Torrents

Rain

Fell from the sky

In torrents

While little boys and girls hid

Because a grown up with a gun

Wanted to kill them all

His children saw him come home

Drenched, not with water

But with red, and

They shunned him, and the life he led

But, went on to kill grown ups instead

And somewhere, an old man

Got out his guitar and asked

Yet again

“How many deaths will it take, till he knows;

That too many people have died?”

The Bilge Master

Soul Mate

“Look into my eyes now/Tell me what you see/It is no surprise now/What you see is me”- The Beatles

It’s always been a fantasy

Of humans in general, but especially those in science

To unravel the mysteries of Time

And see what lies beyond the horizon

Of those stars up in the velvet sky

Isn’t it fun, to wonder where We are,

And who is out there, in the vastness

Of the Universe?

I’m curious to know, am I the only one?

Or is there someone out there, just like me?

And if so, what makes Her so different, or so alike?

Will She take my hand?

Will She walk with me, hand in hand?

Will She stand on a mountain top and look up

At a sky full of stars?

And when I look into her eyes, what will I see?

I wonder, what will I see?

The Bilge Master

The Degeneration of Assassin's Creed

In 2007, something novel happened. The studio Ubisoft, known for games such as Driver, Tom Clancy’s Ghost Recon and Prince of Persia:The Two Thrones, decided to start experimenting with history and brought out a game called Assassin’s Creed.

Assassin’s Creed was unique. It allowed you to delve into the genes of Desmond Miles and replay the life of his ancestor; Altair. Altair was an Assassin, based in Masyaf and he spent the entirety of the game jumping off rooftops, climbing up insanely high towers and assassinating people with a hidden blade in his wrist. As a concept, the game was remarkable. The plot was good, with enough twists and turns to keep a history buff interested, but what really took the cake was the gameplay and the environment details.

A few years later, the sequel to Assassin’s Creed- Assassin’s Creed 2 was released and this game blew us all out of the water. It was an amazing improvement over the original. It’s protagonist was Ezio Auditore, and he was handsome, charismatic and deadly rolled into one. We took Ezio in and around 15^th century Italy, at the height of the Renaissance period and climbed up certain iconic landmarks such as the Bascillica in Florence and the canal bridges in Venice. Ezio also had Leonardo da Vinci at his side and the thieves of Venice to rely on for help in situations. As before, the parkour and the free running was simply divine and it was truly spectacular to leap off one roof onto another and take down five guards before jumping out of a hay stack to kill the assassination target and walk off in the chaos that ensued. Ezio packed not one but two hidden wrist blades, was proficient in fist fighting and swordplay and an absolute charmer of the ladies. The player fell in love with him.

Realizing that they had something good going Ubisoft gave us two more games with Ezio in them- Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood, which was in my opinion one of the best games in the series and Assassin’s Creed Revelations in which the connection between Ezio and Altair is fully explained. At the end of Revelations, Ezio  (now fifty) hangs up his blades. In all respects, this was the ideal time to finish the series. However, it would have ended on a cliffhanger, because Desmond Miles’ fate was as yet undecided.

Throughout these games, the presence of the Knights Templar and the mystical “Pieces of Eden” were rampant. In the game, the Assassin’s Altair and Ezio both went after such a Piece, while in the present time, Desmond used this information to track the Piece in the present. I found this concept to be a good one. As Desmond became more and more attuned to Ezio and Altair, he started to learn their skills. He also started to have weird visions, which was expected seeing as he was living a double life per se.

Ezio’s retirement was a turning point for the saga.   It put focus back on Desmond. In the next game; Assassin’s Creed 3, we stepped into the 1700’s and a new Assassin- Connor Kenway made himself known. We also visited the then French colony of New Orleans in the shoes of Aveline de Grandpere who was the only female Assassin introduced in the series thus far. Assassin’s Creed 3 and it’s DLC featured animals- alligators and wolves which were as deadly as humans. Fighting them was a series of quick time events. The climbing also changed as both Connor and Aveline spent an equal amount of time in trees and in bushes as well as in cities. The game engine altered slightly, allowing for better graphics. It was truly spectacular to see light particles being refracted in the water or the moon being reflected in ponds. Swimming became a major feature in these games, perhaps to compensate for the low density of urban environments.

However, while these games were also quite decent; they didn’t have Ezio’s panache and they seemed to lack the historic charm that the previous games had. Somehow, Ubisoft seemed to have focused on gameplay more than actual execution of the plot, which is very important. Ergo, my personal reception of Assassin’s Creed 3 was lukewarm. It was fun to skulk in the trees and drop down on unsuspecting tribal warchiefs but it lacked an X factor.

