Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "2014"
Follow this White Rabbit, Iva Gyongy did, so you know you're perfectly safe. Full and complete synopsis. When She was dreaming it was Wave of a Dark Ocean ; working title. When She woke up it became Beyond Desire ; actual title.
Wave of a Dark Ocean
What happens when you are push to the limits?
She has One Day to come up with ten thousand dollars.
CAUGHT BETWEEN DESIRE, HOPE AND DEATH,
November fifth is the hardest day in Iva Gyongy's life; she has to come up with ten thousand dollars for a loan shark, money she doesn't even owe. In a dire situation made desperate, she's dealing with twisted siblings who are always just one step ahead of her. She is beginning to have doubts about her move to New York from France and if that weren't enough, she has to come to terms with a decision she has to make just to survive. Threatened by her past, she has no choice but to carry on in a strange land far away from everyone she knows and loves.
All alone in search for peace, contentment and answers for all the questions haunting her life. Standing at the crossroads of her existence, she must decide which road to take.
Disarmed by self-discovery and loss of innocence. It's about the choices you have to make with the flow of fate. It's about the darkness that all of us have but keep under control. It's about dreams and the questions we ask ourselves, the answers we all seek deep in the night but forget as soon as we wake up.
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
What happens when you are push to the limits?
She has One Day to come up with ten thousand dollars.
CAUGHT BETWEEN DESIRE, HOPE AND DEATH,
November fifth is the hardest day in Iva Gyongy's life; she has to come up with ten thousand dollars for a loan shark, money she doesn't even owe. In a dire situation made desperate, she's dealing with twisted siblings who are always just one step ahead of her. She is beginning to have doubts about her move to New York from France and if that weren't enough, she has to come to terms with a decision she has to make just to survive. Threatened by her past, she has no choice but to carry on in a strange land far away from everyone she knows and loves.
All alone in search for peace, contentment and answers for all the questions haunting her life. Standing at the crossroads of her existence, she must decide which road to take.
Disarmed by self-discovery and loss of innocence. It's about the choices you have to make with the flow of fate. It's about the darkness that all of us have but keep under control. It's about dreams and the questions we ask ourselves, the answers we all seek deep in the night but forget as soon as we wake up.
https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Kongos
For thirteen years, we were out there in the desert. Ambling around in those desolate, barren wastelands. We didn't care, we knew what we knew, but didn't mind what we knew. In the winterlands, we walked alone for our past, freezing but moshing on. No woes, nothing to lament. We weren't happy but getting there. We knew the way. We had seen the end. We were on our way, mutual extinction on our mind, our collective spirits weary, yet we sprinted on. We moved on and onward, wanting to be united with those estranged from us, not knowing that we were becoming strangers to those already there with us. Isn't that strange? What is there, what's in there, is in there. It cannot be taken out, you can't take it out. Try all you want to, but you just can't kill the desert. You can only be there, take a little with you, and keep it there within you.
Giorgio Moroder
That night we weren't feral, fae, or fumbling in the dark. That night, wintry and lonely, we were alone. But we were not the woodland creatures, she used to write about. Still, we chased her through those woods, stark, raw, and moonlit.
We hunted her through her own forest. Then she found us by the brook gurgling in silence, sounds of water rushing past making us fall silent. The dead leaves rustled on the ground. Nobody moved, nobody breathed for a long time and in some cases, in a long time. The bloodlust was on her that night, but we didn't know it then nor did see her dirk resting in the small of her back, all ready, something odd stirring in her. She couldn't use it though. You didn't let her. Moving you made your move and feasted -
Later you took her red cloak and I took her smile. We left her there glistering for the wolves to find her.
Amidst her fading trees, I disapproved but you put her cloak on regardless, though it looked terribly misshapen on your form, the hood couldn't quite cover your face, the bloodmoon was with me on that one, agreeing for once.
