There’s no hidden corner

you can blend yourself into.

There’s no secret room

where eyes can’t find you.

Your shame and your fear

make you think love isn’t real.

But it’s pure and it’s honest

Despite what you feel.

I know you feel unworthy

as you take all the blame.

You’ve been responding to a call

forgetting your real name.

There’s no longer a mask named Candy or Star,

you’re Loved, Valued, Purposed…

Treasured above all.

My Treasure, you’re faultless,

you’re forgiven, you’re found.

Can you hear it?

Can you feel it?

Love creates the most beautiful sound.

Please take your new name

and with power declare what’s true.

For you no longer turn around

for names that aren’t you.

I’m calling you closer,

to a place safe with me.

Beyond what you could fathom,

I can’t wait for you to see!

It’s a place of open fields

stretched as far as they can go,

with flowers waiting to bloom

and soft, green grass between your toes.

You’re in a radiant, white dress

creating a sunlit dance,

while the wind whispers songs

of truth and a courageous romance.

You are beautiful, my darling,

beautiful beyond words.

Five Minutes in Heaven- Short story

Five Minutes in Heaven

The helicopter ride was free, courtesy of the US Army.

I piled into the cabin with my fellow grunts, six to a bird. We leaned back onto leaden packs, our legs dangling out the wide-open doorways. Each soldier had a big-screen front-row seat to reality. It promised the ride of a lifetime, maybe the last ride of a lifetime.

The crewchief sat lotus-like against the wall. He peered omnisciently from beneath his olive-drab helmet mumbling a private joke to the pilots through his hands-on mouthpiece. And when all were finally settled he jerked his leather-gloved thumb straight toward the ceiling, toward the high life somewhere beyond.

The rotor blades whined into overdrive, flapped and shuddered a few seconds, then pitched sharply forward. A steady vacuum sucked us skyward while the crew chief raised his hand head-high, palm to his passengers, fingers spread five-wide. "Five minutes," he mouthed. The sky ride would last five minutes.

The moment we cleared the landing zone the door gunners tilted their machine guns straight ahead, locked in an opening round, then rocked off a quick burst into the fertile green triangle below. Suddenly we were heaven high.

The treetops raced a hundred miles an hour beneath our boots. The wind cooled the earthly sweat from our faces so quickly the leftover salt crinkled and crusted around our eyes. Wide-open shirts, pack straps and boonie hats all flapped merrily in the breeze. Then the real fun began.

Roaring as low and as fast as we could we skimmed the treetops in a blur. We blew through the canyons, floated the ridgelines, free fell down the backsides to the shimmering rice paddies below. Over and over we hurdled from weightlessness to double gravity and back. We were giddy as schoolboys on a Coney Island coaster soaring dangle-foot over the secret landscapes of Vietnam. Then, without warning, the sky ride came to a halt.

Our goose had landed. The crewchief jerked his leather-gloved thumbs toward the doorways and mouthed, "Out!" We landed knee-deep in the sludge. Hell hadn't frozen over since the last time we were there. The heat and the insects were waiting to greet us.

For the next thirty days we struggled up fetid canyons, waist deep in blood-sucking leaches, clawed our way over the same ridgelines we floated over just days before, then stumbled down the same backsides by our bootstraps, exhausted, demoralized, and torn. We bitched and groaned, itched and stung, baked and burned. The dung flies ambushed by daylight, the mosquitoes assaulted by night.

We ran blood and pus and sweat by the gallons. We grew abscesses the size of silver dollars. Some men fainted, some men cried, and some men vomited in the heat. When our stench was too potent to hide in the jungle, someone ordered us back for a bath.

We flew out the way we flew in. But somehow the thrill was gone. They would clean us, heal us, fatten us a bit. Then the life cycle of a grunt would begin once again: five minutes in heaven---thirty days in hell.

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Other short stories of this blog are

https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/1dry-short-story.html

https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/the-cat-strangler-short-story.html

https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/the-devils-trap.html

The Devil's Trap - Short story

The Devil's Trap

The rain had been falling for weeks, and I along with my comrades in arms were bloody soaked---soaked in our trenches, soaked in our dugouts, we either slept in wet clothes or stood with boots full of water.

"Grin and bear it," our sergeant blurted as he slogged into our trench. To illustrate, he grabbed off a boot and, draining it into the mud, he cried, "Aye! You see?" Which he followed with a belly laugh that rumbled like a Howitzer.