Desmond died in Assassin’s Creed 3. He died to save the world. Arguably, this was the peak of the series and it should have ended here. Unfortunately, Ubisoft wasn’t done with Assassin’s Creed. Assassin’s Creed 4: Black Flag went into the Caribbean and let us play as the notorious pirate Edward Kenway, who was Connor’s grandfather.

Assassin’s Creed IV was something straight out of an RL Stevenson novel. Sea shanties, blunderbusses, naval warfare and ships to loot took precedence over assassinations. Whaling was also a major part of the game and swimming became a major asset to possess. Edward Kenway was also charismatic, with an edge of “don’t mess with me” thrown in. He was the next best thing to Ezio that the player (me) encountered.  I’m in the process of playing Assassin’s Creed IV at the moment and looks wise and gameplay wise it’s stellar.

However, it’s also sending a message. It’s time to stop this series. Granted, there is still eons of history left for Ubisoft to play around with, but too much of a good thing is bad as we all know.

A lot of people seemed to share my opinion about Assassin’s Creed becoming a super saturated series. Everyone apart from Ubisoft that is.  Their latest instalment Assassin’s Creed Unity takes place in France during the French Revolution.

To call Unity an Assassin’s Creed game would be like comparing a Ferrari to your father’s 20 year old sedan. The entire gameplay mechanic has changed. There are no more dialogues with your assassination targets. Gameplay is repetitive and boring, not to mention dull. It’s usually go here, kill him. Repeat.

While in previous installments open combat was a viable option, here it’s suicide. The ability to counter your foe’s strikes is gone. The ability to counter kill is also absent as is the chain kill feature- introduced in Assassin’s Creed 3. Chain Kill allowed you to lock on to targets in a certain sequence and kill them in that sequence.

There is a marked difference between Assassin’s Creed Unity and any other stealth game. The stealth mechanics are a tad too challenging for someone casual to play with. It demands patience to execute a certain sneak attack which I lack.

The reverse parkour option, which allows you to run down a building is however a welcome addition. But, it’s too little too late.

Therefore, it is my humble request to Ubisoft and it’s associated studios to stop making any further Assassin’s Creed games. The series was an amazing concept and upto Edward, it was executed brilliantly. However, there’s no need for Assassin’s Creed anymore, because it’s gone past it’s peak. A better idea is to work on a sequel for Watch_Dogs which was again a very good concept, but with poor optimization for PC’s. There’s plenty of potential in Watch_Dogs if utilized properly.

In closing, I would like to thank Ubisoft for creating and developing a series as vibrant as Assassin’s Creed. Not only was it engrossing- it was a journey into the past that a person like me could never know. However, it’s time to move on to other projects Ubisoft.

The Bilge Master

The Time Trap

There’s a little something about time travel, which people haven’t realized yet. We have a time machine. It’s called a camera.

Have you ever looked at the pictures that you’ve got lying around the house? By pictures, I mean photographs of course. Take me for example. My father asked me to find some photos and bring them to Asansol with me when I came by. I went to our house in Kolkata, after almost two and a half months and was sorting through a ton of pictures. I found a picture of me as a toddler, taken in Puri and another picture of my cousin sister at her 8^th birthday party. I’ve WhatsApped the photo to her but haven’t checked for a reply yet.

The thing is that, we don’t really look at the pictures we have taken, until provoked to do so. Seeing pictures of our dog Gogo, brought back some very happy memories. Seeing a picture of my late paternal grandfather whom I never had the chance to meet also felt surreal.

But the icing on the cake would have to be the pictures of my father as a young boy (aged about 7 or ten) standing on the terrace of our Ballygunge house with a wicked twinkle in his eye.  No wonder, I’m so naughty. Like father like son after all.

So, sixty years of my family's history, featuring baby pictures, young teenaged pictures of my parents and a lot of other people, was enough to send me back in time. 

So, the next time you’re taking a selfie on Park Street, remember that you’re capturing time in a pixelated medium. Some day when you’re older and you just want to go back in time, dig up that album. It’ll be worth it.

I wonder if Mr. H.G. Wells ever wondered about the potential time trapping ability of a camera?

The Bilge Master

I'm Twenty and I Know it!

The thing about birthdays is that they’re never the same. Sure, they may fall on the same date every year, but then something always changes. Some years, you don’t feel the birthday. Some years, you want the birthday to last forever. Me? I just want cake.

I’m writing this and bidding goodbye to my teens at the same time. It’s a funny feeling. On one hand, I’ve grown up enough to be able to drink with Dad and drive his car. On the other hand, I’m young enough (and fat enough) to down three plates of chicken tandoori in one sitting.  I’ve changed a lot in my teens. I’ve been happy, sad, high, angry and I’ve definitely been emo. In spite of all such changes in me, my family has stood by me. But see, that’s the thing about your folks. You can hate them, you can love them. But you can’t be anything without them.