Boles of trees reminded us of something just then. They were there for you, they did their part. It was your turn now. Return that favor; go and save all your books.
Your books, all of them, go on save yourself.
We hunted her through her own forest. Then she found us by the brook gurgling in silence, sounds of water rushing past making us fall silent. The dead leaves rustled on the ground. Nobody moved, nobody breathed for a long time and in some cases, in a long time. The bloodlust was on her that night, but we didn't know it then nor did see her dirk resting in the small of her back, all ready, something odd stirring in her. She couldn't use it though. You didn't let her. Moving you made your move and feasted -
Later you took her red cloak and I took her smile. We left her there glistering for the wolves to find her.
Amidst her fading trees, I disapproved but you put her cloak on regardless, though it looked terribly misshapen on your form, the hood couldn't quite cover your face, the bloodmoon was with me on that one, agreeing for once.
Boles of trees reminded us of something just then. They were there for you, they did their part. It was your turn now. Return that favor; go and save all your books.
Your books, all of them, go on save yourself.
The Capistrano Birds
On the road consumed by wanderlust, vagabonding in pursuit of my shadows.
wandering, searching for a memory of Greece that's lost, but marching on Rome with my empty legions.
Continuing my solivagant that is as lonely as my hopes. No one with me but my monetary friends who are disloyal by nature. Armed only with my pen and notebook to sort through the blackness of my thoughts.
That bovine sexiness Fay my only companion, my battered camera my only witness to my downfall, demise, resurrection, and eventual uprising.
I carry on, with not enough coinage to pay for a sojourn in hell.
And yet we plod on with our wary feet, treading the dusty roads, we keep circling around, looking for, pursuing those asylums of sanity in Santorini.
wandering, searching for a memory of Greece that's lost, but marching on Rome with my empty legions.
Continuing my solivagant that is as lonely as my hopes. No one with me but my monetary friends who are disloyal by nature. Armed only with my pen and notebook to sort through the blackness of my thoughts.
That bovine sexiness Fay my only companion, my battered camera my only witness to my downfall, demise, resurrection, and eventual uprising.
I carry on, with not enough coinage to pay for a sojourn in hell.
And yet we plod on with our wary feet, treading the dusty roads, we keep circling around, looking for, pursuing those asylums of sanity in Santorini.
Bobby Rainsbury
I am to empty the skies around me, all of them all of you, made emptier still by your presence, your absence never was all that empty. All the stars on your body tugging me, pulling me to you. You breathe they glow, they breathe you exist. Yet there is no exit. They gleam with shyness, these dying heavenly bodies lying on a celestial you May girl, each time I kiss them, quietening every single one of them. Some songs, like you, are home. And I am going home tonight. Don't wait up for me.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
It happened during the day
when all the monsters are away
the ones roaming around in the gloaming of our discolored disillusioned decadent minds were the ones that are ever there that are everthere.
Impelled into unnecessary action, the red-cloaked girl belatedly looked for them, but when she finally went after those bestirred monsters, they were gone, not even leaving behind ribbons of smoke and bones; none of them were to be found in their usual haunts.
Unbeknownst to her a not so random moonless wolf at her side was aiding her, staying beside her an unlikely succor; the one she needed but couldn’t pray for.
Unwittingly, she had been in fetters wrought out of Other’s thoughts, tinged with their disapproval and disappointments, her future bethought by others was not her own, it was a stray thing whilst she was not.
Tangled in sudden thralls of misguided notions of divine retributions, silly rabbit, in severe grips of misshapen mistaken misconstrued misconception of romantic ideas about setting the world right and doing the right thing, she went searching to root out the evil that was all too inherent thence a pointless fight.
But the red hooded girl needn’t look under the bed or wander out into the forbidden forest or even stand before a filigreed closet door to find them.
All she has to do is look deep into her watery reflection and see all the monsters residing within her, let her look while trying not to let her human mask slip and see the monsters in you and me.