It was a most ludicrous sight, our sergeant, boot in hand with yellow water spilling forth, swaying as he made mockery of our situation. It was too much for the men---and myself as well. Pointing fingers or nudging our nearest mate, we let go a torrent of laughter that echoed the length of our trench.

This had to be more than poor old Fritz could take---his enemy across the field drenched in misery but guffawing as though sharing an ale with his pals down at the corner pub.

"What's this?" the sergeant squinted as he staggered to replace his boot.

Above the German parapet, a plank raised, upon which had been scrawled "The English are fools!"

The sergeant grunted, "not such bloody fools as all that!" and he waved myself and two others forward. We pressed our chests against slimy trench wall and, aiming over the top, we made quick work of smashing the sign to splinters with rifle fire.

"Jolly good! We've shown them!" the sergeant said too soon.

Another plank appeared, this time bearing the words "The French are fools!"

"Loyalty to our allies, men." And we destroyed this board as well.

"Bullocks," the sergeant said. He shook a bout of slime away and pointed across No-Man's Land. There rose yet another plank.

On instinct I fired, and these words I made out just as it disintegrated: "We're all fools! Let's all go home!"

The gunfire had silenced only moments before some of the men chuckled. They repeated the message and began talking amongst themselves.

"There's a deal of truth there. Why should this go on?" one said.

"The fighting men have no real quarrel with each other." another agreed.

And a riflemen who helped me extinguish the signs replied, "Bloody right! Let the old men who made this war come here and fight it out themselves."

Nods of ascent spread, and mine was one of them.

"Bloody right!" the sergeant broke in. "But who will go home first?" He glanced about, looking each man in the eye. "Will it be us?" He raised his chin toward the Germans, "or Fritz there?"

The question struck the men dumbfounded. I, however, peered over the trench in hope that the Germans were actually making a retreat. But alas no. I sank back down. We were, each side, caught by the same question---it was a trap, a devil's trap from which there was no escape.

The sergeant slapped me on the shoulder with a mucky hand. "Grin and bear it man," he said and marched away through the trench.

Partially excerpted from "Realities of War" by Phillip Gibbs.

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Other short stories of this blog are
https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/1dry-short-story.html
https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/the-cat-strangler-short-story.html

https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/the-day-after-christmas-short-story.html

The Day After Christmas- Short story

The Day After Christmas

It was the day after Christmas, and she wondered what had motivated her to come to the mall today. Frowning people pressed on all sides, and she stood on her tiptoes to search for her husband---who she'd lost when he'd fled to return some shoes.

She shook her head and frowned too.

The crowd tightened, and a teenager with baggy pants and a chain hanging from his pocket brushed against her. As he passed, his chain caught her purse, yanking it from her shoulder.

"Hey!" she yelled. The teen ignored her, disappearing into the crowd.

"You jerk!" she called after him, and several scowls turned her way. Bending to retrieve her purse, she swore freely, doing so only because she knew no one would really hear, but at the same time wishing everyone could.

Replacing the strap upon her shoulder, a tune reached her.

Hark the herald angels sing...

The crowd shifted toward the sound, but it was the opposite direction she wanted to go.

"No. No." she said as she tried to dodge between bodies. "Not that way. Stop. Wait. Let me through. I have to return these sweaters." But it was futile. The press subsided only after forcing her directly in front of the singers.

Glory to the newborn king...

"Don't they know it's after Christmas," she mumbled to an elderly man whose wrinkly jowls hung below his face. He glanced at her to respond, but the harmony lifted toward a crescendo, commanding the attention of everyone in the mall.

Joyful all ye nations rise...

Before her eyes, the old man's features softened, and his loose-fitting skin smoothed while his lips curled upward in a smile. But it wasn't just him, she realized; this change had come over the whole crowd. Looking around, where frowns once dominated, she glimpsed smiling face after smiling face.

In wonder, she cocked her head and listened.

Join the triumph of the skies...

Each note resonated inside her, making her tingle all over, until---all too soon---the song quieted to its conclusion.

She let go a soft sigh. Making a decision, she forgot about her unwanted sweaters and pressed outward through the crowd. "Excuse me," she said, navigating between toes and trying to keep from crushing people's packages. "I'm sorry. Pardon me." The people responded with grins and nods, even the man whose coffee spilled because she bumped his arm.

Breaking free, she heaved a breath of relief, for she saw the way toward the shoe store was clear.

"The last place I saw him," she told herself. "That's where I'll start." As she headed off in search of her husband, a new song began behind her, and she hummed along lightly without realizing it.

Joy to the world the Lord is born,
Let heaven and nature sing...