My brother, Sagnik Mukherjee’s also grown up. He’s no longer a kid and that makes me so proud. My little brother, Sourja who had his birthday today is now 19 and the best thing that happened to me so far this year. Come to think of it, meeting my extended family rocked.

Let’s not forget my best friend, my dog Chuni, who sadly left us last year. He’s still in my corner though and goes woof woof now and again.

Lastly, one thing I’ve learnt in all my time here is it’s very important to keep it simple. You need to know what you want and you need to be happy.

I’m happy. I’m happy to have had some of the greatest friends I could ever want. I’m ahppy to have met so many stupid people in these twenty years. I’m happy that my love for music and writing has got me a blog in a corner of the internet. Most of all, I’m glad that tomorrow, all this will be brand new.

Here I am, this is me. And you can’t take that away from me see?

The Bilge Master

No actually...

Ashesh

I C U- A Guest Post by My Mother

This is a guest post by my mother. She has written about the time she fell sick and had to admitted to hospital. This is her first blogpost and she has said she will soon start her own blog. Till then, please read this post.

The Bilge Master

I used to always joke about summoning paramedics, and urge my family to book me an ICU (Intensive Care Unit). ICU’s are places generally remote from an ordinary human being’s life. So, if I caught a cold in my head, or the curry didn’t come out nice or if I lost a spirited argument with my son; I would holler for ambulances and booking of ICU’s. Little did I know then that one day I would seriously end up in an ICU with my life seriously threatened, by a disease called septicaemia.

I had been ailing for some time, with a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). Days passed. Apparently I did not get better, but worsened as the sodium/potassium balance in my body got seriously upset and white blood cell counts rose alarmingly and the poison leaked into the blood; laying all my organs vulnerable. Blissfully, I don’t remember any part of it, but I have since heard from my son and husband that I could not stand, kept falling down, urinated all over the house, because I never quite managed to reach the bathroom in time.

I’m a fifty-three year old housewife. Obese. Riddled with blood sugar, hypertension, and despite urgings from everybody, refuse to walk, follow a healthy diet and spend my time shared between my books and laptop. I love drama and so when the most dramatic thing happened in my life, I was unfortunately quite unaware of it.  The paramedics arrived, the ambulance was summoned and I was driven from Asansol to Durgapur’s Mission Hospital in a semi conscious state.

I don’t remember the emergency room where I was first taken, where the decision to put me into ICU was made. Neither do I remember being wheeled into the ICU and put to bed there. The ICU was a cavernous room where very sick people-both men and women were placed for intensive care. The first couple of days and nights are also now quite lost to me. I remember only blood samples being taken at random, breathing through a mask supplying oxygen and being attached to a monitor . All I wanted was to be left alone to die.

Obviously, in the first couple of days,  my sickness waxed triumphantly and the doctors were finally forced to give me a fifty-fifty chance. I have heard later on, that the doctor in charge of my case had said that he was “trying”. My husband said that he had got nowhere with just “trying” but by doing The consultant was taken aback but by gum he did it. On the third day in the ICU, despit e the channels and the drips and the oxygen mask, I came to myself, and became aware of arteries being cut with needles for blood, bodily thirst for water and I was aware of being attached to a catheter. The vaguest impression of people on either side of me became realistic when they both died and had to be removed. From every bed, emanated pain and extreme suffering. Strapped to my bed, I just watched and realized that this in fact, was ICU.

My bed would be wheeled out, for various tests and back again. Many a time, I felt that I was going away from it all and this meant the nursing staff crowding around and doing things and I would come back.

My husband and son came to visit me regularly. They conferred with doctors. Ventilators were frely spoken of, but I stayed put. The only organs that had been affected by the infection in the blood were the lungs  and they dealt with it.

They were short staffed as far as nursing personnel went, each doing 12 hour shifts, looking after so many. A bunch of young kids really-boys and girls who dealt with death daily and 90% of the time managed to triumph over the old equalizer. They reminded me of my favourite serial, M*A*S*H as they kept sane with crude jokes and basically slapstick comedy. The white blood cells were cowered by the wide spectrum antibiotics. Spread of infection ceased. By the fifth day, I felt hungry. I was now only scared of the ICU and marvelled at those working there day in day out. Finally, I was pronounced stable enough to be moved to a room of my own and the transfer went through.

I left the ICU with mixed feelings. On one hand I was very glad to leave the hall of pain. On the other, deep gratitude, not only to the doctor, but the nurses whose round the clock care had pulled me through. I went to a private room. Here again, I saw the dedication of nursing and doctoring. Finally, nine days after I had gone there, I was allowed to leave the hospital and walked out on my own steam, weak as a cat but alive and well.

I will not sit around anymore. The ICU taught me the value of life and I am going to keep better and hope that nobody has to go there again.

