then go for the gun, but he was afraid that the caffeine would change his mind. A confusing decision in his final moment of truth was the last thing he was aiming for.

Armed, dispossessed, and suicidal was not how he thought he'd end up. And a steaming hot cup of refreshing coffee wasn't really helping in this situation either. There had to be a way, an answer, a solution, a second door. There had to be reason and sensibility. But all that didn't matter now.

The time had come. He had made up his mind. It was time. With one final thought of decision he reached forward and lifted it up. It was decided. There was no other alternative. And in a fraction of a second, he watched as he swallowed his pride and watched it all fade away...


The coffee was definitely better than the bullet.

"Le moment de l'action est venu...."
(The time for action is now....)
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Chapter m:

He sat there, helpless and wounded, his hands held tight across his aching abdomen. He wondered as to how everything went wrong. Mistakes were a luxury that meant death. A luxury he could not afford. It had never occurred to him that all the time spent in calculation and execution had stealthily incorporated in itself a flaw so fickle that it now endangered his very life. And to think that he had imagined that this whole day would be the sort one would talk about to their grandchildren on a sunny summer morning in a rocking chair by the garden while sipping away on fresh lemonade topped with ice cubes in a shimmery glass, or like a bedtime story one makes up by the fireplace, a manipulated yet funny anecdote of a fleeting moment that reminds one of a superior entity's rather unpredictable sense of humor. Funny how exactly the opposite had to happen.

His insides hurt. His chest was now burning, and his inner being felt as though it would just give up and collapse at any moment. He tried to ignore the pain and get up. He was still his wearing favorite jacket, made from the best aniline finished leather in his day, hand-stitched to perfection by the best tailor in his neighborhood. He wore a shirt underneath, a pearl white which now turned red with blood. He was getting weaker with each passing moment and was having a tough time trying to stay conscious, which could fairly and justifiably be attributed to the unpleasant fall he had a while ago.

Still no sign of the guy who set this up. He was getting impatient. Back then, a few moments ago, he was armed and ready, it was all going so well, and then everything turned around. In a flash, he was tearing through the nearest window, falling straight down, two stories to the bottom. He was sure he would die, but this was a day that refused to go according to plan. He fell on the car's bonnet, and it did anything but break his fall. He tried getting up, but decided to wait instead. He was better off that way. He had cover, and considered it a good idea to lay low. Laying low at the moment meant staying alive. He didn't complain.

He heard footsteps in the distance. It took Hawksworth every ounce of strength he could concoct from his already battered body to get himself up. He saw a man walking away in the distance, and in the moonlight he could see the faint shape of what he knew was a barrel bolted on to a stock. Yes. A smile appears and takes shape on his scarred face, from the depths of his already twisted mind. Yes. It is who he thinks it is.

He reloads, takes a deep breath, and...

....x-x-to be contd

The Doubt of Reason

A universe embedded in a grain of sand

Two dots in a world free from 'or' and 'and'

Like drops of water in crystalline dew

Fools like these are but a few

Of 1 and 1, that made a 2

A nut and a cherry, dipped in blue.

For there was one, and there was one

And 'part from this, there were none

A trip of two, in a million words

Through good and bad and even worse

Through smirks and smiles and smiles galore

This tale is a little less than more

A tale without purpose, but with a name

One with sense, all the same

T'is like this, think light and shade

T'is like neon on two cards of spade

One a joker, and one a queen

And a covalent bond, in between.

One followed a voice, the other, life

Connect dots these with the edge of a knife

For when you do you see crystal clear

One's thoughts in the other in a mirror near

Augmented, suspended, like major and minor

Made at peace by a dream designer.

Like rum and gin, shaken not stirred

And a dash of lemon most preferred

A little fizz, and a stream of lime

But that's a tale for some other time

Like midnight scotch, drunken pure

I think it is but I'm quite unsure.

So on we go, with our tale of tales

One so intriguing it never fails

So sit back and listen, O reader true

Don't you wish that it was you

A joker sly or a crazy queen

Connecting the dots in between.

Who they are I cannot reveal

But I will so read on without a squeal

The joker was sly but not as such

The queen was pretty and sweet as much

Two cool cats, cool as can be

A tale of groovesome 2, Fizzy the joker and T the queen.

In the Land of Dreams was a Tree of Gold

The kind in legends truth be told

And sat upon the branch touching the sky

Was the joker head held high

Sat he up there and gazed all day

At summer sun, radiating away.

The joker lived an architectured dream

With notes and strings in between

And heard he not the sounds of this space

For the mad hatter was in another place

Contented he was as he played away

And soon passed by the queen of spade.

And there she was, on the endless greens

Walking towards the Holy Tree

From far away far she saw a figure black

That looked like bones and a hat

Strange t'was that the Holy Tree

Would behold such a sight to see.

Lost he was, in his world of rhyme

Obsessed he was at that blessed time

He played and played without a gap

And then decided to take a nap

But then, the queen he saw sitting under the tree

So down jumped he floating with the breeze.

Wrapped in a coat velvet black

Smiling glee with a tilted hat

And a frame built so tall and thin

It hid world of thought within

Looked he at her with a curious stare

A slender thing with pretty hair.

Then came along, the Wind of Time

And with it carried a merry rhyme

And the birds and bees sang they along

Adding melody to the Holy Song

And the joker and queen, listened they

To what the winds and creatures, had to say.

And as sang they, the joker played along

Until the wind went by and then had gone

And then the breeze took its place

But it was calm, with nothing to say

With no distraction, he turned around

And asked the queen why she came about.

And so she spoke with a smile

Of questions unanswered all the while

She spoke of reason, and the purpose of all

Why some would rise and some would fall

And all the while the joker thought

Of his contribution own to the plot.

So sat the joker and scratched his chin

And listened to the little thing

And liked he did the ? thoughts

Another reason to connect the dots

Then laughed the joker when she was done

Another conversation, had begun...

And so sat they and pondered upon

The Doubt of Reason from dusk til dawn

And as they did, cracked the joker a riddle

That made the queen jump up from her twiddle

If must you know I tell to you

A twiddle is what a twiddle does true.

The queen sat puzzled and drew a ? look

And up jumped the joker with The Holy Book

And tried the queen to clear her doubt

But knew she not what the script was about

With dots and dots, and many a line

The Book it seemed was from another time.

She sat and thought, of what it was

She wanted to know, the 'why' and 'because'

Then laughed the joker, as he tilted his hat

With a rakish tilt, sense made he of this and that

He told the queen, with a contented look

What he saw and read in the book.

He spoke of the Doubt of Reason, and spoke he fair

He told her how The Book knew it was there

And how The Holy Book of Notes explained

Of why The Doubt of Reason still remained

And soon she saw, clear as the sky

The Book was the answer to all our lies.

Then smile did she at the Joker's eyes

For there she saw her answer wise

The Doubt of Reason, was a doubt no more

T'was merely a groove in 4/4

And so sat they and pondered on

And disappeared, into sunset dawn...