She caught sight of her husband. He sat on a bench, frowning at everyone who passed. With a grin so wide that her teeth shown, she went to her husband's rescue, and hand outstretched, she pulled him toward the carollers singing their songs of Christmas.

Based on a true story.

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Other short stories of this blog are
https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/1dry-short-story.html
https://great4world.blogspot.in/2017/04/the-cat-strangler-short-story.html

2.The Cat Strangler- Short story

It starts with the usual growls: the feline handled roughly by the scruff. The Cat Strangler is at it again.

A slight struggle, a practice squeeze and others methods of impersonal handling, and off he goes. The neighborhood collectively shrugs its shoulders in hope of shutting out the yeowls and the hisses stretched into high pitch by the Cat Strangler's strong, trained hands.

Parents turn up their televisions; children pull pillows over their heads to the point of suffocation. Neighborhood pets break into instinctual runs and flee into unfamiliar territory, their nametags and phone numbers their only hope of return.

The Cat Strangler continues his performance. The neighbors call the authorities, but the authorities stammer helplessly---they've been over all this before (the pulling up, the getting out, the knocking on the door, the being met with the Cat Strangler's cat-strangling credentials, backed with University patronage).

For what few seem to hear under the barrage of kitty torture is the Cat Strangler's wife, Jill, in accompaniment (tonight: Heinrich Ignaz Franz Von Biber, Sonata for Violin and Basso Continuo in C Minor). No one bothers appreciating how a firm grip on the neck and harsh pull of the tail make a perfect B flat, how a good squeeze produces a high E.

Instead, psychiatrists will be consulted---tears will be shed. Parents will explain to the children the wrongdoings of the Cat Strangler's art form; they will recite scripture; they will make moral imperatives. Animal activists will lick blood lust from their lips and draw up plans of attack. Far off in distant, political lands, untouched by the screams of dying cats but active just the same, government agencies will do the voodoo they do. Nothing will remain the same.

But for now, the recital ends---to no applause.

Jill, the Cat Strangler's wife, critiques the performance. Siamese, she believes, have too harsh an overall tone for something as technically precise as Biber. For the Russians, fine (for Schnittke, for Shostakovich, even Tchaikovsky), but for the Germans she is more inclined towards the longhairs.

The Cat Strangler makes hurried notes---such a landmark work will his be! His professors had little hope for Musica Zoocidia beyond classroom experimentation, and they certainly never dreamed of using animals wilder than your typical laboratory rat. The Cat Strangler's treatise will break all confines! He sees a future in pig concertos---nay, even a day for the Echo Sonata for Himalayan, Chihuahua and Ostrich.

He transports the spent instrument in a brown paper bag in unceremonious fashion. He takes it to a deep wood, as far as his car will allow, and empties the bag onto a pile of expired brethren, cats piled upon cats piled upon cats piled upon cats, tongues stuck out in strangulation horror. The pile writhes in minute, maggot-infested rhythm. When the Cat Stranlger departs, waiting minions of sporting equipment manufacturers raid the pile of former felines for the making of tennis rackets. These rackets are placed into the able hands of strong-bodied, gleaming white tennis players, who swing into furious volleys for game.

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1.Dry -Short story

Dry

The waves crashed in, clapping cobbles each upon the other, and scattering even the largest upward against the shoreline. The vast sea, spread beyond the reaches of vision, caressed my exposed shoulders with a cloud of mist.

"But my spirit feels dry," I told my companion.

"How?" he asked.

I pointed. Rocks rested, salt-crusted, yet outside the whitewater's reach. "As dry as stone," I answered.

With two hands, he lifted a grey, elliptical form. He winked, as was his wont, before slamming its center upon a protruding spike. The cobble cracked asunder, and he presented a single half to me, indicating the freshly-exposed moisture within.

"Rocks are always wet," he mugged, "I should know."

My head shook, my lips down-turned, I gazed eastward into the barren desert sands.

"As dry as dust," I replied.

"C'mon."

We soon found ourselves parched, ankle-deep, and blasted by the Scirocco, leaning upon a pair of shovels. My companion stabbed the ground. He leveled his burden, and discarded the pile of sand over his shoulder.

"But your hands."

"Wrists," he corrected, presenting the wounds. "Been a while now. They've healed up quite nicely."

I joined the labor. Knee-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep. When his shovel slurped mud, he laughed and dumped the sopping soil over my head like a baptism.

"Wet yet again," he guffawed.

The caked earth covered my locks, but I resisted the temptation of sipping at the dripping liquid.

