on the fourth of july

you thought it was okay

to treat me like I didn’t matter

to use me as your ladder

(to climb, trample

and swallow in contempt

because I loved you too much

to voice my resent)

–

I thought it was fine

to swallow my pride

and walk in circles to protect your hide

(to bury, to worry

and break myself with anxiety-

to think and cry and ponder

of why you want me stomped under)

–

and so we thought it was okay

to carry out a dance in secret;

a story of a pick pocket;

an ode to a sandcastle;

always minutes from breaking apart,

in the process of unbecoming,

so like a broken heart,

that we cursed ourselves in delusion,

believing that — perhaps together?

we can outlive this confusion

this time

(the second to Maybe This Time)

She tried hard not to stare at her reflection as she combed her hair into a tight bun at the back of her head. The wooden mirror hung on the back of her bathroom door, cracked in the edges from the time she’d banged it too strongly. Thin stripes of red paint clung her nails. The entire house boomed with the sound of her father’s singing. The single floored, wooden home they had rented meant that she could hear every breath, every whisper transpired inside it. Crushed fruit warmed in her mother’s pan. Her brother waited at the dining table, neatly filled science quizzes stacked by his elbow.

She scratched at her chin, the softer skin hurting under her fingernails. Coming back was only like storming fifteen years back into your life. There was nothing else to describe it. An adult self still mourning for a past long forgotten.

A book about the world’s up and coming scientists sat on her windowsill. The beginning to a future of thicker books, harder hands. The only pains Hafsa knew, at present, were an ache in her thighs from dancing for too long. She wondered why she couldn’t stop at that. The only Muslim dancer in her entire group. The only Hijabi on stage. The kid who was always overseen, yet the first person to be introduced to chief guests.

Why couldn’t this simply satisfy her? It was not distant. The childish ache for life, for the rush of spice bristling down her veins — it still sang a sinner’s song inside her heart.

The touch of a pale freckled hand, on hers. The nibbled nails burying into his skin. Oblivious, he would bite his lip as he said, “hello”.

Freckled, sallow-cheeked and with the body of a stalking crane. There was little to understand what the heart wanted.

–

She remembered the days that were to come. Her mother’s voice muffled behind her door. Tears that muffled the entire earth. Yearning, desperate yearning to be another person.

A man who said, “You are not fit for our son.”

Her hands tightened around her pistol. 3 shots. He would be back home at six o’ clock. She would be long gone by then, drifting for a future that didn’t despise her.

–

She’s filled with nervous satisfaction on the ride back. Maybe this time. It has to be this time.

The pistol from the future.

–

Walking back into the future, Hafsa felt her heart tighten with an unfamiliar sense of dread.

The old apartment complex seemed to house new people. Her former husband still took the morning train by eight, but even he had seemed to changed. Brighter clothes, a different way of walking.

People milled about the streets in throes. It was an odd feeling, to suddenly be unseen. The whole world spun on its axis, unaware of the fact of her existence. Two steps in, and somehow, three million days behind.

The lanky boy with sallow cheeks has his hands around the shoulders of a pudgy girl.

Ironically, this occurred to be the least upsetting thing about the current present.

Hafsa watched her children ride swings at the park by the apartment. They looked happier than she had ever imagined seeing them. He still laughed in spurts of giggles. She still liked to swing close to the ground. Luth even sounded the same.

High pitched squeaks— it felt strange to long for them, bizarre to want to relive the times when he had used to scream in her ear. They were not hers, not anymore.

Standing in slightly tighter clothes, with red strips of paint stuck on her hands like glue— she wanted the world to stand up and move on without her.

When she had been younger, she used to close her eyes and stand silent on the sea shore. Grounding her feet in the sand, she would try to keep away from the tide — to remain constant. Later, upon peeking down under, she would find that the water had slowly moved her feet without permission.

For a long time, she had always felt like life had done the pushing for her. She’d imagine herself, clinging to the past like an anchor hitched in sand water, salt tides gently making sure that she’ll find her way afloat.

Until now.

Her family has vanished.

Just as the stalking crane.

In its wake is an unnamed emptiness.

