June 2018

I N K
& S W o R D
Issue 2, June 2018

Dear Readers,
Welcome to the second issue of Ink & Sword!
Life is all about balance. No, I am not talking about your
bank account. I am referring to a concept far more
meaningful and what has become a necessity in our
stressful, fast paced lives. The root cause of so many
people falling into depression or suffering from other
physical illnesses is a lack of balance in our society.
There are numerous contrasting views and opinions on
everything and everyone wants to assert their thought,
their opinion, because it is the ‘correct’ one. It pushes
some who are unable to voice their thoughts into a corner
forcing them to suffer in silence. Society needs to
remember the basics: speaking and listening are two
connected parts and only when they work together can
communication be effective and successful. Just like after
a dark night there is a bright morning; after winter there is
summer; bad times are followed by good times. Balance.
The concept of opposing forces coexisting together is a
fragile one. Opposing elements like dark and light, good
and evil, draw energy from one another and often in
doing so take on the characteristics of the other one,
therefore changing roles. The point is – they are temporary
presences. However, if one never experiences the
biting cold of winter, it is quite unlikely they will treasure
the warmth and cheerfulness of a bright summer’s day.
Perhaps that is why writers are needed today; to shed
light on areas overlooked by society, to voice thoughts
that have long gone unheard, to spread positivity and
create a connection between people bypassing borders
and cultural differences. On that note, I would like to
thank all the writers who took an interest in our magazine
and sent us their work.
A lot of work goes into setting up and managing a literary
magazine, and since our first issue we have definitely
learned quite a few things. It has been an exciting - sometimes
nerve wracking - journey and we are thrilled to
finally release the latest issue. It greatly pleases us to
announce that we have TWO featured writers in this
issue! It was pure luck we came across their composed
pieces which immediately grabbed our interest, and we
are overjoyed to be able to showcase their amazing talent.
By launching Ink & Sword, I wanted to tap the hidden
potential in every aspiring writer and help them become
better, so they can achieve their literary dreams. Following
this thought, we contacted a few renowned authors
and got the opportunity to interview them! We asked
questions about their writing process, the struggles they
faced, their characters – all of which, we hope, will
inspire and motivate you.
With that, I bid you farewell so that you can proceed to
indulge in our pages full of literary fiction and fun!
-Rayya Taha, Editor-in-Chief
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Acknowledgements
Front Cover Design
Sana Taha
Mast Head Design
Amal Nadeem
A heartfelt Thank You to our family and friends
for their constant support and generous words of advice.
We are blessed to have you!
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Contents
[ The Tree and the Monster ]
Short Stories
By Michael James…………………………………Pg 6
[ Two Worlds ]
By Sara Hoskinson………………………………Pg 12
[ The Human Battery ]
By Ashley Ardor………………………………...Pg 15
[ Jewels’ Diary: Part One ]
By Jimi Alan…………………………………….Pg 19
[ Lunar Ikegai ]
Poetry
By Barry Hollow…………….…..……………….Pg 22
[ Not of the Same ]
By Sara Hoskinson…………………...…..………Pg 23
[ Good and Evil ]
By Isaac Eustice …………………..…………..…Pg 24
[ Fear ]
By Jared Presser…………………………….…..Pg 25
[ Heard It All ]
By Maha Shahid………………….……………..Pg 28
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[ Deteriorate ]
By Marisca Robbertse……..… Pg 29
[ My Faith ]
By Suman Upadhyay………….Pg 30
Non-Fiction
[ Just Me: the Good and the Bad ]
By Fathima Naz……..…….….Pg 32
Featured Writers
[ I Am ]
By Jessica Walsh…………… Pg 26
[ Dukkha ]
By Isaac Eustic……………....Pg 27
Interviewss
[ Q & A with Rhys Bowen ]
…………………………………..Pg 11
[ Q & A with Charlain Harris ]
…………………………………..Pg 31
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Author: Michael James
A 43 year old bank employee who describes himself as doing “Weird banking stuff where if you understood what I did for a living,
you’d be like ‘wait, we pay people for that?’ and then you’d question everything and get depressed.”
The Tree and the Monster
Genre: Fantasy
Here. Listen.
If you ever find yourself on Digby Street, keep walking to where the road ends at a wide-open field. In
the center of that field is a tree. You will know it when you see it. It sticks out because it’s the only thing in
the field, and it’s offensively large. Even the field (which is no slouch in the immensity department) seems less
by comparison. The grass is well maintained, although no lawnmower has ever touched a blade. They bend
and point inward. As you enter the field and get closer to the middle, you will feel a physical pull, and you will
notice the ground slopes downward, almost as if the weight of the tree is a burden.
To be clear, the weight of the tree is a burden.
In as much as trees can be evil (they cannot), this tree is evil. More accurately, it’s the thing that lives
inside it that is evil.
The tree is pretty unhappy with this arrangement but lacks the reasoning capability to do anything
about it.
It is, after all, just a tree.
Every two weeks, Sean comes to this field. Sean clearly dislikes his name. His name is ridiculous, and
he knows it. People don’t “yean” or eat “prean” or go jogging at the break of “dean”. Sean is the dumbest
name ever! It’s giving the English language a candy before molesting it. It’s not the only reason Sean’s life is a
mess, but he thinks it’s the catalyst. He has had a long-harbored suspicion that his life would be only medium
6

crummy if his name was Dave or something else altogether.
At least his name isn’t Geoff.
Regardless, Sean has a boatload of problems and hopes the evil thing that lives in the tree can help
him.
The evil thing that lives in the tree is named Richard. A much more sensible name than Sean. Despite
being distilled evil, Richard already has a leg up on him. Sean knows this, and it rankles him.
Sean is bothered by many things.
To get Richard to come out of his tree, you must perform a special knock. A magic knock. Sean knows
how to do this. He spent a year in Taiwan where one can purchase magic with their green tea; if they seem to
be sufficiently motivated and have an interesting back story.
