The Solitary Reaper- Critical Appreciation by Sudipta Kr. Gogoi

Every time we read poetry, the only thing that gushes through our thoughts is a brawny urgency to decipher the meaning behind those few lines. I am no exception to that and I also make several attempts to delve deep into the thoughts and a series of conjectures just starts beaming into my mind.

In a state of utter desire to have my own thoughts recollected and assembled, I have made here an attempt to bring to you a critical review of one the most famous lyrical ballads of English literature – The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth.

“ Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary highland lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O Listen! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending; -

I listen’d, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more. ”

- William Wordsworth (1805 A.D)

A poet always gives birth to poetry when he has thoughts in his mind. This birth of poetry is no where comparable to a prose because of its sheer ingenuity to express the most in the least of expressions. This is captured by the most skillful of their times, in language, as simple as it could be, with the message in the most artistic flavor. The common man takes it into his understanding with the flow of the lines and brings out an explanation, in utter desire of expression, which reveals what the poet carried in his mind and heart through those few lines.

If we take Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper” into consideration, a similar feeling comes to our mind w.r.t those few lines. The story of a Highland girl who sings in Gaelic, a Celtic language still spoken in the Highlands of Scotland and the Hebrides- She is being lonely, with voice incomparable to that of a cuckoo or a nightingale, perhaps reflecting either sorrow or loss in the family. The poet, unknown to what she sings, still reminiscences her song in his memory until the future.

Let us now take a deep dive into this poetry, or let say, scrutinize each and every line of it to understand what might have led Wordsworth to depict such a feeling.

The first four lines depict a feminine character and by this we can compare the most epitomes of all feminine characters, The Mother Earth. The next four lines throw light upon her activity which, more or less, is natural and mundane. But we get a feeling of unhappiness, sorrow in these lines which really brings to our mind the sorrow and pain of our Mother Earth. And this particular pain is tumultuous to have been overflowing like the sound of agony.

At this stage of description, let me remind you that William Wordsworth belongs to that period of English literature when the Industrial Revolution of England had just begun and it was during the first phase of it when this particular poem was composed. In addition to it is also hinted that the idea of a new social order based on major industrial revolution was implicit through Wordsworth at the turn of the century.

Now, coming back on to the poem, we see that the second stanza describe an unassuming songbird singing to wearied travelers. This has got a natural imagery of people who earlier used to retire back home in the evening from their fields. Industrialization has taken its toll and even the birds wish to fulfill their singing, even amidst a desert looking city with dust and sand, with the best of their tunes. The thrilling voice of cuckoo, which is incomparable to that sung in spring also relates to a hidden negative aspect of a groaning pain for a future calamity that might overturn the Mother Earth across the seas and faraway places. The macabre of futility (a negative aspect for Industrial Revolution) is being depicted here with the best of words and simple expression of a natural phenomena going beyond its original quality to express a pain or a melancholy feeling.

The third stanza of this particular poem is one of the most beautiful depictions of a simple question of shaping the future from a dark and morose past. The query for the song (sung in a language unknown to the author) is a direct question to the sustainability of Industrial development for the future (unknown to the author) and how it can never be done away without raging a war, losing many lives, natural deaths (pollution perhaps!) , all of which might just bundle up. This stanza brings out the most crucial doubt of Wordsworth on the Industrial Revolution as he brings with such a subtlety the horrifying consequences which may wreak upon Mother Earth.

The last stanza is a conclusive summarization of Wordsworth’s feelings as he watches time just flying away with all the developments and it seems an endless pursuit, unstoppable and unmovable. He expresses this with a painful word to Mother Earth (old and worn out, bent like an old lady with her regular natural work). These melancholy feelings he carries along with his whole life as he surges towards death. The mounting up the hill may depict the Mount of Sinai where Moses received the Ten Commandments which here refer to Wordsworth gaining the same for knowing the fate of Industrial Revolution with the backdrop of Mother Earth’s pain and in hope of a promising answer.

This interpretation of “The Solitary Reaper “by William Wordsworth is aimed at giving a different insight into a poet’s mind as to what, how and in which way the simple things of our life can be explained or expressed with subtle scenes and picturesque depictions. I do not claim that this particular interpretation is the fruitful and legitimate interpretation of such a lovely poetry but I do stand with my opinion and my words for a discussion. I am open to your suggestions and critical review on this work of mine and if I am arguably convinced by you, I will not deter myself from correcting at any stage or point of time. Feel free to go in-depth and discover a new world of subtle expressions and hidden beauties in the simple things of our lives.