Dust: The Story of a Little Boy

This is a story, with a few people in it. The people are ordinary. Their lives are ordinary. The story is about...well let’s see what it’s about. All I can tell you is it has a little boy in it.

There was once a little boy, you see. He was plump, dressed in shorts all the time, did not like to study and spent his time reading books. His mother used to tell him stories too; but she had an annoying habit of leaving them unfinished.  So, he made up endings to stories all by himself. Usually, they were happy endings. Some, were sad. Most were simple. The first time someone ate ice cream and had a cold. The first time he went to his grandmother’s house and she treated him to Dosa from Udipi’s.

Now, much as we’d like our little boy to remain little; sadly it isn’t so. As time passed the boy grew up. As he grew up, his mind expanded. He became interested in music. He became a fan of some English group with a very strange hairstyle and took to crooning songs at the top of his lungs. He started to take those stories he had written in his youth more seriously and began to compose. He also found he liked to tinker with things and to take things apart.

But then, one evening, the little boy saw something. It was a glimpse rather. A tiny pulse of light. The boy was confused. He could not understand what he had seen. The truth is, he hadn’t seen anything. He had felt something; rather he had sensed someone. But who?

The little boy kept growing, because Time kept passing him by. He kept reading and he kept talking to people. His father, his mother and his grandmother. One thing the boy never understood however; in spite of having grown so much is why people went away. I mean to say- there they were just a few days before and then they sort of went off. They left bodies behind, but then those bodies were not them. The bodies were shells. Where had the people gone?

The boy also remembered glimpsing that same something or someone each time someone went away. Sometimes, he could even tell when someone was going days before they actually left.

And so the boy wondered. Where were all these people? He knew where people came from, he knew about something called “souls”. He subscribed to the belief that “souls” existed. If so, where were the souls?

Then, one day the little boy looked up. He saw stars in the sky. He also felt that someone near him. The little boy realized what he was seeing. He was seeing everyone who had gone away, looking down at him and smiling. His grandmother, who was the first to go. His dog who followed some years later. And most recently, his great grand uncle.

And when the little boy sleeps at night, sometimes he dreams of bad things. He remembers pain. He remembers fears. But then, sometimes he also dreams of the people who have gone and the boy smiles. One day, the little boy, will no longer be called little; and will also go away. He will go up above and he will smile down at another little boy, just like him.

I hope that boy smiles back.

The Bilge Master

Welcome Back, Poets of the Fall!

If you Google Poets of the Fall, the right hand side of your browser shows you a set of pictures, underneath which you have the words "Rock Band". Having seen them live in a concert two years back, I can myself testify to the fact that though they have soft, melodious songs, with slow riffs and soothing music; they can also get up top and barrel out a growling riff and a bass solo with equal panache.  Their new single, "Daze" came out a few hours ago and it seems to me that with it, they are reminding us that they are a rock band.

The video opens with a full moon and a girl driving a Ferarri down a road, while a fast intro plays in the background. Next frame, and Mr. Saaresto comes on screen, dressed to kill. The song is a love song, about passions running amok and it's refrain says it all- "Set the world on fire; with bittersweet desire". I mean wow right?

There are a lot of things going for this song. The vocals and Marko's voice. The general ambience of the video, which is typical rock. The very sound of the track which is reminiscent of the old Poets sound (think "Diamonds for Tears", "Carnival of Rust" and "Lift") and lastly, the hype and joy of having another Poets of the Fall album coming out just before the Dusshera festival here. The release of this single could not have been better timed, in my opinion.

But, here's the thing. I find this song to be the introduction to something bigger and better. If you remember the 2007 romantic comedy "Music and Lyrics"; starring Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore; and the part where Barrymore tells Grant that the songs on his solo album seem to be like dessert as opposed to dinner, then maybe you'll get what I'm saying now.

"Daze" is the ideal entree to a main course, five star dinner; which is the album "Jealous Gods". I am waiting with bated breath and a quivering pulse to see what this album is going to be like. I can only hope that with this album and with the names of the tracks that I've seen on the website- that the Poets are going back to rock.

Check the song out on YouTube under the Poets' official channel- PoetsoftheFallBand.

The Bilge Master

Fly, Robin Fly

Fly Robin, fly,

Up into the big blue sky,

Fill her up with your bright red wings,

Sing for her as you once did for us,

Little Robin don’t be afraid,

Though the Raven is chasing you once again,

He knows not that he cannot win this race,

Robin, we will miss you, and

The Jumanji that you played,

The doctor you portrayed,

And the teacher through whom you

Said, Carpe Diem,

Oh Captain, where have you gone?

Left us to mourn and left us so lost?

Worry not Robin, you still live on,

In the smile on my son’s face when,

He sees you perform.

The Bilge Master

Dream a Lil', Dream a Lot

Pink Floyd, Narnia, Stephen King and Shantam Basu came together to make this poem. So did Isaac Asimov.