Barren sand that stands still as the waves decide

to recede and leave the coast altogether.

She had no one left to blame.

REVIEW: QUEEN OF AIR AND DARKNESS

This review has been long due. If I recall correctly, I finished reading QoAaD in January, but I had to put off reviewing the book because of my formative assignments. Alas, since time has made a round-a-bout journey back into my hands, I’ve been able to spare some time for some good old book rants.

warning: this review may contain spoilers 😔

THE GOOD:

The Dark Artifices, as a series, really impressed me with how much the writer’s world building has seemed to mature since City Of Bones. While The Infernal Devices will always serve to be my favourite incorporation of Shadowhunters in a real world urbane city environment, The Dark Artifices, for the first time in the series, depicts the fictional Shadowhunter universe in a manner vivid enough to stand as an alternate to the real world.

Characters undergo redemptive arcs, the protagonists are not glorified to be wholly good or bad— so far, so good.

You have Julian, who I had previously considered a tad too melodramatic in his taste for forbidden love and woeful angst, blossoms from a ‘stereotypical YA angst boii’- a child depicted to be an adult, in my opinion- to a more reasonable ‘child whose circumstances demand that he acts like an adult’ .

The best part about Julian is that it isn’t his past that makes him a good character. He isn’t ambiguously “dark”. He doesn’t mysteriously hold up a bright face in spite of inner pain. Julian is himself, and this lies to be the centre of the conflict as the protective “self” Julian adopts is far too aged, and heavy for a boy his age.

I also loved that the writer does not make his relationship with his siblings seem like a given. There is repeated emphasis on the absence of parental/ adult figures to guide the children. Julian is not depicted to be liked. He’s hardheaded and makes dumb decisions. But realise, this is a part of the message that the writer is trying to bring forth. Julian hasn’t been taught to be selfish in the way we are. However, he hasn’t been taught of selflessness either. What we see him actively engaging in the book is a string of trial and error scenarios where he must consider his own worth against his family, and, more interestingly, the worth of his family above other people. I really treasure how well this has been described, with so much nuance and cautiousness— overall, a GEM of a character.

Onto the others (perhaps I am biased, yes, let’s not acknowledge it):

I couldn’t really put a pin on Emma. She wasn’t an amateur. She doesn’t have to navigate the sky after a life being underwater. She’s pretty cool. Stubborn, badass. Unlike TMI and TID, I believe the role of the MC goes to the male protagonist instead of the female protagonist. While the way the story cinches on Emma’s connections to Tessa and Clary suggest otherwise, the way Julian and the Blackthorns add emotional depth to the narrative makes me feel like TDA is a Blackthorn series (TMI belongs to the Frays and the Herongraystairs have joint custody over TID, I don’t make the rules).

I love Ty and Kit as well. Again, Cassie did not hold back from including references to uncommon subjects. I love Ty as a character, turbulent, sarcastic, the kind of kid who’s really abrupt about social injustice (several gold stars, in my books). Furthermore, Christina, Kieran and Mark have a really interesting dynamic as a trio (*( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)*). Both Christina and Kieran have the most interesting perspectives, its just really entertaining to read about.

MORE OF THE GOOD:

Christina! PoC!!!! Diego!! The Rosales in general!!!!!

(-spoilers!-)

Having Livia Blackthorn of an alternate, dying universe refuse to join a brighter world in the bane of her friends and family!

Having Julian come to terms with his own identity in said universe (the scene where he sketches is SO WONDERFULLY DONE, props to you Clare, you’ve done it).

The system of corrupt politics, nepotism and supremacy in the Shadowhunters. Clare took the story several steps further in QoAaD and I am SO GLAD.