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The Broken Window

We must retaliate.

That’s what they thought. And I had no choice but to agree.

We were sitting on the cement floor, in John’s room, the place where we met, every night. Prakash had a shrewd smile on his face, and I knew that he had thought of an evil plan.

“Explosions!”

Prakash spoke with his patented grim and sly expression.

“What the hell? Are you nuts? I am going back to my room’’

I shouted. John gestured me to lower my voice. It was study time. We were supposed to be in our own rooms and study. Our hostel warden, Mr. Binny Thomas, whom we called as Bean, was a haughty and ruthless guy, and he, indisputably, was our biggest enemy. Bean, finding us in the same room was the last thing that we ever wanted. That would give him a good enough reason to dismiss all the three of us. He already had plenty of them, mostly attributed to the plans by Prakash. But somehow, we hung in. One more, and we were out. I was sure of that.

The three of us, and the hostel management were in a constant war. They imparted rules, which smothered us all the way. We were plus two students, not the inmates of a jail. Just because our parents put us in this boarding school, we couldn’t have died, trying to mug up stuff.

“Just shut up and listen to the plan. We’ll buy some good crackers, the loudest ones possible. We hide them somewhere in the hostel, attaching them to the rear end of a mosquito coil, say by 9 o clock or so. As the coil finishes, the cracker goes off, that’s probably by 2 or 3 at night. Everyone including Bean will go crazy. No one would even be able to find out what happened. What do you say?”

Prakash looked at us.

I was surprised. How the hell does this guy come up with such nefarious ideas all the time?

It was his idea to break the window glass in John’s room and use it to go for late night movies. We used to get out through the window, jump over the compound wall, and after the movie, come back the same way. Nobody ever knew.

We were trying to avenge Bean’s decision to reduce the Sports and Games time from one hour to half, and nobody could have suggested a better plan than this. I was not very much good in any of the games, but I loved the fact that nobody expected you to study during that one hour. Both Prakash and John could play football well, and I spent my time, watching them play. Once I tried playing with them, and managed to come out, without the ball touching my feet even once. But it wasn’t that bad. I did a decent header, even though the ball hit my face and not my forehead, leaving me staggering, for a few moments. Snake and ladder was the only game which I could play well. But it was not included in sports. I didn’t know why .

"Awesome plan man. Time to kick Bean's ass. He'll have a tough time in finding out what happened. I'm in. We'll proceed."

John announced his support. It was my turn after that.

"Um, well sounds like a good plan to me, but… er… what if he finds out? He will definitely throw us out. And my Dad will slaughter me. Mom will cry non-stop. I can't take all that. Last time Bean called and complained to them, my whole Christmas vacation got spoiled over that."

I let my concerns out. I was afraid.

Both of them didn’t like it.

“Why are you being paranoid? How the hell will he find out? We'll hide the crackers properly. Even if he finds that out, he will never know it's us."

John tried to convince. Prakash just had his trademark, disdainful smile on his face. I hated it. He was cool. Fearless. I always wondered how he could be that way. I secretly admired his guts, but, I hated him for deriding at my fear and making me feel embarrassed.

“Ok, I’m also in. We’ll pull this off. No matter what happens”

I said, trying to sound confident.

Prakash said he would buy the crackers. Mosquito coils were my responsibility. We dispersed, after planning to meet the next day evening.

***

I bought mosquito coils while I was on the way back from school. I never thought they would be of any use, even though mosquitoes were plenty in our rooms. After flying around for some time, mosquitoes would go sit on the coil, and chill out, using it as a couch. Mosquitoes got adapted, was what Prakash said. Bugger knew all that. He could grasp things very quickly, unlike me. He said it came under the theory of evolution, discovered by Isaac Newton or something. I didn’t know for sure. I always flunked in Physics. Or was that from Biology? Anyways, I flunked in both,just like I did in Math. And yeah, the other subjects, too.

But just because of that bastard discovered it, mosquito coils didn’t work anymore. I hated him for that. He should have discovered something useful.