Tiger, Deer, Mouse

Big Old House,

Knock, Knock, Knock,

"Watch your step there, Klaus"

Big old clock,

Going, tick and going tock,

"Yes, keep this door locked,

Behind it lurks a world,

Different from ours,

Not for little boys,

Oops must rush"

Klaus goes up,

Outside the door,

Big bright light,

Under the frame,

"Find. The. Key

Set. Yourself. Free."

Klaus wakes up,

Goes to school,

Finds the house,

In his dream,

Opens the door

Sets himself free

Klaus dreams again,

And again, and again

"He's found the key you see,

The child is grown."

"The dream?"

Klaus just smiles.

The Bilge Master

Junkie

Wi-Fi and Bluetooth turning you on,

Gotta get a fix before dawn,

Or your ISP finds the bill overdue,

And cuts off your supply once again,

Sleep is for babies, there's so much to do,

Status updates and Instagram beckon to you,

Lost in a digital maze, with the world before you,

You press "Like" on a Grumpy Cat meme,

Your sister's birthday was your 144th Check In,

Your brother's convocation a WhatsApp conversation,

While your mother got remarried over Skype,

And Google+ dropped by with flowers when your father died,

While all this happened, your youth passed on,

And Life waved goodbye as you played another round of Candy Crush

The Bilge Master

Imaginary

Remember what they told you about Imaginary Friends? 

Arnab, Tanya and Hiren were inseperable. Tanya and Arnab were an item. They had been dating since freshman year. Hiren was well Hiren. He was a bit Goth. Dark tees, with a hood so you really didnt see his face. And the same pair of baggy jeans. Arnab was the sarcastic one, always with a witty retort. Sometimes he was unbearable. As for Tanya, she was the doormouse. She was meek, and kept quiet most of the time. When she did talk, she had a brilliant point though. Arnab was quite wary of her retorts and she could keep him under control mostly.

Hiren on the other hand was almost everyhing these too were not. He was reserved. He talked a lot, but just to them. He always had his mp3 player with him and was headbanging to Avenged Sevenfold or Iron Maiden. If it wasn't that he was on Whatsapp, chatting with this "mysterious" girl he had met; and whom no one had seen.

The three of them stayed together for the most part of college. After that, the placement interviewers came in hordes. Tanya and Arnab got jobs in the same city but for different companies. Hiren didn't say where he had landed up as was his usual response to almost anything. He preferred keeping his personal life to himself. Tanya and Arnab had gone to his house once. They didn't see anything apart from an old, dilapidated cot and some magazines in a corner. There were no photos on the wall or any personal trophies anywhere. They found this odd, but then again, they knew he was a kind of lone wolf.

Time passed. Tanya and Arnab continued to see each other and eventually ended up getting engaged. Their familes knew each other very well and approved the match. Unfortunately, they had never met Hiren; who seemed to be the infamous one in the group, Funnily, even Arnab and Tanya hadn't been seeing Hiren much these days. They knew he was working in Bangalore. That was all. He did show up for the wedding though. He had swapped the tee for a shirt and a pair of formal trousers, but he still had the hoodie. You still had to strain to see his face. 

And one day, Hiren was gone. He just vanished. He did it gradually. Stopped calling. Stopped texting. Tanya and Arnab started to forget what he looked like and what classes they had taken together. One fine day, they woke up and realized he was just gone. 

Meanwhile, Arnab had been promoted to General Manager at his company. This meant he was out late a lot and usually came home in the wee hours of the morning. Tanya was tired out from managing their young daughter, who was still in the toilet training stage; although she was 7. Naturally, the homestead was less than domestic bliss. Fights broke out on a regular basis. Words were said. Tears spilt. Tanya started sleeping in the guest room. Arnab took to drinking a lot.

A few weeks later, Arnab was away at work when he got a text from Tanya. It just said "Hiren is back. Babli saw him". Arnab dropped everything and came home. He found Tanya smiling at him. He was surprised. Tanya told him that Babli (their daughter), had come running to her in the afternoon. She had been playing in the garden and had seen a man. A man dressed in a black tee, with a hoodie and the same jeans that Hiren wore Arnab didn't know how to react to this information. He walked to the sidebar to pour a drink, but found one already poured out for him. He looked up and came face to face with Hiren.

Arnab was shocked at first, and then realized what was going on. Tanya and Arnab were so much in love that that feeling had personified itself into a physical form. Hiren. That's why he was everywhere that they were. That's why he was gone when they started scrapping. He was empathically linked to them. To their love. 