He pounds on the rough bark three times.
“Hey Richard,” he yells at the tree. “Come on out.”
Real magic is profoundly unsexy and practical. This is the only spell Sean knows and he casts it
flawlessly. A line forms in the tree, taking the shape of a door. After some shuffling, light swearing and the
sound of many locks clicking, the door in the tree opens and Richard peers out.
Sean immediately vomits. Richard is pretty goddamn grotesque. To wit:
If you took every instance of every time a human was cruel and pushed all that petty cruelty into a ball
and gave it a physical form, that would be Richard’s forehead.
Here’s the thing about his nose. If you collected together all the people who had used the term “cold
enough for ya?”, set them all on fire, filmed all the melting flesh and then projected that film onto a circus tent
made from testicle flesh, you’d have an idea of what Richard's nose looked like.
His eyes were ever so slightly too far apart.
So, then. Vomit. It was part of the routine. Both are used to it and Richard politely waits for the
sickness to pass.
“Hello Sean.” He says.
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Sean tries to respond, but makes the mistake of breathing through his mouth, which means he can sort
of taste Richard and then there isn't enough vomit in his body to throw up.
Paradoxically, Sean eats huge meals before coming to the tree. He had learned that if he looked at
Richard on an empty stomach, his body would just find other things to throw up, like full organs and blood.
It’s like his body thinks, “Nope, that can’t possibly be enough puke for a deranged creature like that. Keep
going.”
Sean had eaten a lot though, and eventually his body was satisfied with the volume of vomit he
expelled.
“Hi Richard.” He says, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m ready to try again.”
“Okay, no problem” Richard replies.
Aside from being hot evil, Richard’s primary function is of a gatekeeper. The tree (in addition to being
a house) is a portal to a strange and wonderful land where dogs are always puppies and the wind is mild and
you can always smell freshly cut grass. Did someone say ice cream all the time? You betcha. It is a wonderful
place and Sean desperately wants to go there. He suspects life will be better in the new world. It will be a
place where he will be rich and respected, and he will never say “Good, you?” when a waiter asks him if he is
ready to order.
It is, in short, a paradise. And Sean will do anything to get there. Anything.
Interlude
Holy smokes, this is getting exciting. I thought you could use a break. At this point, I bet you’re thinking
the “anything” Sean will do is going to be dark. Like eat a baby or something. Or maybe Richard will
force him to do pushups.
Rest assured, it’s nothing like that. It’s important you don’t become agitated when reading this story,
because Richard will know. You really don’t want Richard to know what you’re doing. Don’t worry, the story
still has legs, but nothing grotesque happens. Feel better? Great. Let’s continue.
End Interlude.
8

To pass by Richard, you must solve his riddle (See? Nothing too crazy). You are only allowed to try
once every two weeks and the riddle is different every time. The riddles are spectacularly difficult, and Sean
has never come close.
Sean has studied and crammed. He's read every book on riddles ever made, some two or three times.
There have only been nine books written on the subject and none have ever turned a profit. Although
no one has ever connected this, every author who has written a book about riddles has died under very mysterious
circumstances. I'm not saying Richard is definitely responsible, but I am saying Richard is probably responsible.
Don't read books about riddles.
“Ready?” Richard asks. His grotesque face arranges itself into an expression of helpful concern. Nice
try, Richard. No one is buying it. Sean wipes his palms on his jeans and nods. He is ready.
“Great. Good luck. Here is the riddle. I am always on but never off. My voice is the mocking laughter
of time. I married sadness and on the final day, my scream will mark the end of everything. What am I?”
Shoot. This is a tricky one. Richard has the hardest riddles. Sean rubs his chin although he doesn't have
a beard. He sits down to get a really good think going. The sun moves higher in the sky and Richard waits patiently.
He is in no rush. For a being of pure evil, he is kind of nice.
Think, think, think. Eventually, Sean stands and licks his lips. He is ready. He feels a moment of excitement
because he believes he has the right answer this time. Those books on riddles did not help. This is all
Sean. His hands tremble and he bobs up and down on the balls of his feet. He is going to paradise. He is going
to get past Richard. Holy smokes. He closes his eyes and speaks the last words he’ll ever say on this Earth.
“Are you the Sun?”
Richard’s putrid eyes that are ever so slightly too far apart widen in surprise. Sean's throat closes with a
rush of hope. There is a pause, and in that space, you could fit a universe of optimism.
“Nope.” Richard says. Not even close.”
9

The wind picks this exact moment to wake up and blow at Sean’s hair. It is perfectly timed. The wind
is not in direct cahoots with Richard but does get a kick out of Sean’s failure.
The wind is a prick.
“Ha.” Richard says. His laughter is brief and impersonal, and even more insulting as a result. “The
correct answer is Charlie Sheen. Nice try though.”
“Wait,” Sean says, but it’s too late. His moment has passed. Richard gives him the finger (this isn’t a
required step in the process, but Richard likes to keep it fresh with new moves) and slams the door. The field
sighs, the blades of grass wilt a little, and the tree goes back to being just a tree.
Dejected, Sean kicks at the trunk. Stupid Richard and his stupid riddles. Still, he would try again next
week. He had time. And one day he’d get past Richard, and everything would be right with the world. He'd
continue to focus on the world inside the tree and completely neglect all the crap he could do right now to
make his life better.
This is still easier than, I don’t know, going to the gym or reading a book.
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Rhys Bowen
is a New York Times bestselling mystery author, winner of both Agatha and
Anthony awards for the Molly Murphy mysteries, set in 1902 New York City.
She wrote the Agatha-winning Royal Spyness series about the British royal
family in the 1930s. It's a lighter, sexier, funnier, wicked satire. It was voted
by readers as best mystery series one year.
She is also known for her Constable Evans books, set in North Wales, as well
as for her award-winning short stories.