***

Everything went as planned. On the first day, we hid the cracker at one corner of the corridor, behind the dustbin. It went off at 3.30 in the night. Everybody got scared. Bean ran around, trying to figure out what happened, as if his bottom was on fire. His first conclusion was that the cooking gas cylinder in the kitchen, exploded. We laughed our asses out.

We did that a couple of times more in the next week, hiding the cracker at different places. It was just too much fun. But very soon, Bean got the hint. He knew someone was playing a prank. He called a meeting and threatened that he would get hold of the culprits one day, and will dismiss them straightaway. I shuddered, but never showed that. Prakash and John were unmoved, as usual.

***

Fourth time. The inevitable happened. We overdid it, was what I thought. Bean was supposed to be having dinner. And John saw the watchman going to the ground floor. No one was out there, since it was study time. But when we were about to hide it inside one of the toilets, Bean popped up, out of nowhere. Disaster.

Dismissals were written and handed over to us within half an hour, at the warden’s office. I burst into tears.

“Be a man, loser. Don’t cry like a child”

Prakash whispered in my ear. But I didn’t care anymore. Dad was going to kill me.

***

We sat on the floor in John’s room, for the last time. Both John and Prakash were silent.

“I don’t even know what to do. I can’t go home. Dad will feed me to the dogs.”

I was struggling to control my tears.

“Will you please stop whining? We are all facing the same situation here”

John was really angry.

“Oh yea, but you don’t know how it feels for me to go home. How my parents are going to make me regret for this”

I said, with my voice breaking in between.

“You have your parents to go back to. And you have a home which you can call yours. I don’t have both of those”

Prakash said, in a calm voice, with a melancholy smile on his face, which I had never seen on him before. I was dumbfounded. Tears stopped flowing, from my eyes. No matter however imperfect and insipid I considered myself to be, I still had countless blessings in my life. That thought struck me like a meteor.

All of us were silent for some time. I looked towards the broken window.

“How about a movie, pals?”

I looked at both John and Prakash, wiping my tears.

Both of them looked at each other and smiled. A few moments, and we jumped over the compound wall. After all, it was our last adventure together.

Author Profile

Sudeep is a techie with a flair for humor. He likes to call himself a  'so called Engineer', who is crazy about books and movies. He likes to jot down nonsense in his free time, and wants to write a screenplay, someday. Sudeep blogs at http://thsntht.blogspot.com/ , but thinks that the only regular reader of his blog is himself.

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Book Review-A Thousand Splendid Suns

It isn’t everyday that you come across a story that chronicles the life and trials of an average women. The Namesake, Memoirs of a Geisha, Anne Frank’s Diary and Mother are titles that probably fall in that category. While “The Namesake” follows the life of an Indian immigrant woman coping with an American way of life, Memoirs of a Gesiha, Anne Frank’s Diary and Mother are set in more turbulent times. What binds these stories is the fact that the central characters, female, witness drastic societal changes that occur in one particular or a multitude of phases in their lives. These stories are also a rendition of the roles women assume or are imposed on as an outcome of the circumstances they find themselves in. The unsung heroic struggles they undertake, be it their personal conflicts or revolutions of mammoth proportions.

A Thousand Splendid Suns is a story that follows Mariam and Laila, two Afghan women, their travails in a land where virginity ought to be served to a husband on a platter and violence appears to be a man’s birthright. It is Mariam perhaps, of the two, whose life carries more tragedy and irony. The illegitimate child of a wealthy capitalist, Mariam grew up conflicted amidst the pent-up love of her scornful mother and the fallacious affections of a doting father. In an adolescent frenzy, her aspiration to be a part of her father’s legitimate family, leads her to his doorstep, much to her mother’s dismay. In an ironic twist, her father refuses to acknowledge her and, she returns home heartbroken, only to find that her mother had committed suicide. Before she could recover from the trauma and guilt over her mother’s death, her father marries her off to a shoe maker in Kabul. Excluding the first few days of her marriage, filled with patronized affection and painful sex, Mariam unwittingly falls into a quagmire of misery and abuse at the hands of her spouse, following underage pregnancy and miscarriages.