WHAT SUCKED:

-no more burning angels, pls

-no more heavenly interventions to make the characters seem more special than they already are

-i beg of you, Cassandra Clare, it’s your choice entirely whether you wish to or do not wish to write about heroes but consider that a character like Simon Lewis may have much more worth than a character like Jace Herondale (based on likeability) in his acquiring fame and success despite both characters sharing a similar level of development. on one side you have the dramatic story of someone becoming a legend, but on the other hand, a refreshing and equally compelling outlook would be just letting teenage characters overcome the struggle to grow up in spite of the hardships of a world that is unfair to them. heroes! are fun to read about! but personally, I believe allowing them to rise to glory instead of, in Shakespeare’s words, having glory “thrust upon them”, will allow for a more comfortable reading experience. (what I mean: the ending… didn’t feel it )

overall: 4/5 ; AWESOME

(written: 15/03/2020, posted late 😝)

Maybe This Time

She packed the bags carefully, filling each with toys and children’s clothes. There was no telling how long she might have to spend in the time frame.

But Hafsa found that she didn’t care. There were some things that needed to be done in spite of how risky they seemed. It was the way of the world. There was no denying it. Hafsa brushed her hair and secured it with a scrunchie. She used an old paint brush to leave stripes of red on her nails, thick enough to cover most of it, missing a few gaps by a second.

There. She was done. All that was left to do was head out by foot to the underground railway station. She didn’t need the family knowing where she went. That would bring up too many complications. Her leave was going to be temporary. She would come back and move on with her life the way she had planned.

Her job was just a second’s worth of pain for a lifetime of peace.

–

The man who sat opposite to her on the train looked far too decent to be traveling to the past. He was wearing a tuxedo, with his hair slicked over his face. He also had flowers pressed on his lapels. He looked like he had calmly made his way to the station after a party. He looked out of his window, and covered his mouth as he smoked a cigarette.

It wasn’t illegal to go back. It just costed a lifetime’s wealth and was disapproved by society. Most people in the city liked to think they were content with their own lives. They liked to sip at their tea and talk about life. They also liked to hunt down transgressors in cold blood. It was a matter of being uncomfortable with varied opinions. The rich were more primitive than they liked to appear.

Hafsa closed her eyes.

In fifteen years she would be younger.

Smooth hands, dancer’s feet and a face that tended to break out in pimples.

It was startling to long for the things that used to embarrass her when she was younger. Hafsa’s life had not been perfect when she had been fifteen, but she’d been happier. Youth had freed her from worries, even when she’d been close to drowning in her own mistakes. Back then, such things had not filled her heart with resentment. She had barely noticed them, let alone, regretted them. She was far too busy running to notice the stones raking up blood on her bare feet.

Hafsa propped her feet on the ledger of her table. Her station would take a long time to be reached. Fifteen years into the past was fifteen hours by train. She would sleep for an hour before getting back to work. The killing needed to be plotted. There needed to be a scapegoat. She would need a way to escape and a way to ensure that Musab would be safe.

–

She arrived at the back of a truck. The sudden change of location did not scare her. She had expected it. Her parents had been traveling musicians before they died. Their lives had been joyous, with their son and daughter neatly seated at the back of their lorry as they sang songs between their round trips. A life of constant joy— her parents had thought they were the smartest people in the world.

“Worry is for the fool who thinks he can control the world.”

Hafsa’s brother, Imnaz, giggled at that. He would grow up trying to relive these moments. He would grow his hair long and wear it in a low knot, like their father. A girl with a loud laugh would soon become his wife. He would exhaust himself in his search for the past in a time that cared not to help its people. Bouts of excruciating anxiety for short-lived bliss, the unfair decision made over and over again. His end would come in a ballistic ball of fire.

Hafsa tried not to stare too hard at him, to catch the rare brown of his eyes and strike him hard on the cheek. There was no use. He was already lost, watching their parents with zealous fervor. This is not everything, she wanted to say. They might not be telling us everything. This life does not suit everyone.

The truck curved around the river bend, crossing the low steel bridge that would take them to Totem town.

The streets were as dusty as Hafsa remembered. Goats traipsed the roads occasionally. Street vendors. Paper advertisements for every billboard that had grown constant across the country. This town was a contrast to every other place her parents had taken them. There was a lack of sophistication that a town needed in order to keep a business going. The people of Totem Town were too content to be trapped in capitalist schemes. They ate at their own homes, sewed their own clothes.