Arnab smiled as he took Tanya into his arms. Hiren was back. Everything would be OK now

The Bilge Master

  

Late Nights of a Different Kind

We've had a crazy month,

With late nights of a different kind,

Because everyone could do with some Messi magic,

Now and then,

Some matches have been shocks,

Others wonders,

Some teams have broken our hearts,

Some referees should leave Brazil in a body bag,

That's how it's gone, and 

Now, for one last time,

Join me, to witness the end,

To the greatest carnival on Earth

And get the fourth star for Deutschland

The Bilge Master

Magic

There are a lot of ways,

Used to express,

What we humans can feel, taste or touch and see,

Some express through the pen,

Others write poems, ballads or speeches,

Still others speak out through a song,

While for some, the paintbrush calls,

Yet, I've seen another expression,

Out there on the Center Court,

A man with two quick feet, weaving,

A story on grass,

He paints his legacy with a tennis racquet

As mesmerized, the world watches,

Tuned into their TV sets, they see

Magic in 1080p HD

The Bilge Master

The Lord of the Night Trilogy

I had written a poem two years back called "Lord of the Night". Back then the in thing was vampires so I had made it dark and reflective of what in my opinion, a vampire should actually be; as opposed to the version in "Twilight".

Funnily enough, I found myself liking the poem a lot and I decided to expand it with a sequel called "Stains". The protagonist of "Stains" was the same person I had created in "Lord of the Night". Note that I say person and not vampire. You see, by the time "Stains" was completed, I realized making this guy a serial killer was a more frightening proposition than making him a vampire.

After "Stains" was complete, my friend Udayan recommended bringing in a new dimension to the poems or the series as he then termed it. This casual remark of his led to the third and final poem in the series, titled "Carpe Diem". "Carpe Diem" is a new look at the protagonist, who for purposes of mystery and laziness remains un-named.

Allow me to present my first ever complete trilogy of poems. Click on the links to start reading!

The Bilge Master

Lord of the Night

One prick, and the pain starts to ebb away

Something's changed, I hear myself say

I feel the wound, still raw,

And know the poison's in my veins,

Giving me a new high

Man, I am not, I am something more

I'm going somewhere I ain't ever been before

I'm a creature of the shadows,

A slave to the night

And I don't see a guiding light

Why do you fear me?

I was just like you once

Only now I am so much more

Days find me hiding,

Hiding from the sun,

But I own the night,

And come alive without light

Oh and lest you meet me,

Be ready to run

Part 2- Stains

The Bilge Master

Stains

Night has fallen on the world,

Cloaking it in darkness, in shadow

I awaken and sit up,

Wipe the blood from my chin,

It is sticky and salty, still warm

The time has come, the night awaits me

I walk out on the veranda, survey all that is mine

You see from my perch, I can see, yet be unseen

The grounds of my estate, and the city beyond

Pulling me in, slowing down time,

I am waiting to strike

A second ago, you were alive,

Taking that shortcut

Going home maybe?

I cannot wait to meet you

Under the silver moon

I can feel your blood start to race,

Smell your fear,

You should not have come here, you are thinking

Well, you are right,

I close in, grab you

It’s just a little prick....a vain struggle,

Over before it even started,

And all that remains of our fleeting encounter

Is that fresh stain on my coat

Part 3- Carpe Diem

The Bilge Master

Carpe Diem

Rain’s falling,

The earth beneath my feet feels cold,

Sort of like the body I’m holding,

Slung over my back,

The light is just retreating, meaning

It’ll be night soon,

And I’ll have another body on my hands before noon,

They say I’m a psychopath,

They prescribe drugs too;

Take the edge off

Therapy, in form of

“If you need to talk”,

Talk isn’t gonna save Mary, mother of two,

From the drunkard on the East End, that poor excuse,

Neither is it gonna stop the murder of that innocent in the park,

Because I know what happens when it starts getting dark

This city’s afraid of me, and of the things I do,

And one day it’ll thank me, or

Put a bullet in my head 

Read the entire series here

The Bilge Master

The Lovesong of an Ordinary Day

Nothing appeals more to me,
Than waking up to the smell of fresh coffee in the morning,
As my mother draws open the curtains,
And my bedroom is flooded with light,
I smile and look out the window,
And notice that the Sun is up,
The sky is blue,
Which is beauiful,
And so are You,
Because my dear, no one writes a lovesong,
Quite like You do

The Bilge Master

Abyss

They call me a hole in the ground,
Or perhaps one that's gnawing away,
At what still remains of your soul,
I have many names,
"Rock-Bottom", "The Blues", "Depression",
Myraid pseudonyms, coined by those guests,
Who paid me a visit, and left,
Some by the same way they came,
Others by rupturing a vital vein,
Still, they choose to blame me for their sins,
Take out their frustrations on my kith and kin,
I hope one day, the people who have spent time here,
Will realize that there's a way out,
All you need to do,
Is look within the Abyss,
And see the Light burning deep within it

A poem I wrote for The Word Affair (TWA) containing the word "Abyss"

The Bilge Master

Rabbit Heart (A Guest Post)

Miss Laura Cook, from Pennsylvania did me the honour of writing this short story for my blog. She writes a blog herself and is quite good at it, though she may say otherwise. Check her blog out here.