Laila, too grew up amidst a forlorn mother (the reason being the death of her two sons in the revolt against Soviet) and a doting father. Laila’s father was a liberal man, a teacher, who aspired to make his daughter a learned woman. Even when he lost his teaching job and was reduced to working in mines due to communism, her father strives to get Laila educated, atleast until the inter community battles emerged. Unlike Mariam, Laila was far less resilient, dared to engage in pre marital coupling and stood up for what she believed was unfair. Mariam has certainly seen more years than Laila, but what Laila lacks in years, she makes up with her experience and wit, the former for that matter never the chance to experience anything other than endurance. Mariam was a teenaged bride when Laila’s mother bore Laila, but circumstances led them both to end up being married to the same man. Although they get off on the wrong foot, the duo end up being each other’s chum, confidante and strength. It happens after Laila extends her warmth to Mariam by standing up for her against Rasheed, and she reluctantly accepts it. Hosseini writes “and in this fleeting, wordless exchange with Mariam, Laila knew they were no longer enemies” (Page 244).

A Thousand Splendid Suns occurs in the backdrop of the Kabul’s transformation into an oppressive society. When one speaks of Taliban, the immediate image that forms in the mind is of arms wielding men and burqa clad woman, a terror-stricken cemetery of sorts. The narrative of Mariam and Laila, in contrast to the per-conceived notions about demure, compliant women, is a beautiful rendition of the lives of the people who have no way out and are forced to live through ages of turmoil. Mariam, for instance, stares at awe, at women who dress in western clothes, wear make up and paint their nails (this was of course much before the Taliban regime). This reflects the stark contrast in the lifestyles of the women living in smaller villages and the urban women, lifestyles of the ones with financial constraints and the ones without. We also see, how the Taliban establishment, acts as a leveler of the status of women from diverse socioeconomic demography. They are all reduced to a subjugated breed, prohibited from the basic rights like education and outdoor activities.

Ethnic diversity triggers off most of the unwanted violence in Kabul. It is rightly predicted through Laila’s forward thinking father, “To me its nonsense, and a very dangerous nonsense at that-all this talk of I’m Tajik and you’re Pashtun and he’s Hazara and she’s Uzbek. We’re all Afghans, and that’s all that should matter.” It is evident that when communal and ethnic disharmony becomes a bottleneck to the unity of a nation, the society eventually falls out. Perhaps that is what Khaled Hosseini tries to express through him. Religion again is a very important theme in the book. It is religion what people fight over, it is the religious laws based on which the entire social spectrum is altered. It is religion again that helps the central character Mariam get going. Her prayers, her Quran and the little morsel of faith that her teacher Mullah Faizullah packs her off with, are all that she could call her own, look up to in terms of despair.

Family ties could be considered yet another dimension to A Thousand Splendid Suns, placed with utmost subtleness and sensitivity. Khaled Hosseini skilfully lets us into the lives of these two women, makes us walk the same paths they do, and tells us that inspite of the drought and the holocaust atmosphere the people hold together, as a unit, as a family and celebrate every time they can sneak in a little happiness into their lives. Let’s take a look at Mariam, as a child although she was content with her father’s weekly visits, the longing to become a part of his ‘real’ family like her mother would say, become overpowering. Despite her mother’s warnings against her father’s insincerity, she adores him and considers him to be someone who walked out of a fable, and sets out hoping to get accepted into his world. She names pebbles after her half siblings and places the one named after her aside, much aware that she might be the odd one out, and yet having unconditional love towards her father. Likewise, Laila bears whips and beating of guards, every day, in the hope of spending a few moments with her daughter, tucked away in an orphanage. We come across dysfunctional families like Laila’s with both her brothers dead and mother crestfallen; we see close knit families like Tariq’s with whom Laila senses a kinship, much before the two fell in love. Later as the women begin to empathize with each other, we witness an inseparable bond develop between Laila and Mariam.

The title is inspired by a line in the Josephine Davis translation of the poem "Kabul", by the 17th-century Iranian poet Saib Tabrizi.

One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs
And the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls

What it signifies could be a question with many possibilities. The first being the state of Kabul itself, the very fact that Kabul’s scenic exquisiteness seems to be on the decline with the rise of Taliban, the people who continue to live there, have to struggle to survive through a day, that relishing on the splendour of Kabul is unfathomable. Mariam’s ironic life- every time she comes close to happiness situation only worsens, could also be embodied in the thought a thousand splendid suns went past her, unnoticed, as she struggled with her own existence. A Thousand Splendid Suns could also be the splendid sun that Laila witnesses, and gives a closure to Mariam’s tragic saga.