No one in Totem would ever bother going to a music performance. They knew that even before setting foot in the city. Hafsa’s father planned to sing on the radio. ‘Lyrics in praise of creation’, twenty minute air time. The signal at Totem’s radio station was mediocre at best. The capital and bigger cities seemed like a much better idea. However, they wold end up staying in Totem the longest. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, perhaps it was the way it forced every single member of its community to act up and participate in the town’s events.

Hafsa had felt herself grow in Totem. The town had broken her heart. The townspeople had stomped all over her dignity. And yet, she could only call Totem a place that felt like home because it was only there, within that chaotic, spontaneous air that she had found herself.

Driving back into their house. The tiled garage. The furniture that still held fur from the previous owner’s favorite pet, the way you could hear the cars speed down the road from Hafsa’s room— it was like standing on sea sand waiting for the gaping mouth of the night tide to come pull you away.

She sat on the floor of her room, calculating her next step. If she had gotten the timeline down correctly, she would have a day’s time to prepare for the kill.

Hafsa sighed. Soldiers are trained to shoot without hesitation. To kill without feeling the weight of the bullet. At that critical moment of fear, they are told, that a single life does not amount to the life of millions. She thought of herself committing the deed. She clasped her hands together, imagining dark metal slick on her skin. Fingerprints. She would wear her gloves. The thick, rubber gloves that she used to tend to her garden with.

Sixteen steps from her gates. He would be a bit taller than she was. Lanky. Happy.

Her plan seemed to lie on the brink of insanity. However, she had nothing to lose. There was not a life that we would accept if we were not in the belief that we could control our own fate.

to be continued...

1: the elephant

trigger warning: racism, mentions of covid-19

Perhaps it is time to address the Big One. After all, it’s what I have been spending my nights pondering about, instead of falling asleep. We’ve all felt it, this harsh, heart-broken voice that questions, ‘when did things get this bad?’

People are suffering all around the world. Pistols are being lowered. The entire planet is cowering before a speck of existence. We are stunned. We are startled by our own helplessness. It is not our fault. We were once sure that the universe revolved around us. The change in paradigm is a world-wind. It will take us some time to adjust to our own insignificance.

Entire economies fall apart. The wealthy pull at the ends of their hair and hide under their bed sheets. The poor are running too, but their feet are slower. Sounds familiar? The world doesn’t do repetitions, but it sure does have a thing for trends.

In the midst of this chaos, there comes upon a thrum of revulsion. It runs frenzy, on the skins of those prone to anger, on those who owe their roots to a little island. A tear drop on the vast blue of the Indian Ocean— its cries seem to have become a permanent part of its soul.

Things are okay! The ruffians haven’t started burning things down, putting the world on blast! There’s no bloodshed!

But there’s hatred. An ideology of hatred that’s being fed full. The people are stuffing their hands with all the bread they can get their hands on. They’re hiding in their homes. And they are feeding a beast that hides beneath the wallpaper.

It grows bigger than its clothes. It grows gluttonous, and yet needs no sin to feed itself. The people satisfy this by their own stupidity.

You see, our people aren’t accustomed to fear. They have grown up with spoiling. Petted by their mothers, fed diamonds by their fathers, my people don’t know what it feels like to wake up in cold sweat. A phenomenon, but not an uncommon one.

This is an ignorance that education cannot solve. For our people boast of a high literacy, the best state universities, and the ability to spout their hate in three languages. They just haven’t learnt to live in a world of diversity. Truly a shame.

To the few that have known to open their blinders, and peep into the world past the teardrop, things feel a little less frightening. They’ve witnessed torment, they’ve witnessed countries that fall to dust within a span of month, they’ve seen things and by the sight of it, things do not look so bad.

Our supremacists cover in their bedrooms. March is burrowing into April and people are dying now. It’s terrifying.

A quantity of my people cope by placing their foreheads to the Earth, with tears streaming down their cheeks.

‘I will do what I can, but I submit myself to the will of the universe.’

The other, close their eyes and chant, for the stars, for Nature and the World to grow up and heal itself.

‘Come on,’ they say. ‘I’m trying,’ they say. ‘Please help me out’.

All the people are doing their best. It’s just that everyone assumes that they are doing more than the guy next door. That the guy next door has weird tastes, likes crappy food and is probably stupid.