Bowen was born and raised in England, but currently divides her time between
California and Arizona where she escapes the harsh California winters.
When not writing, she loves to travel, sing, hike, and play her Celtic harp.
Q1. What motivates you to write historical fiction?
I am fascinated with the first half of the twentieth century--so
similar to our own experience in many ways and yet light
years apart in others. My heroine Molly Murphy can't vote, is
essentially the property of her husband. And two wars that
changed the world--so many stories of heightened emotion,
bravery, cowardice, forbidden love.
And especially for historical mysteries there are such good
motives we have now lost: I love another but I am not free. I
am the rightful heir to the fortune.
Q2. Are your characters and settings based on factual information
or are they purely works of imagination?
All of my books are firmly routed in the reality of time and
place. I do lots of research before I start writing. If I'm writing
about a historical period everything has to be right. For Molly
Murphy I would go to New York and walk the streets she
walked. For Lady Georgie I spend time in stately homes, I
have stayed in Stresa and Nice--hard assignments! And I always
start off by reading what really happened in the months
I set my story.
For In Farleigh Field I visited Bletchley Park and the Churchill
War Rooms and read many first person accounts of working
at Bletchley, for MI5.
For the Tuscan Child I also read first person accounts of airmen
trying to escape through occupied Tuscany in WW2 and
of course I spent time in the region.
Q3. Would you recommend writers to experiment outside
their comfort genre?
As a writer I have always wanted to grow in my craft. It was
stepping out
of my comfort
zone to write
two big stand alone novels. I have a solid fan base for my series.
I know the worlds I write about. I'm familiar with my
characters. So I had to take a chance, wondering if fans would
follow me away from Lady Georgie's world. I'm delighted to
say they did and I have made many more fans.
Q4. Almost all your books revolve around spies and detectives.
What drives your interest in mysteries and crimes?
I think there is little justice in the real world. The writer can
solve a crime and bring justice. It's very satisfying. Also, I
have always enjoyed the puzzle aspect of the mystery novel.
Whodunit? I grew up on Agatha Christie and the other golden
age ladies.
Q5. As an author, what has been your biggest dream?
And have you achieved it?
My biggest dream was to be successful--to walk into a
bookstore and see a shelf of my books. I have achieved that.
Also, I have won 16 awards to date. They sit on a shelf and I
smile at them every time I pass. And part of my dream was to
be a bestseller. I remember the first time I made the New
York Times bestseller list. Now my books are in the top ranks
of Kindle and it feels wonderful.
Q6. A lot of young writers wish for quick success and
fame. What advice would you give to them?
Don't ever write something because you think it will sell, will
be popular. Write where your heart is. Expect to fail and learn
from it. Read, read, read and learn from the masters.
11

Author: Sara Hoskinson
Sara, aged 40, works for the Sheriff’s Department of Madera County full-time. She loves to write poetry, short stories, and SCP
stories with her son as a hobby.
“Writing has always been a way for me to get out of my head the words and things that I may leave unspoken. I love writing the
personification of things that cannot actually speak in reality. I love giving them a voice.”
Two Worlds
Genre: Inspirational
In between here and there it was clear that what she thought were questions had become statements.
She had felt different, yet now it wasn’t just a feeling, and like most beginnings it started in the blood. Did she
wish to have had this knowledge sooner? It’s possible, but what can one do when information isn’t fulfilled
upon our will and wishes.
As she closed her eyes, she looked into the void of black. The colors in the darkness making shapes
where there should be none. She had barely heard the doctor’s words. But in some way, she knew, she fully
understood that the world she knew was dead. The world she would open her eyes to now was to be lived like
she was dying. She had always disliked that phrase. She had thought on it many times, yet on that day, in that
hour, at that very second, she knew she would do just the same; she would live like she was dying.
She would visit the forest floor with its hum and movement. It would be seen through the eyes of someone
who was not sure they would rest there again. Monuments and melodies would be displayed and heard in
existence and tempo of someone who would hopefully feel them again. The ocean with its ebb and flow would
hit close to home as its vastness would swallow her whole and make her feel like she was the only one. The
once in a lifetime trip she would take with her family would be only once in her lifetime. The time would be
spent wisely. She did not view her time spent unwisely before this new world was placed before her, however
she knew in her heart that humanity has a forever beat pulsing through their veins. Humanity feels this forever
12

thoughts she would not condemn as she had thought this way, but with this new knowledge, she would
not look at this the same forever.
Early on in life she had seen others take in stride the old adage that everything happens for a reason. They were
quickly lost and discarded as it become averse to their desires and wishes. It was her feeling now and then that
while people may look at happenings as signs to something other than what is factual in the given scenario, it
did not mean that it happened for a reason. So many horrible and unspeakable things were attributed to this and
for her it was beyond reason to think that they happened for a reason beyond time and unforeseen occurrence,
and the evils on this earth. She attempted to tell herself now that this line of thought applied to her too. Bad
things happened to good people. Good things happened to bad people. While in her blood lied the reason for
this happening it did not mean that it happened because of her. It would not be ideal for her thinking and
mental capacities to view it as anything else but what it was; a bad thing happening for no reason.
So she moved about her first day knowing. She thought the view looked slightly different than it had
yesterday. The blues were bluer, the greens were greener, the sounds of the day were more distinct. Yesterday
had been fine on its own, but with this awakening she could not help but wonder what treasures she had missed
in her days of before. But after a few minutes she realized it did little to worry over this now. What mattered
more was that she had seen and now she was seeing with a new view, perspective and outlook. The two would
never be seamless in her mind, but slipping from one to the other she found neither would exist without the
other. She decided she would hold onto the past gingerly for the future unknowns would awaken each
morning.
