oЯange©

Tags

a new computer system, current literary world, ground-breaking technology, recording thoughts, writer's tasks

 

oЯange was the new Apple, with a difference. Wizzie wanted to call her new computer Pomegranate, as it had a unique, multi-faceted system, light-years ahead of the competition in the market. Yet, she feared too many syllables in the word might not be a catchy brand-name for the customer, so she settled with her second choice. oЯange had many slices of the fruit inside, as well.

Wizzie was a computer wizard inspired by life. Something simple she heard or saw made her think of a new programme. The inspiration for her new project had come from a writer friend.  To keep up with the current trends in the literary world, promotional work consumed her days, instead of writing.  Also, hundreds of notifications from many writing and social sites which she received daily, drove her to distraction.

Over a drink, in the Pub one day, she expressed her feelings. “I need a computer that records my thoughts, not my words. Thoughts travel faster than the words we speak. When I began to write, I naively borrowed my brother’s portable recorder to document the ideas in my head. The end result sounded like gibberish, missing the nuances in the train of thoughts that get lost when you try to decipher them into words. I soon realized what I was really after was to record my thoughts rather than the ramblings coming out of my mouth.”

“Why would you need such a system?” Wizzie asked, with a pensive look.

“I need the computer to access my reflections, to edit, make comments, suggestions, critiques on the general ideas, plot structure, characters, dialogue and overall content.”

“But it would be the computer writing your book, instead of you, wouldn’t it?”

“Not at all. The ideas are mine, but compiling them together in an original and effective manner, eloquent and literary, and making sense out of the content is the task of writing. Meanwhile, there could also be an administrative task of lesser importance. Dealing with the daily notifications, deleting mails, or acting upon them. Tweeting, returning reads and comments, liking and following, friending and unfriending. Making forum posts, writing flash-fiction and flash-poesy, etc.”

“Hmm,” Wizzie said, rolling her eyes, “what would you be doing, meanwhile, as the book is being written and edited accordingly, and your promotion duties are taken over by the system?”

“So much, ” Jane sighed, “so much I cannot do right now. Reading tangible paper books I have no time for currently. Doing housework, going shopping, watching films that inspire me.  Exercising, work-outs, eating and cooking properly, the list goes on …”

“I think you have inspired me for a revolutionary idea. You could be right, you know. I’m going try a new approach.”

 

After they parted, Wizzie went home and sat at her desk. She thought of the fifties and the bitten, poisonous apple rumours said had killed Alan Turing. The man had a vision that inspired Jobs. Maybe, this was all she needed to come up with a ground-breaking technology.

 

She worked on the programme with Jane for about a year. Jane was her trial study, as her software accessed Jane’s brain through a silicon chip planted at the back of her neck. Processing her thoughts and deciphering their intricate trails was a major task that needed fine tuning. As thoughts are multi-layered and come from all directions, while Jane contemplated on the book, she was also generating many other brain waves on her sex life, issues related to her digestive system, and her supermarket shopping list.

 

Wizzie developed a thought filter system whereby all thoughts not related to the book were put into the spam folder. Sometimes things got mixed up and the thoughts ended up in the wrong folders. Jane checked the spam and edited the manuscript, accordingly. Finally, they decided to use a prompt when she was thinking of the book. “Book” or “No book.” It worked when she did this consciously, but when unconscious ideas crept up from all her neural pathways, the programme did not perform so well.

 

When it came to the administrative jobs, the programme was a star. In one year, her Twitter followers increased to one million from one thousand. The computer followed everyone and liked everyone’s Tweets and Facebook posts. The Jungle rating for her self-published work joined the ranks of the top one hundred books, leaving Jackie Collins behind. She had offers from agents and publishers who wanted to take her on board.   Jane was at a loss whether to go with the publishers’ or the agents’ offers.

 

She arrived at the Pub in a frenzy. “Let’s sit outside, I need a smoke.”

Wizzie relented, despite the freezing weather.

Jane lit her cigarette with shaking hands, and took a gulp from her malt. “I don’t know what to do. Publisher or agent?”

“The agents charge a commission on your work, don’t they? Why pay them? Go with the publisher.”

“But the agents find better publishers, also for future work.”

“I’d still opt for the publisher. The way you’re going, you’ll be more famous than the Shades lady.”

“You think so? Yeah, maybe you’re right. It’s your oЯange that made me who I am now. I should pay you instead of the agents.”

“No need for that. What are friends for? Everyone wants to buy my system now. I’m already rich. Enjoy oЯange, while you can, there’ll be many other blockbusters in the market soon.”

 

 

 

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Behind A Cloud

Tags

Istanbul, suicide-bomber, the blue mosque, the hippodrome, the obelisk

 

In the old town of Istanbul, the light of a sunny morning in January bathed The Hippodrome. Under the clear blue sky, the ancient monuments groomed themselves for the important day. A warm breeze blowing from the Bosphorus dried the night dew accumulated on their domes and restored freshness to their surfaces.

A thin, young man, clad in a long jacket and faded jeans, entered the square from the main street. Dark eyes, set on his bearded face scanned the structures, as he strolled towards the centre. When he arrived at the Obelisk, he sat on a bench, facing the Blue Mosque. He took a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it and continued to monitor his surroundings behind his shield.

The green lawns decorated with flower beds and the atmosphere of the old structures conjured a quaint sense of tranquillity, calming his nerves. A sparrow landed by the bench and daintily skipped along, searching for crumbs.