"Dry as bone, then," I shook the muck off.

Casually, he shrugged, and presented a torch. The red tongues licked the catacomb walls, scoring them with carbon, a contrast to the ivory of lost loves decaying at his scarred feet. Even through the odor-masking smoke, the place reeked of death.

"Mold."

"What?"

"That's what you smell," my companion hefted a jawbone. "It's the spore of fungus, sucking life from the dampness sealed inside this desiccation."

I held my nose. Before it turned upward with disdain, we witnessed the fall of night; a silver orb rising to drift the starfield.

"Dry as a moon!" I burst exultantly.

My companion offered the open-palm of invitation, gesturing skyward. But at my ever widening eyes, he relented.

"A citation instead, then, my friend. Scientists. Take their word for it, they've discovered water."

"Harumph," I frowned, a well-read and well-schooled man.

"Forget Mars too."

"Jupiter," I baited. "All gas."

"Oh, and mist isn't moist?" He touched my exposed shoulder for emphasis.

"Pluto."

"Ice planet."

I collapsed upon my haunches, though still focusing upon the heavens. If only I could explain, to speak without metaphor upon metaphor failing me in my empty misery.

I sat up.

"Dry as vacuum!"

Beside me, he rested palms quietly upon my skin. "Space is not a perfect vacuum. Out there drift the tiniest of molecules. Some are even water."

At that I buried my head into my hands. "But my spirit," I said, voice muffled in return, "feels dry."

My companion's fingers squeezed, and as he whispered toward my ear, I felt the moist warmth of his breath. "I hear you. And I know exactly what you mean."

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whats your sunsign?

if i am rich.

*I will buy Moonlight

*My bedroom will have a window which can look for the world

*MY PET WITH THE DIAMOND TEETH .

*My pretty servant always ready

*MY GLASS MADE ONLY BY ORIGINAL DIAMOND

*IF I HAVE TIME, I WILL PLAY GOLF ON THE BOAT

*MY SECURITY FOR 24 HOURS

*ONLY SPRING WATER FROM THE HIMALAYAS TO FLUSH MY TOILET

*MY SWIMMING POOL CAN ONLY FILL IN WITH EXPENSIVE PERFUME

*ONLY A PROFESSIONAL CAN WASH MY CAR WHICH WAS GOLD PLATED

*MY LAPTOP WITH DIAMOND EDGING AND HAS Intel Pentium IX WITH RAM 30 Gigabite .

OK, ENOUGH OF DREAMING!!!
GET BACK TO WORK NOW!

I Miss My Childhood

I miss my childhood, when I was a kid I always felt the it would be so great when I grow up, I would have no school, would be having lots of fun, but now, I felt childhood was so better. I never bothered about the next day, I never bothered about the fuel prices, pollution , and hell lot of other problems.

I never bothered what kind of food I was eating, but now I check for minute details before eatin outside.

When I was a kid, I had no cell phone, or internet, but still I use to meet my frnds, but now I have cell phone, internet but have no time to meet my frnds.

Somehow I wish at least for some time, it wud be so great if I get my childhood back

IF i die tommorw.then my wish is

If I was supposed to die tomorrow then I would spend each and every moment with my boyfriend...
Won't leave him alone even for a while...
In last few moments of my life I would again tell him about my feelings for him, how much I love him and how special he is to me....I would make him smile, laugh and make him forget all of his sorrows... And when he'll be smiling I would silently pray to god that his beautiful smile would never fade away.....
In those last moments of my life I would make all the possible efforts to make him the world's happiest person... I will fill his heart with so much love & happiness that there would be no place for sorrows... They say when a person dies he/she doesn't carry anything with him/her... But I would plead to god to grant me permission to carry something with me when I'll leave this world.. And you know what I would love to take along with me...? I will take away all his sorrow and grief so that he is just left with happiness... Just before leaving this world, I would whisper " I love you baby" in his ears... And at the final moment I will make my last prayer to god.. I'll ask god to make me his guardian angel so that I can wrap my warm wings lovingly around him whenever he would miss me and feel sad.....

My wish.... if it happens

someone come who loves me
i am waiting for him

if i thought where is he ,how was he?

sometimes i thought ,fly and land in his arms..
sometimes i thought hide him in myself
sometimes i thought stop thinking about him
sometimes i thought fell asleep in his memories

i wish one day he will come and marry me

dj

Followers

Treasure i Found

Five Minutes in Heaven

The Devil's Trap

The Day After Christmas

Dry

if i am rich.

I Miss My Childhood

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