The story ends on a shocking note, yet in its twisted way, feels like the only acceptable closure. For years Mariam’s lived with the guilt of being a harami, an unwanted weed, and through her whole life, tried to make up for it by being compliant. Nonetheless when she does something unthinkable for her own nature, and gets convicted by Taliban, she finally feels dignified. In Hosseini’s won words ‘a legitimate end to an illegitimate beginning’.

Khaled Hosseini proves his mastery in story telling, by using multiple narratives to bring forth both domestic and national turmoil, and the impact it has on those who live through that. As a reader, be prepared to be stunned, heart-broken and completely moved by A Thousand Splendid Suns.

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The Cassette

“Do you have everything you need?” she asked, looking up at him as he rushed to the door.

“Everything,” He answered, setting the nap-sack down to fuss with the tie of his Crackerjack uniform. “It’s only for six months. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know,” Cynthia answered, fidgeting her fingers as she adjusted the toddler on her hip. “It’s just... I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Honey,” David cooed, adjusting the smaller bag he carried on his shoulder. “And I’ll miss you, too, Sweet-pea,” he said, placing his hand gently on the little girl’s head. “Now, Missy, You take good care of Momma for me, now. Don’t keep her up all night.”

“You know she will, now that you’ve said something,” Cynthia laughed, wiping a tear from her eye. “Come home safe,” she whispered, looking up at him, willing him to understand how much she needed him.

“I will, I promise. Oh,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his pea-coat, pulling out a small package. “It’s not much, but maybe it will help you sleep some. I’ve got to go.”

“Alright. I love you,” Cynthia said, the tears starting to flow freely now, as she took the small parcel from his hand, shoving it in her back pocket without looking at it.

“I love you, too, Honey. Be safe,” he said, kissing the top of her head. Cynthia held the screen for him as he rushed to his cab, waving behind him frantically. Waving back, she allowed the screen to shut, and watched as the cab drove down the street and around the corner until it couldn’t be seen any more.


As the dark settled in, Cynthia started to get jumpy. David was gone for his deployment, Missy was sound asleep in her crib, and the house was entirely too spotless from her frantic cleaning. Sitting down for the first time in hours, she gasped.

“What the hell?” she mumbled, reaching into her back pocket to pull the foreign object out. She looked at the small package, wondering what it could possibly be.

“Maybe it will help you sleep some.”
What was it? Some kind of sleeping pill? She pulled off the newspaper wrapping that David had taped around the object.

“A tape?” she whispered, confusion clouding around her mind. Walking slowly to the bedroom she shared with David, she wondered what could possibly be on it to help her sleep.

As she opened the door and turned on the light, she noticed the small label he’d attached to one side.

I love you, sleep well.
She absolutely adored that man.

She lightly pressed the eject button on the cassette deck on the bureau, and tucked the cassette in place. A few seconds after pressing the play button, she recognized the first voice that drifted to her from the speakers.

“I love you, and I miss you, and I hope you sleep well, Honey.”
David’s voice fell from the speakers sounding as if he were right there in the room with her. Tears sprang up in her eyes as she realized how lucky she was to have him. Even from miles and miles away he knew exactly what she needed to hear.

As the opening bars of Close To You by The Carpenters filled the room, her tears spilled from her eyes. She lay on the bed and cried herself out, not even bothering to change out of her jeans and t-shirt before pulling the covers over herself.

As her eyelids started to droop, the sound changed. Instead of music, there was a dull rumbling, a bass sound that rattled the few coins atop the stereo. Cynthia started to panic, pulling the covers back quickly to stop the cassette deck before it ruined the precious memento of her husband’s love for her. Then, suddenly, she recognized the sound.

“His snoring,” she whispered, laughingly, to herself. Settling herself back in the bed, she turned the light out and closed her eyes. She should have realized that if he’d gone through all this trouble to make sure she could sleep, he would’ve included the one sound she was so used to hearing at night that it was impossible for her to fall asleep without it anymore.

Her last thought as she fell asleep was that she really did adore that man.