For the morning would come and with that change in and of itself. The clouds that once filled her head
with dreams would now be replaced with the stars of a wish for another tomorrow. The tomorrows add up and
while some are forgotten they take a new dimension when they have the potential to be limited. For all believe
in tomorrow but it is not a promise nor a guarantee. With fondness and naivety, she thought of how often she
put off tomorrow what could have been done today. It was not done with laziness in mind, but rather that she
had no reason to think tomorrow would not arrive with the dawn. Her new vision of tomorrows was also to
drastically change as the days would blend together under the haze of necessary medicine to keep her healthy
tomorrow.
13

Her memories would be as two sides of a coin, before and after. Every day would consist of a hill and
valley. One which she would begin in and one which she would have to climb out of. She imagined in that the
valley would be when she was waking up having forgotten for a few seconds that she would be facing a lake of
water. The water was so very still that she stood along the edge. She reflected deeply in that pool of selfreflection
and saw that no lump, or tumor, or Squamish cells would be stronger than the promises she had
made and had been given. The hill would present itself in an innumerable amount of ways and each day she
would climb.
For now, any misgivings that others may perceive in her perspective and attitude would remain lost in the
recesses of her mind. She would not give heed to them, for they know not what they speak of, and they know
not what she knows. She knows the two sides of her life, the then and before and the here and now. That no
matter how close these circumstances, they would be experienced the same by two separate persons. Knowing
this she would love herself for the rest of her life and forgive herself for her fear of death.
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Author: Ashley Ardor
At 26, Ashley is a student chasing a BS in Software Engineering and presently working in Property Management.
“I find my time most occupied with work, school, and writing on Instagram, or working on my book, ‘Venu’. I stick mostly to
science fiction. I like the hard sciences, I literally spend all day just listening to lectures on physics.”
The Human Battery
Genre: Horror/Sci-fi
“Money has come to you unexpectedly and you’ve started to think of future endeavors and personal
interests. You may want to consider investments in property. There is no need to rush to a decision, however.
Also, your romantic life has been a bit dull under this configuration. It’s time to spice it a bit! Get dolled up, go
out to your favorite bar, but watch out for things in the sky.” My eyes skimmed the few sentences, getting
caught on the need for a night out and decidedly so, made up my mind to get caught up in the dog and pony
show. After all, I had not come into any windfall of money big or small. Actually, I lost one of my two jobs.
I was a small woman, in a large city, with bills over my head and dreams larger than life. Would it have
been behooved of me to do what I was supposed to: go to school, become a lawyer or a doctor, live on call and
mercilessly to the tone of a beeper, begging me endlessly to the bedside of people I couldn’t assist? My opinion
says no. Sure, I wasn’t rich, but I also wasn’t some fickle jerk. I was not an assassin nor someone who loved
feeding on children. No, I was surely average, and honestly, that was okay with me.
My life has been cut and dry for a few months now. I find myself working more than I live; just following
the path laid out before me. I’m no longer able to hold down life without feeling like I’m losing all control.
It’s as if I were in a pirate ship being attacked by one of those dastardly sea monsters, just waiting to be crushed
and taken under to meet my fate. I continue playing around with my ex, knowing that decision is not the best.
At the same time, flirting playfully with all the men around, and actually becoming quite attracted to one. It is
ripping my mind to shreds of useless confetti paper.
Tonight was definitely going to be in my cards. The night of freedom was knocking at the back of my
15

heels like the fire in the hearts of the passionate. I could feel the urge tearing at the back of my skin, dying for
its only chance at escape. The slight tinge of guilt sat quietly, waiting for its chance to speak. I was not going
to back down, though I may regret my choices, I would regret not making them more.
Most women choose the little black dress as prime real estate for a night on the town. I prefer the little
gold one. Then again, attention is one thing I do expect tonight. Nothing thrills me more than having all the
eyes on me when I walk in the room. It’s not to be smug, believe me. It is more of a confidence builder. It gets
me ready for a night full of flirting, dancing, and parading around town. “Get ready world because here I
come.” With that, I shut the front door, jump into the waiting ride service, and am off to downtown. The city is
always full of life.
Ah, 5280UC, the most important gathering spot in the whole city. Only the most prominent people are
here, can’t even get in without paying the $500 cover, but, like I said, tonight is my night and I will splurge till
my heart is content. I’m at the bar, having a strong IPA straight from the tap when this man walks up to me.
He’s the kind of guy that screams trouble, looks too normal, too much like the person on the tip of your
tongue, the name just out of reach, but he is charming and I’m not looking for forever. How bad could it be to
play along? At least for a little bit.
After a few drinks, he invites me over and yes, I go because I want what I want tonight. It is my breakfree,
get-out-of-the-mold, reckless kind of night. I don’t get them often, so when I do, I make sure they’re extraordinary.
Inside, he grabs me another drink. Perfect. I must have had too many because I was feeling a bit
funny, like really, really drunk after the last one.
I guess I passed out for a bit because when I came to my arms were hurting. I try to look at them, but
my shoulders are being pulled toward my ears as if they were holding my dangling body in a dark room. I hear
him chuckle, “I’m glad you’re awake, this is never any fun if I don’t see your pain.” He is walking toward me,
I can hear the small but powerful vibrations from the wood planks being hit beneath his feet. Confident, he has
done this more than once. Enough to be completely comfortable and in control. He doesn’t even appear out of
his mind. “I’m sure you have many questions, I’ll answer three before the inevitable.”
“What is inevitable?”
“Your death. Two more.”
16

“What?”
“Two more. Now, one more.”
“That’s not fair. Oh my f-.” I clenched my jaw, swallowed my pride, and just asked, “Why?”
“I’m tired of women like you. Always parading around like you’re something better than everyone else,
but, you’re not. You bleed like we do because you are no different. Your money doesn’t make you king of anything.
So, one at a time. I show you, that I am in control and I have the last laugh. I take you into me because
your life is in the hands of the one who took it through eternity.”
“May I ask one more?”