‘But it’s a fatal matter! Of course people are going to think!‘

When someone’s angry, or shit scared, you will find that their capacity to think shrivels to a stop.

And so it begins. The finger pointing. The overreaction. The ‘guy next door is probably the one causing everything’. The thing is, we’re too afraid of blaming ourselves. And thus choose other people.

Here come the keyboard warriors, whose hate tastes like vodka, which burns the throat but is sweet to drink. It transcends languages and identities. Everyone feels their heart burn with a force of madness that compels their minds to fall back primitive.

Here come the cavemen, who only know to make sparks by striking stones together.

They’re running in circles. Everyone is aware of this. But, they are also terrified of leaving their minds empty for fear to occupy. And so hatred is invited.

Come distract me.

Like the ants that walk on the land to the shawls of fish swimming underwater, the diversity in the human race is so vast that we make up a body of color, absolutely stunning to behold by an observer’s eye.

You wouldn’t tell a tiger to change the color of its stripes in order to make the lion more comfortable. As an observer, you prefer the differences to the boring monotony. The animals also agree. Both beasts are comfortable with their differences, confident in their own beauty.

Perhaps this is what we should learn from animals, instead of following their way of pouncing on those who appear weak. We are all beautiful. We all feel the same compassion and need for survival. Sometimes, we may express ourselves differently. But an individual’s mode of expression remains his business alone.

You’ve got your back, just as I’ve got mine. If you can’t let go of the will to fight and spread hatred, at least try driving in your lane instead of bulldozing into mine.

(A/N: rants may not end racism. but words have been known for their power. wishing health and safety to every reader. wishing love and protection in the light of current events ✌🏽)

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne

Halfway through this (actually three fourths through this) and I am a whirlwind of emotions. I suppose this is how romance novels are supposed to feel. The author has nailed it. Mixed emotions and also the impeding question of whether the main guy should be considered problematic — the book has checked the biggest blocks of our checklist and the ride has definitely been worthy. However, as we are a team for greater, more perceptive readings, let us delve into the what the book presents and then, what this eventually stands for.

The Good

• FULLY FLESHED CHARACTERS

Both Josh and Lucy are both a delight to read. I definitely enjoyed the very quirky, entertaining point of views Thorne dished out. Lucy’s perspective is particularly engaging, with her unconventional way of interpreting mundane situations to be slightly more strange than they actually are. Her active sense of imagination is a delight to read and Thorne’s humour is impeccably fine tuned to be a constant source of entertainment. Not once does the comedy weigh down on the plot. Definitely an impressive feat, given that the book spans a good 387 pages.

• SETTING

The work environment is definitely fun to read about. Competitive and with built on the essential element of self gain, the publishing workplace was so much fun to immerse myself in. The fact that neither of the characters were too ready to sacrifice their jobs for each other (to a certain extent) adds to this.

The Bad

• Chemistry

Now you might be confused at the subheading, since this book is crazy famous for the chemistry between the main duo, but I’m being critical here so bear with me.

The author played into the sunshine/tough guy trope WAY too much. The height gap, dynamic contrast in personalities and dorky lead was engaging enough in the beginning. But towards the end, I found myself getting sick of it. I had the odd feeling that the MC was aware of her own cuteness and that aspect of her character itself felt a bit strained and caricatured towards the end of the novel. The same goes for how the main guy is described to be impeccably hot and interesting. Eh. Once attractiveness is established it must not be flaunted. One gets tired of such shit.

Structure

As you might have realised, this section of the review comes after I’ve reached the second half of the book. The only reason I’m typing this is in itself a form of procrastination because the book feels boring. The main guy is so hot and good and yadda yadda yadda. She stands up to his dad (in WHICH universe is this realistic, I beg the question?)

The first half of the book was SO good, in comparison. So entertaining, with all the office events and little games between the MCs. The second half was just damning in how boring it managed to be.

Also, the issues of the plot just naturally resolved to put the couple together? Honestly I am offended for my time. Thank God I didn’t actually pay for the book.

Bottom line: sometimes the hype is just.. hype. Perhaps the hype comes from a parallel universe where the author does not rush the end. Do not believe it🤷🏽‍♀️.