Thank you so much Laura. I loved reading this short story and I hope you readers will too.

The Bilge Master

rabbit heart

She is a slight girl, nervous and pale, so easy to ignore that she is almost struck by a car as she crosses the street to the clinic. The driver notices her at the last second and hits the brakes hard. He leans out of his window and bellows. 

“Why don’t you get out of the road, you slack-jawed idiot?”

He’s right, at least partially. She is indeed in the road—smack-dab in the middle of his lane—and she is looking somewhat slack-jawed at the moment, frozen in the glare of his headlights. Her mind had shut down the second she had seen him coming: any thoughts of running or dodging vanished, replaced by a morbid fascination that forced her to stare, empty-minded, at the headlights rushing ever closer. It is good for her that he stopped, as she would not have moved from the spot until he hit her.

Now, she blinks and the trance is broken. She steps politely out of the man’s way and makes a vague wave down the road, indicating his clear path. The driver rolls his eyes, steps on the gas, and roars out of sight.

She fixes her gaze again on the clinic across the street, her goal the first time she had stepped from the sidewalk. Midas Health Clinic, the sign reads in a businesslike gold font. Health clinic: a somewhat euphemistic—or at least purposefully ambiguous—name for a place with a clearly defined purpose. Even though everyone knows what the clinic is for, and what the people who go there desire.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her rapid heartbeat, and places a hand over the offending organ. Here it is: the last moment with her old self. She will not miss it. Trying to embody the ideals of her new persona, she boldly crosses the street, intentionally neglecting to look both ways.

midas

            The surgeon glances only perfunctorily at the papers bearing the girl’s signature before turning away and snapping on his face mask. He trusts that she knows what she’s getting into; there is a mountain of reading assigned before the patient can sign away their rights to their heart. If she didn’t read it, it’s her own fault, her own organs, her own body that’s affected.

            He readies the pills, a blue pill and a white one, and a plastic cup of water and sets them on the fold-out table next to the operating chair. The pills join a silver hand mirror on the table. The surgeon steps back and surveys the still life, then moves the mirror half an inch to the right. There. Just so.

            He is a particular man; he has to have the painting of the skyline on the wall perfectly straight, his operating room perfectly clean, his surgeries perfectly executed. This clinic is run to his exacting standards, each action timed like clockwork. He has his eccentricities; of course, the patients do as well. They come in here expecting complete confidentiality, which is, to be frank, a bit of a pointless expectation. The surgeon can see their faces, even if they can’t see his—to speak nothing of the many casual observers who may have witnessed the patients entering the clinic. The surgeon knows their names, and he knows their faces, and if ever anyone famous entered the clinic, the surgeon would have enough information on that person and their chosen surgery to ruin their career forever.

            But he doesn’t. This is because he truly doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about his patients beyond the money that they pay him and the way each successful surgery bolsters his personal statistics. What these pathetic people do with their hearts is immaterial to him, and if the surgery works out for them, or if it doesn’t—what does it matter? He counts the surgery as a success if the patient doesn’t die in his chair. How soon they die after they leave the chair is their problem, not his.

            Their problem, just as it is the problem of the trembling girl who enters his room now. He can see why she has requested a transplant—her bowed head, quivering fingers, and pallid complexion clearly show what type of heart she has. Something timid. Kitten, maybe, or fawn. Perhaps rabbit.

            He checks the papers again. Yes, rabbit. How unfortunate.

            It’s not unfortunate that she has a rabbit heart; the world needs rabbits, just as it needs wolves like himself, or monkeys, or groundhogs. It’s unfortunate that she is so unsatisfied with her lot in life as to come here and pay for a different kind of heart. Every patient that enters his room is unfortunate. But, again, that’s their problem, not his.

            “Sit down,” he tells her, and when she is settled into the chair, he hands her the silver hand mirror, shined to a high gloss. “This is your looking glass. Look within.”

            (This script has been drafted and edited over hundreds of surgeries. He has to make an effort to keep the boredom from his voice, as he has been told that such a momentous occasion in a patient’s life must be accorded a small bit of ceremony.)

            “This is the last time that you will see yourself as a rabbit-hearted girl. When you wake, you will be…” He checks the paper again surreptitiously, having already forgotten the rabbit girl’s choice of new heart. “A lion.”

            The rabbit girl smiles widely. It is a pathetic smile, the way it lights up her translucent face from the inside. Girls like that shouldn’t have an inner glow. She’s too forgettable, too frail. What a waste.