****

The Blue Mosque spotted the red tourist buses arriving at their allocated parking area. Hey guys, it’s Tuesday, get ready for our new fans. Obelisks, German Fountain, museums and the palaces, shake off the slumber. Rise and shine.

Hagia Sophia winked at the Basilica Cistern while the Topkapı Palace alerted its guards. The Archaeological Museum, along with Hagia Irine on the Palace grounds, prepared for their show.

The buses unloaded the passengers as groups found their guides and dispersed in different directions over the historical grounds. A small party approached the German Fountain and began to take photos as they listened to the guide. The chit-chat of many languages, music to the ears of the ancient structures, filled The Hippodrome. Kings, Queens, Presidents, Heads of Religion, politicians, important businessmen and celebrities, as well as ordinary people had been its guests over many centuries.

The Blue Mosque watched the dark man as he folded his paper and shifted in his seat. Something about his body seemed odd. His chest appeared to be too large for a man of such slender frame. Take off your jacket, my child. Too warm on such a glorious morning. Enjoy the sunshine.

The young man whispered a prayer towards the mosque, as he watched a group heading for the Obelisk.

Heathens, non-believers, infidels. You and your idols should be erased from the surface of the world.

Hearing his thoughts, The Blue Mosque frowned and tried to bring reason to his wild ramblings. Son, the Obelisk before you is from Ancient Egypt, the other one, from Ancient Greece, the churches from the Byzantine times. The synagogues around the corner have endured since the Ottoman Empire. We represent all religions and beliefs here, and we get along fine. There is no need for hostility. We don’t only belong to this country, but to the entire world.

A spark of anger flashed in the young man’s eyes as the tourist group neared the Obelisk. His gaze on the Blue Mosque, he hissed, In the name of God.

What in the name of God? Destruction? What are you hiding inside that jacket? Don’t do this, my child. God will not forgive you. Taking your own life is a sin against God, but taking the lives of innocent others is a bigger sin. Don’t do it! Go back to your country, stop killing people of your own faith, as well as those of other beliefs, and stop the cruelty against your own people.

The young man rose and slowly approached the crowd by the Obelisk. Too late now, I am a soldier of God. I will go to Heaven and find peace.

You will not go to Heaven. You will go to Hell and burn. Don’t pull that thing, just leave, in the name of God.

He stopped by the group and saw the sun retreat behind a cloud. A last glance at the Blue Mosque and he hit the trigger.

 

A roaring blast rocked The Hippodrome and a great ball of fire rose by the Obelisk. The explosion reverberated through the city. As coffee cups rattled on tables, and windows shook with the shock,  a large pit burrowed through the surface of the square. The Obelisk remained intact, but woeful remains of human bodies were scattered around it.

After a brief moment of silence as the fumes dispersed, the mayhem of police and ambulance sirens deafened the ears. Blood and tears permeated the air as people in shock gathered around the square.

 

****

 

Dusk fell upon the ancient monuments. Now separated from the old town, they stood behind a barricade of tape. An eerie stillness lingered as the men in forensic suits returned to their cars. In tactical gear, a team of special forces policemen guarded the area.

Despite the golden lights illuminating their splendour, the ancient structures could not hide their sorrow. They retreated into the night, looking for dark shadows to shed their tears.

A song of lament rose from Hagia Irine, and moved down The Hippodrome to Hagia Sophia and to the Basilica Cistern, descending below. It travelled through its chambers and passed underneath the Golden Horn, reaching Galata. Echoing on the walls of the synagogues, and landing in the heart of the city, it crossed the Bosphorus and arrived at the Asian side. Along the channel into the Black Sea, in the north, and to the Sea of Marmara, in the south.

At the old Galata Lodge, the dervishes whirled, the swish of their skirts in rhythm with the holy melody coming from the reed pipe. The sound followed the night and reached The Hippodrome to console the mourners and to bring peace to the souls of the departed.

The Dark Knight, a poem for Midsummer Night

Tags

amreading, amwriting, attraction, Dark Knight, eternal love, eternity, fate, Flash Poesy, life, loss, love, Midsummer Night, Raven, summer solstice

 

Whisper by Burak Ulker, from Deviantart

(Please click on the photo to see more of his work)

 

 

On midsummer’s eve dance, under the moonlight,

I met a dark man who stole my heart,

he held my hand to his lips,

and on the dance floor gave me a kiss.

 

A raven perched upon his shoulder, and said until daylight.

 

His black costume fitted like a glove,

at first look I’d fallen in love,

mesmerizing dark eyes held me captive,

the way he spoke was so attractive.

 

The raven came by and said lovers should not part.

 

He poured summer wine from the flask,

and told me stories from strange lands.

When he asked me to go there with him,

I accepted on a whim.

 

The raven flew over us and said now it’s time to depart.

 

I said, one moment, to bid farewell to my hosts,

when I returned, he was gone and I was lost,

I looked for him everywhere, the raven

came my way, as the moon and stars faded away.

 

The raven said a moment can change the night into day.

 

The rain began as the first rays of dawn lit my way,

under a tree and the sky so grey,

soaked and sad, I took shelter,

and sobbed, knowing I’d remember him forever.

 

The raven said love is eternal though you might never again be together.

 

I still recall that midsummer’s night,

and the dark knight who stole my heart,

Hoping perhaps in another life,

we shall meet again and never part.

 

The raven keeps me company, says life is but a brief story.