“I do not have to answer it but, because you were so doltish with the second question I will allow it.”
“How many?”
“Oh, many, more than a hundred. I have mental scrapbooks full of memories, all their pain, all their
happiness. Everything became mine every time. I feel so blessed to have saved the algorithms. They are in endless
torture. You’ll be just like them, reliving the pain of this night over and over again, whenever I want to
experience it.” I sat looking puzzled, wondering where did he keep them all? Where are the servers? My eyes
scan the room, there is nothing, no one, just wall to wall planks of dark espresso colored wood. He chuckles
again. It sends chills down my spine, this is one I will not forget. “Wondering where I keep them, huh?” Obviously,
but, I just nod. “Their memories are now mine. I have embedded their lives in my DNA. I can still make
them all feel pain. It is glorious. I’m sure God feels this way.”
The blade feels sharp against the nape of my neck. I close my eyes as I feel it rip through my skin. He
steps back, confused, but, he’s just unlucky. Wrong girl, wrong part of town, and wrong kind of fun. “I suppose
I did get lucky. I won’t feel bad this time.” I rip myself down, arms still hurting from their awkward position.
“I don’t know how I feel because you still don’t understand. You don’t get to run away. You don’t get
away at all, none of you do. Usually, I have to do this every few months. The memories just run out; but with
your manipulated DNA, and hundreds of persons within it, it would run for years. I just cannot pass up this opportunity.”
“What?”
17

“Yea. You’re coming with me.”
We end up at my place next. He tried to get loose, but he’s only human. He could never get far enough.
I open the front door and shove him down a long hall, with several doors on both sides. At the end is a staircase
heading toward the cellars. Even with all the lights in it, it is still dark down here, and cold. We arrive at a metal
door, with a large window in its center from top to bottom.
“Get in there.” He shakes his head no, frightened, as if he knew it was worse than death. “I wonder how
it will feel for you. Maybe the memories come one person at a time or maybe all at once?” I pause looking him
over, seeking an answer to get him there, and I decide not trying would be best. “I suppose I can tell you why I
need you in that room. It may make you feel better, but, probably not. It could make things worse.” We stare at
each other in silence for a few moments before he nods, making the decision. “Okay, I will tell you. I am not
human, obviously. I do capture and use humans as batteries. The bodies assist in creating a minuscule amount
of electricity, which we use to harness the power of memories. In this room, you will be in an electric field.
This is what will interact with your own electricity. The true power comes from reliving them, so they will feel
real, down to every last second. You will forget that you are here, until you remember what it feels like the first
time it turns on. Some days you will ask for death and others you will want to keep reliving. It will feel like
forever, but here, we will only power our home for a few years. You will experience all of the lives you took
and all of yours. You deserve this pain. I am glad it will be you.”
I look up at him with a glint of excitement in my eyes, before taking him by the shoulder, shoving him
in and closing the door behind him. The room begins to glow with a blue hue. He runs at the window, hitting
against it, hoping it would break, but soon the force takes him over. He is levitating an equal space from top to
bottom, right to left, and front to back. Perfectly centered. The lights begin to grow brighter. I sigh in relief and
head back upstairs, it will be dinner soon.
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Author: Jared Presser
Divorced father of four children, three daughters and a son. At 41, he started writing only a month ago as a therapeutic way to
overcome depression. He is an Entrepreneur by day, working as a Business Development Consultant and Image Consulting.
“My writing comes from the source of my life’s trials.”
Jewels’ Diary: Part One
Genre: Science Fiction
Hi, it’s Jewels. You may not know me, or have a clue about who I am. But boy do I have a story for you. And
it's a juicy one.
For this story, we will have to go back twelve years, when the first lie was told. I remember it like it was
yesterday. The fresh air brushed against my tanned face, as the world around me cheered with joy. A simple
pleasure everyone took for granted. No, not so much.
Running across the field towards the ball, I felt like my life was just beginning. Like everything in my life was
just begging to connect. But the truth is, it was just about to fall apart.
Before I get started. I should let you know that this story is not about me. It's about those who survived the lies.
And sadly, I was not one of them.
I’m an outsider.
On that day, we were on the field. Playing a simple game of soccer. My feet stroke the ball, sending it flying
down the field towards the goal. The swishing sound of the ball hitting the net made me feel proud.
We just won the game and the crowd cheered out my name, “Jewels, Jewels” like I was in a championship
game. Oh boy, was I ever glad.
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My team walked back to the changing room, but I didn’t want to. Sitting on the bleachers, I looked out at the
field. The grass stood still even after being trampled on by my feet moments ago. A sight I never got tired of.
That was when it happened.
A bright light shimmered up into the sky, erupting, as the sunset gleamed behind it. I had no idea what was
happening. Lifting my hand up towards the light, I squinted my eyes.
That burst of light in the sky was the first time one of them was ever seen. No one believed it was possible.
Boy were they dead wrong.
Shimmering in the night sky, the light faded into the vast darkness. Lasting only minutes, it made my eyes
burn. The light made them sting, but only for a couple of more seconds. Before it happened.
A loud eruption came from the sky. I looked over my shoulder at the skyscrapers beside the field. One of them
looked damaged. Far enough from the field to not threaten my life. But the fear I felt from seeing such a site,
that’s what worried me.
See, I lived in a quiet city. So much that it felt like a town, with a population of close to half a million and
growing. The worst things that happened were small crimes, like a shooter on a public bus or a bomb threat at
a shopping mall. Nothing like how it is in the other cities.
But today, there was a real threat. Something that the whole world had never seen before.
Looking away from the skyscraper, I heard a loud boom. That's when a flash occurred behind the building. It
lit up the sky like a flare gun.
Trying to recognize the figure behind it was harder than I would like to admit. And then he came crashing
down to my feet. His body shimmered with electrical shocks sticking around him. He gritted his teeth as he
looked up at the building.