Author Profile

Alicia M Conner is a US based writer and blogger. She likes to call herself a nerdy 28 year old girl who writes for her own entertainment.'Writing is a minor form self-therapy', she preaches. Alicia doesn't share a lot of her written word, but 'The Cassette' just seemed to 'beg' to be shared, however.

Click here to visit Alicia's website

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A Mouldy Orange

The lunch at the temple was sumptuous. “It has to be another donor bribing the Gods”, he thought, as he licked the last crumb of khichdi and chilly chutney from his aluminium plate. Lunch was always a sumptuous affair. One or the other devotee walked into the temple’s premises, barefoot and to offer their prayers, flowers and substantial amounts of food. The Gods didn’t have much of an appetite for the rations; the pundits didn’t mind giving away few scraps to scavengers like him. Dinner never mattered much. The meagre sum he collected from passer bys everyday was enough to buy some cheap intoxicant, which made him pass out before dinner time.

The temple had been his abode for nearly two decades, after he escaped from the lair of the brute who housed people like him. He was lucky to have only his left arm amputated; others like him had been robbed of their legs and even sight. Life hadn’t much to offer him eversince, neither good nor bad.

So, when the little girl looked at him with her big brown eyes he felt as if an angel had looked straight at him. She wore a snow white dress, silver shoes and a pair of synthetic butterfly wings on her back. She stared at him, a strange calm in her eyes. Clasping her mother’s hand, she took a few unsure steps towards him and offered him the orange she would have otherwise eaten herself. He extended his aluminium plate and accepted the orange with all the gratitude in his heart. The angelic face burst into a shy grin, and almost instantly vanished from the spot leaving him alone to enjoy the orange.

Flavour was a concept, unknown to him, his tongue been accustomed to the temple’s leftovers and cheap nicotine. Any other man would have thrown that orange straight into a trash can. For the orange was mouldy, its very presence added a pungent stench to the air. But, to him it was simply like biting into a slice of heaven. His eyes filled with tears of bliss as the juicy pulp melted inside the dry cavity of his mouth. He took his time, to peel the orange, taking in bit by bit into his craving maw and relishing it till his tongue had licked off the last driblets of the sickly sweet juice from his right arm. For once in life, in his entire two and a half decade of existence, he knew, for the first time, what heaven would be like, what heaven was. When the sun had set in, he was too exhausted from his ecstasy. He took a few puffs of his customary smoke and transcended into the familiar delirium, soon taken over by a concluding slumber.

The public service doctor covered his nose with a large handkerchief. He held the corpse’s wrist, checked for his pulse and confirmed his death. The ice cold body lay lifeless. The doctor’s associates busied themselves with the necessary paperwork to obtain the homeless dead body for the medical school morgue. Poking the stinking vomit with a stick, the doctor removed the handkerchief from his nose and said, “This happens all the time. A regular case of food poisoning, the poor chap must have eaten something stale.”

 Author Profile

Susmita Bora juggles between being the mother of a one year old little girl and as Officer at IDBI Bank. Although a science graduate she has always felt a stronger inclination towards English and Assamese literature. An avid reader Susmita likes to explore her sensitive side when she writes. A Mouldy Orange is her first date with Flash Fiction.

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Heartless

They say I am cold! What do they know? I am anything but cold. Despite the fancy exterior and my cold demeanour that makes me so desirable, my insides are fizzing with fire. 

I could get inside her, possess her and let her drain that last ounce of me. 

She certainly looks hot, parched, wanting, and craving as she grabs the girth of my male stubbornness with her slender fingers. I let her raise me to her mouth and place my opening on her soft, pouty lips. She imbibes on my offering, swallowing me, bit by bit not sparing a single drop. 

The two of us, we’re both elevated to unfathomable levels of ecstasy. Sigh! It’s over. I am over. We were so meant to be together. 

The only trouble is, gee whiz, the heartless bitch would now dump me in a trash can, for I am simply a 'Coke Can'!

 Author Profile

Jim Ankan is a fusion musician and the director of the music institute in Bangalore - Eastern Fare Music Foundation. A self taught WebMaster, Jim manages multiple blogs and social media communities. The most popular ones are the North East India page on Facebook and Eric Johnson’s Official Facebook Fan Page.

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