Fallacy it is to seek even shard of humanity, even a tinge of it, when all of that shattered self is skewered between what is lost and what will never be found again.
when all the monsters are away
the ones roaming around in the gloaming of our discolored disillusioned decadent minds were the ones that are ever there that are everthere.
Impelled into unnecessary action, the red-cloaked girl belatedly looked for them, but when she finally went after those bestirred monsters, they were gone, not even leaving behind ribbons of smoke and bones; none of them were to be found in their usual haunts.
Unbeknownst to her a not so random moonless wolf at her side was aiding her, staying beside her an unlikely succor; the one she needed but couldn’t pray for.
Unwittingly, she had been in fetters wrought out of Other’s thoughts, tinged with their disapproval and disappointments, her future bethought by others was not her own, it was a stray thing whilst she was not.
Tangled in sudden thralls of misguided notions of divine retributions, silly rabbit, in severe grips of misshapen mistaken misconstrued misconception of romantic ideas about setting the world right and doing the right thing, she went searching to root out the evil that was all too inherent thence a pointless fight.
But the red hooded girl needn’t look under the bed or wander out into the forbidden forest or even stand before a filigreed closet door to find them.
All she has to do is look deep into her watery reflection and see all the monsters residing within her, let her look while trying not to let her human mask slip and see the monsters in you and me.
Fallacy it is to seek even shard of humanity, even a tinge of it, when all of that shattered self is skewered between what is lost and what will never be found again.
jean seberg
Stranded in middle of her nowhere. I flipped a gold coin in the coldless darkless night; my head whipping toward its arch, following its fallow ascent, I watched as the earth and the air scrambled for it, tearing through each other to seize what couldn’t be theirs.
As the nameless coin twisted somewhere between its fall and its destiny, its lemony glow garbing me in my nakedness, its glint holding me still within my night
I was reminded of her more Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde nature fake as all the other elementals.
There were two sides to Hēra
Not just the two halves of herself she usually struggled with, nor just the dual mechanism of her manic depression
One half of her reflection was an unbent world worn yet not worn out singularity, forever entangled in the difference between right and wrong, fiercely intelligent despite her dumbfuckness, a lone stained girl who was very familiar, intimate, intoxicated with her own morality.
And then there was the other side of her other side
The other part of her equation; the rest of her design. She was cruel in her childlike single-mindedness, for her hunger was infinite. Her untamed feeding, her undiluted ardor made her vulnerable
And it was this side that killed me.
Now sinking together in the aftermath of her glow
Pining her arms to her sides holding her tightly within my own as she leans back into me, Hēra teetering sideways within the secured fetters, she kills everything inside of her, as her only world slowly died until nothing is ever going to be alright again, everything is not alright and that’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s the constant, rest is anomaly.
Keeper of her books stealing my own imagery, I didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t sacred anymore for she wasn’t scared anymore.
In my disquieted mind, I find myself standing in the purple field of her bruised flowers, waiting patiently, god within a god, dust within her dust, head bent down, cigarette’ end flaring up like a death of a small sun, overcoat flapping in the winds stirred up by the ravens’ wings, brought on by their breaths, as all the belated storms of her lies closes in on me.
Is this the end, or is it just her standing still?
As the nameless coin twisted somewhere between its fall and its destiny, its lemony glow garbing me in my nakedness, its glint holding me still within my night
I was reminded of her more Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde nature fake as all the other elementals.
There were two sides to Hēra
Not just the two halves of herself she usually struggled with, nor just the dual mechanism of her manic depression
One half of her reflection was an unbent world worn yet not worn out singularity, forever entangled in the difference between right and wrong, fiercely intelligent despite her dumbfuckness, a lone stained girl who was very familiar, intimate, intoxicated with her own morality.
And then there was the other side of her other side
The other part of her equation; the rest of her design. She was cruel in her childlike single-mindedness, for her hunger was infinite. Her untamed feeding, her undiluted ardor made her vulnerable
And it was this side that killed me.