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A flash of light shimmered again from behind the structure. A figure leaped down from it, combusting into
flames within seconds. It spoke in a foreign tongue, which my ears could not recognize. The boy with lightning
racing from his body, moved his arms towards the figure like he had a spear in his hand. And there it went. The
lightning from his body went shattering across the sky towards the flames. I guess they had just lost it or
thought they had hidden amongst us long enough.
Before I knew it, a burst of light returned to the sky. I had little memory left of what happened, so I stared at
the building. The damage was still in my mind and looked so real. Even though before me, the building stood
without a scratch.
I thought my mind was playing tricks on me back then. Or that I was going crazy or something. But deep
inside my mind, there was a part of me that wanted to warn the world of what the future had in store. If only.
If I had listened to myself more, maybe then my life would have turned out different.
To be continued in the next Issue…..
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Author: Barry Hollow
Barry, aged 39, has recently returned to writing from a break of around 20 years.
“I write in many forms and styles of poetry across many topics. These included current affairs, personal reflections to complete
works of fiction and fun.”
Lunar Ikegai
Rising in your every evening,
my ascent is a perennial adventure
across your pin pricked blanket of stars,
through your glitter sprinkled darkness
I bear myself to you,
burgeoning and dwindling,
with tenacious resilience,
always showing my light and shaded speckles
with congruence and knowing.
A knowing that speaks to your senses
with aphotic depth that you cannot unsee,
knowing it is perpetually never unpresent.
That shadow is seemingly foreboding
though its necessity gives balance to make us complete
as I draw you in, like tides pulled across stormy seas,
pulled and anchored.
I choreograph those calm, deep ocean waves
to build and intensify, building to a grand
orchestral symphony of white horse capped chariots!
Before subsiding once again
to lap against your fine, sandy shores
as I take my leave
At least for another night.
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Author: Sara Hoskinson
Sara, aged 40, works for the Sheriff’s Department of Madera County full-time. She loves to write poetry, short stories, and SCP
stories with her son as a hobby.
“Writing has always been a way for me to get out of my head the words and things that I may leave unspoken. I love writing the
personification of things that cannot actually speak in reality. I love giving them a voice.”
Not of the Same
For what does the mold know of the true and impossible?
The sunshine veiling the night moon with a red glow that one can only hope to know.
Basking in the knowledge that the mold neither knows us nor wants us for his own.
The freedom from the unconcern of mundane procedures,
to relish the freedom of knowing that all stars do not shine
the same, and they all have a different name.
Hushed night sky washes over as the red twinkles in the moon’s eyes.
The flowers and sycamore trees watch alone with me.
For who can wish all the same for the way it should rain.
Filling the ground with dew and always something new.
No, we don’t wish for the same. I wish for a name.
Let your sorrows fly free for they are the wings on the breeze that fall apart as the leaves.
The mold was cut but the wings don’t fit,
the moon up high makes it known that this is no surprise.
For those who take account of the night will shine bright,
but the cut of mold which will never hold them in fear
is replaced with the love of the fox and bear.
Not all will see and most cannot be concerned when the sun eclipses the moon
but for those who still count stars and dream of red rocks there is nothing,
not even fear, that will keep them from the freedom
to be whom they are and to be what they want to be, that will always be far more dear.
No plaque, no trophy, no award can be traded for the way the moon
looks behind the red veil of the sun, brandishing the love forever, never to be undone.
Let them have what they have and we will keep what we keep.
For no one is better, we are just the lucky ones today.
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Author: Isaac Eustice
At 26, Isaac is a self-taught writer and philosopher. He spent most of his adolescence and twenties wandering around the country
and world trying to find the meaning of life. Now, he has settled down in Middle Tennessee, to work in kitchens, go to school, and
hone his craft.
“My biggest influences are the crazy, beautiful, brilliant dreamers and artists I’ve met over the years who have given their lives to
creativity and followed the promptings of their wild hearts.”
Good and Evil
“You’re beautiful and good,” you once told me
“So, I guess that makes you evil,” I said
“Oh, you know that is true,” you said laughing
And we ordered some more beer and whiskey
And went back to the room with the piano
You sang till you shredded your vocal chords
As I watched, played along on the djembe
You drove us back swerving a little bit
I assured you we’d make it back safely
We stumbled home side by side smoking cigs
I told you we were like two lost siblings
We talked about God, smoking your weed-pipe
Waiting on pizza in the oven
You threw up a little in the bathroom
I thought about how we were both dying
No matter how beautiful or how young
No matter if I were good, you evil
You fell asleep with pizza in your lap
I picked the plate up from you tucked you in
Where you crashed on the couch, a refugee
From where love had once held you but cast you out
I woke up before you to brew some joe
Left you a mug by your end table
I knew in due time you’d be moving on
Kept wishing I’d woken up next to you
But good has a path, love, as evil does
Were no opposites ever alike as us?
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Author: Jared Presser
Divorced father of four children, three daughters and a son. At 41, he started writing only a month ago as a therapeutic way to
overcome depression. He is an Entrepreneur by day, working as a Business Development Consultant and Image Consulting.
“My writing comes from the source of my life’s trials.”
Fear
Addicted to the everlasting sense of wisdom.
Knowing that learning has no distance.
Getting lost amongst scholars,
whose criticisms,
cause schisms, amongst the populous,
gathered there to witness.
The debacle of a man,
whose spent years on this thesis,
mentally depleted, pushed to his angst.
Delivers his analysis,
amongst all the scrutiny. These men known professionally,
their IQ’s are their identities.
Applaud his discoveries, sigh of relief and recovery, for his wisdom was glorified,
amongst peers; now he joins their tribe.
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I Am
I am a scarred suit of flesh
harboring an irrepressible heart,
A mother creating ambient music
to entice her young soul to dance.
Warm arms for those
trapped in the cold,
Words of truth when all others
have lost their faith in romance.