            He takes the hand mirror from her and replaces it with the cup and the white pill. “Drink up,” he says with a sarcastic smile, though she can see nothing but the smallest glimpse of his eyes, thanks to the face mask. His voice sounds sincere enough, he thinks.

            The girl swallows the pill eagerly.

rabbit heart

            She is spinning. Slipping out of time. What’s going on? She feels like she’s falling, unable to catch her footing. Was that the wrong pill to take? It can’t have been. The doctor handed it to her. Didn’t he? Did she pick it up? That would be just like her, to pick up the wrong pill. Too timid to ask which one was right, too stupid to know the answer, too flighty to be sure of her choice. This is why she can’t stand her rabbit heart. This is why she wants to be a lion.

            Her vision swims. She appears to be looking at the ceiling tiles. But is it? She can’t tell. With immense effort, she lifts up her head and finds the opposite wall with her eyes. There’s the painting, the one with the city skyline on it. Pretty painting. It’s a nice—

            The doctor’s face interrupts her thoughts as it blocks her view of the painting. His face, or what she can see of it, consists of two small slits: his eyes. If only I could see your face, she thinks. I thought I wanted anonymity, but the mask isn’t you. I can’t find you. I can’t find you?

            The doctor withdraws and she rushes towards the skyline.

midas

            Stupid girl. Not only is she willingly killing herself here in this operating room, but she’s wasting precious time by not going under right away. She seems to be out now, though, so he can get started replacing her rabbit heart with a lion’s.

            Willingly killing herself. That’s what she is doing, if she read the papers she was supposed to read before she signed. If she read, then she knows that your body has to be receptive to the new heart in order for it to take. Your body has to be of the same type. That’s why the rabbit girl is going to die—a less likely lion he has never seen in his life. That’s why so many of his patients die. Anyone desperate enough to pay thousands of dollars for a new heart has to be pretty unhappy with their old one. And if they read, then they would know that the old heart is what’s keeping them alive, and their new one will kill them, because what they want so urgently is a complete change.

            Did she read the papers? If she did, why is she here? Maybe she thinks she’ll be different. Maybe they all think they’ll be different.

            As he has been thinking, he has been cutting. This surgery is so routine these days that he can do one by himself in an hour or two. The surgeon turns from the patient to pick up her new lion heart. He holds it up above her chest, and some sentimental feeling tugs at the bottom of his own wolf heart. Poor girl.Walked in here to her own death. All she wanted was to not be a rabbit anymore.

            He brandishes the lion heart at her and whispers, “This is a gift. And like any gift, it has a price.” He watches her face for a sign of a reaction, but she is, of course, unconscious.

            His rubber gloves turn from blue to red as he holds the heart over his patient. It is an anticlimactic moment. Embarrassed at this unprecedented show of weakness, the surgeon shakes his head and returns to connecting the new heart to the girl’s veins: the origin of a river that will course too swiftly through her body, surely killing her.

            Why should he care? She read the papers.

lion heart

            She wakes, groggy and disoriented. Despite the confusing way her head is spinning, she feels different. She feels strong, brave, ready for a fight. She smiles with glee as she gazes, once again, at the ceiling tiles. She is a lion, the queen of the savannah, the top of the food chain. No longer will she freeze in the middle of the road as a car bears down on her. She will walk on by, paying no attention to the rude driver and his ugly behemoth of a vehicle. The queen of the savannah stops for no one.

            “Thank you,” she says to the doctor as she exits the operating room. She can feel the robust pulse of her heart beneath the thin skin of her chest. Without looking in the hand mirror, she knows that she looks transformed, illuminated from the inside. Her glow is permanent now.

            So she thanks the doctor. “Thank you,” she says. “This is truly a gift.”

           

midas

            It comes with a price, he thinks. But he smiles behind the mask and shakes her hand, as he has been trained to do.

lion heart

            There is a pain in her chest as she leaves the clinic. The lion-hearted girl sways on her feet briefly before shaking her head to clear her thoughts and carrying on, as a lion ought to do.

            Of course there’s pain, she tells herself. I just had surgery.

            I’m different. I will be different. 

Wonderwall Cover- A Tribute to Dogs

It's gonna be my dog's birthday next week so I thought I'd cover Oasis's song "Wonderwall" as a birthday wish. This one goes out not only to Chuni but to all the dogs I've known

Cheers. Enjoy! 

The Bilge Master

Writer's Block

If you knew what I was thinking,

When I wrote this story,

Would it change the way you looked at me?

If you knew who I would kill and who I would spare,

And all about the twist I put 

In chapter seventeen,

Would you still be shocked?

If you knew what came next,

Every comma and fullstop in the text,

Would you still read me?

If you knew this story word for word,

Would the ending make you laugh or 

Would you slowly start to cry?

And could it be that, 

After some time,

You'd dig out this story

And read it again?

Would it be like the first time?

The Bilge Master