Now sinking together in the aftermath of her glow
Pining her arms to her sides holding her tightly within my own as she leans back into me, Hēra teetering sideways within the secured fetters, she kills everything inside of her, as her only world slowly died until nothing is ever going to be alright again, everything is not alright and that’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s the constant, rest is anomaly.
Keeper of her books stealing my own imagery, I didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t sacred anymore for she wasn’t scared anymore.
In my disquieted mind, I find myself standing in the purple field of her bruised flowers, waiting patiently, god within a god, dust within her dust, head bent down, cigarette’ end flaring up like a death of a small sun, overcoat flapping in the winds stirred up by the ravens’ wings, brought on by their breaths, as all the belated storms of her lies closes in on me.
Is this the end, or is it just her standing still?
Aperitivo
her fulgurant smile flared in a cruelty of fleeting clarity
right before she died
heat of it popping and crackling in his face like her spastic reasons
like the shimmer of her blood on his person
blinding him
tiny flecks of fluorescence dying out right before her
somewhere betwixt her death, moments into her denials, like the unfamiliarity of her warmth he knew what she was
in the middle of her resurrection he forgot who she truly was
an easy beneficial amnesia
unlike a Nix who wouldn't drown
her advent of fresh life meant nothing now
all that mattered was the virility of her lies
and the hangover of delusions of her godlike grandeur
which she mistook for her atonement
which he had mistaken for the relentless stirring of his unblemished dead wings
knolls of her stupidity were boundless
tedious and sodden to trudge through at worsts of times
which in actuality were best of times
a stone bridge between their granular nowheres.
right before she died
heat of it popping and crackling in his face like her spastic reasons
like the shimmer of her blood on his person
blinding him
tiny flecks of fluorescence dying out right before her
somewhere betwixt her death, moments into her denials, like the unfamiliarity of her warmth he knew what she was
in the middle of her resurrection he forgot who she truly was
an easy beneficial amnesia
unlike a Nix who wouldn't drown
her advent of fresh life meant nothing now
all that mattered was the virility of her lies
and the hangover of delusions of her godlike grandeur
which she mistook for her atonement
which he had mistaken for the relentless stirring of his unblemished dead wings
knolls of her stupidity were boundless
tedious and sodden to trudge through at worsts of times
which in actuality were best of times
a stone bridge between their granular nowheres.
Maja Sokolowska
He burned so many bridges with her
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
juneleeloo
enamored of my words
enamored of my death
more so of my death than my words, maybe, I don't know.
No, I do know.
emotional over my crushed wordlings
elated over the characters' death
and the demise of their fallow joy
yet burning with their desires, jealous of their rapturous end
stomping on their eggshellled universe with your bare feet
yet crumbling inside with the decay of your own rectitude
you are gone you are gone you are gone you are gone you are not gone
wailing over good books, lying on the ground, letting purple grass seize you with the bad ones
reuniting with death, your estranged lover
still I can't disgorge you from myself, yet you have the audacity to glisten in my blood.
If an unhurt girl loves books and tolerates my own love for them then maybe she wouldn't kill me.
Maybe her love of books is my death anyways.
enamored of my death
more so of my death than my words, maybe, I don't know.
No, I do know.
emotional over my crushed wordlings
elated over the characters' death
and the demise of their fallow joy
yet burning with their desires, jealous of their rapturous end
stomping on their eggshellled universe with your bare feet
yet crumbling inside with the decay of your own rectitude
you are gone you are gone you are gone you are gone you are not gone
wailing over good books, lying on the ground, letting purple grass seize you with the bad ones
reuniting with death, your estranged lover
still I can't disgorge you from myself, yet you have the audacity to glisten in my blood.
If an unhurt girl loves books and tolerates my own love for them then maybe she wouldn't kill me.
Maybe her love of books is my death anyways.