I am a warrior handing out swords,
A muse for those who have lost their voice,
A fork in the road that gives the lost a
choice.
I am failure adorned with hope,
A story of darkness who finally
found the moon,
A reminder that giving up is always
giving up too soon
Author: Jessica Walsh, Editor at Global Voices Unite
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Dukkha
The days come as a procession of pains
And then rest, between the pains, where you lay
At night and wish for it to end
And to be taken to a cool, bright field
Where you rest all day and there is no pain
But the pain and the rest, together, dance
And together they are the dance of life
And one without the other would be death
So learn to love the struggle and dance with it
Author: Isaac Eustice, Cook
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Author: Maha Shahid
Maha Shahid is a 17 year old who always wanted to share her thoughts with the world. She is a motivational speaker, advisor,
writer, debater, and therapist. She loves to write, be it articles or poems.
Heard It All
They say you don't deserve this,
Yet they are the ones to make you feel inferior.
They say you aren't to be blamed,
Yet they are the ones to affirm you as a culprit.
They say you're flawless,
Yet they are the ones to make you feel constantly insecure.
They say you're strong,
Yet they are the reason behind your frail soul.
They say you are different,
Yet they are the ones to consider you meaningless.
They say you're interesting,
Yet they are the ones who get bored of your company.
They say you're perfect,
Yet they are the ones to make you realize your inadequacy.
They say they'll stay forever,
Yet they are the first ones to leave.
They say so much,
Yet it's never enough.
They show so much
And well….that's enough,
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Author: Marisca Robbertse
19 years old, Personal Assistant
Deteriorate
I see you dancing,
convincing everyone that you are, indeed, alive.
But behind your bright eyes
I see them hiding:
The light shadows.
The little worry demons
causing unease.
I see you smiling,
convincing everyone that you are, indeed, happy.
But behind your grey eyes
I see them waving:
The light – darker now – shadows.
The anxiety demons
causing distress.
I see you standing,
trying to convince yourself that they will go away.
But behind your dull eyes
I see them laughing:
The dark shadows.
The demon monsters
causing havoc.
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Author: Suman Upadhyay
28 years old, Engineer
My Faith
Where shall I search for you,
Where will I find you.
I close my eyes to find you here,
And I see you waiting my dear.
I feel you in all of the beats of my heart,
Meet you as my sweet dreams start!
I pray to God to give you strength
And also wish to continue believing in my faith.
I open my eyes and you disappear,
Cheeks are wet with rolling tears.
You are missed with every passing hour,
With the memories that are only ours!
You are that sweet soulful music,
Only I can hear and believe it as epic!
All that I feel for you is special and eternal,
Thinking of it always makes me emotional.
Now I know why true love is not easy,
It has hurdles and its path is very rocky!
Your heart is the only place I wish to live in forever
It sparkles like gold and is as pure as silver!
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Charlaine Harris
An American New York Times bestselling author who
has been writing mysteries for thirty years. Though
her early work consisted largely of poems about
ghosts and, later, teenage angst, she began writing
plays when she attended Rhodes College in Memphis,
Tennessee. She began to write books a few years later.
She is best known for The Southern Vampire Mysteries
series, which HBO later adapted for its dramatic
series entitled True Blood.
write the book . . . it went on and on. It
was devastating. I had to rebuild my confidence
and my willingness to expose my
work to the public. It took a while.
Q3. The Southern Vampire Mysteries/
True Blood are known as you most
notable works. Is there another series
or book of yours you think deserved
the same attention?
Sure, all of them! I worked hard on
everything I've written, and I'm proud of
my whole body of work.
Q4. What kind of planning goes into
writing a series, especially a long one
like the Sookie Stackhouse Series? And
how do you keep the readers entertained
and coming back for more?
In my case, very little planning. I strictly
write by the seat of my pants. As long as
I stick to the rules of my world, I'm okay.
I had an overall plan for the Sookie
books, but within those there was infinite
room for improvisation, which is my
favorite thing. I have always thought as
long as I'm entertained, my readers will
be too. So far, so good.
Q5. How did the changing reader
trends influence your writing over the
years?
Not at all. I always wrote the best book I
could and hoped it would find its
audience.
Q1. What drives your writing?
I want to tell stories, and I want people to read them.
That's a large part of what writing is about. I have an
agenda, but my main purpose is to entertain, to provide
people with little vacations.
Q2. Did you ever face a writing slump in your career
of three decades? How did you overcome it?
My worst slump came after the intense reader backlash
I experienced at the end of the Sookie Stackhouse
series. I got a lot of hate mail. Those readers were few
in number, but vicious and ruthless in voice, and many
of them hadn't even read the book. They were going to
burn DEAD EVER AFTER, they threatened my life
and cursed my children (!), they said I didn't even
Q6. Characters can bring a story to
life. What writing tips would you offer
to novice writers in creating a character
that readers will enjoy?
That's hard to answer, but it's my favorite
question. People are complex, and trying
to render them faithfully on the page is
matter of understanding them on a deep
level. I don't believe you need to write a
detailed biography of each character, but
you need to understand what the
consequences of the character's age,
education, social and spiritual background,
and ethnicity, will mean to the
character's reactions. Every person comes
from somewhere; if you understand that,
you understand the person, to a great
extent.
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Author: Fathima Naz
20 years old, Baker
Just Me: the Good and the Bad
Genre: Inspirational
To someone out there you’re playing the negative role in their story and vice versa when it’s yours.
Perspective is such an amazing concept as a whole. We all portray just how we want fellow earthlings to
witness us, but at the end of the day you chastise and hate yourself to an extent which is not acceptable when
it’s done to others. So, why do that to yourself?
I remember when I used to criticize myself way too much standing in front of the mirror and wondering
if I’ll ever feel self-worthy. “Change yourself” is a very harshly perceived concept by majority of people, but
not so in my books. When there’s something evidently wrong in yourself it takes a whole lot of courage to
understand and accept it, and that in itself is the biggest hurdle to face; amending it for the better is just a selflaid
out plan that must be executed.
Contemplate the things you rationally say to yourself that are basically negative. You may not be
intentionally mindful of how frequently these contemplations fly into your head. However, once it has been
pointed out, we need to become aware of such thoughts and how they are constantly affecting our confidence.
While you’re reading this, pause for a minute and reflect. At the moment, consider the unsavory
emotions that have washed over you — before any negative thoughts even enter your head — when you see or
hear something that influences you to feel "lesser than so and so."
You see somebody more appealing, and you quickly feel awkward or ashamed. You experience somebody
more successful, and a feeling of inferiority washes over you. You converse with a man who is outstandingly
brilliant and active, and you feel diminished and clumsy.
These negative musings and sentiments are the harmful mix in which we stew causing our confidence to
vanish after some time. The more we stew in this mix, the more intense it becomes. Our apparent defects and
disappointments overwhelm our view of ourselves. What's more, with low confidence, our boldness endures an
impact as well.
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When we feel terrible about our identity, we can't perform effectively in our general surroundings. We
aren't moved. We can't accomplish our objectives. We restrain ourselves to the table pieces of life.
Presently, I solidly believe that a significant number of our self-questioning is basically the side-effects
of stewing in the lethal mix of negative reasoning for a really long time. We overstate our imperfections and
disappointments, and once in a while attribute deformities to ourselves that don't exist. These are simply the
stories we tell that have next to zero premise in actuality. In the event that you truly question and explore your
reasoning around these convictions, you will perceive how you may have made a paper-being nothing like
yourself.
We need to figure out how to love our shortcomings and uplift our confidence!
On the other hand, not all of our imperfections and disappointments are made of paper. Some are
genuine. What's more, they tend to be exceptionally difficult. Also, they cause you much degradation, misery,
and lamentation. Here’s a list of the most commonly heard reasons:
Maybe you haven't taken care of that particular circumstance well.
Maybe you are overweight.
Maybe you don't fit the general public's standard of magnificence
Maybe you aren't living to your potential.
Maybe you should be kinder.
Maybe you don't earn a great deal of cash.
Maybe you were let go.
Maybe you aren't cordial enough.
Maybe you've settled on poor options.
Maybe you are languid on occasion.
Any of us perusing the rundown of the list above can discover something they identify with, some
‘defect’ or disappointment they perceive as their own.
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The fact of the matter is — we as a whole have shortcomings, and we have all failed at least once in
our lives.
Character flaws and disappointment are a piece of the human condition. What's more, regardless of
whether you take a look at the individual beside you and accept with your entire existence that they "have
everything," you would still be off-base.
Each individual on this planet has messed up. Each individual has mental, physical, or other defects.
What's more, every individual is acutely mindful of his or her flaws and regrets.
So why do a few people have more confidence than others? For what reason would some individuals
live cheerfully with their shortcomings while others are tormented with low self-assurance?
I believe it boils down to two things:
1. The ability to change the things you can change in yourself for betterment;
2. The acknowledgment (and even love) of those things you can't change.
On the off chance that you have low confidence around a genuine shortcoming, ask yourself, "Is there
anything I can do to change this?"
Would you be able to offer some kind of amendment, get all the preparations done and enhance your
appearance, get fit, deal with your social obligations, go for counseling, or settle on other various decisions?
Activity that makes positive change will surely increase your confidence. You will feel responsible for
yourself and your predetermination.
Be that as it may, there are aspects of you that you can't change. What would you be able to do about
those unyielding buggers that are immune to positive activity? What would you do about those enormous
screw-ups you can't settle, or the physical highlights you can't change, or the second thoughts about past
situations that are over and finished?
Well here's an idea for you: Imagine a scenario in which you simply cherish them.
Consider the possibility that you simply get together all those flaws and disappointments and hold onto
them as a parent would grasp a cherished child.
34

“In the black there’s some white,
In the wrong there’s some right,
In the dark there’s some light,
In the blind there’s some sight.”
The Yin Yang Tattoo
You are flawed and you have failed just like the rest of us. It is a perk of being a human, and to reject
your setbacks is to reject who you are and your essential human-ness, because at the end of the day we are not
meant to be perfect; we are meant to be whole!
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THEME FOR JULY!
WEDDINGS
Bridezillas, wedding crashers, overflowing buffets, dance and music – a story around every corner. From
heightened emotions to towers of cake giving competition to Burj Khalifa, a wedding holds innumerous anecdotes
of chaotic fun waiting to be shared over a cup of coffee or tea, whichever your preference.
Our theme for this month revolves around extracting these intriguing stories from their nooks. You can spin
your tales wild with an undercover bride or add a bit of mischief with a playful poltergeist!
Romance, horror, comedy, tragedy, drama or action - in which direction does your ink flow? We will be
waiting excitedly to read your take on our latest theme.
Submissions
We Accept
We Do Not Accept
Main Stream
Erotica
Horror
Children’s Literature
Humor
Religious or political
Fantasy/Urban Fantasy
Science Fiction
Action
Romance (PG:13)
Historical
Creative Non-Fiction
...and more to be found on our website
Check the requirements and guidelines regarding submissions on:
https://inkandsword.wixsite.com/inked/submissions
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Important Dates
Window for
July Submissions Close on:
10th July
Next Issue Release:
17th July
Editorial Board
Rayya Taha, Editor-in-Chief
Rabeeah Taha, Managing Editor
Ink & Sword is the brainchild of Rayya Taha. It is managed together by the two sisters
who have an insatiable passion for reading and writing.
We will be opening our paid subscription services soon. Our issues will be available digitally only
on our website:
https://inkandsword.wixsite.com/inked
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Digital Art: The Tree of Life and Death
By Miguel Firewolf
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