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A Tribute to a Pen

By Apurba Mazumdar

What does a pen signify to us? It is a solid object acting as a medium to express our subdued thoughts on a paper. It is sometimes called a mirror, a reflection of our selves, to what we look at or what we think. Just like a crown symbolizes kingship, a sword symbolizes bravery; similarly a pen stands for expressing one’s inner feelings, outburst of emotions, or any matter of concern in the form of strong words. A literary person is thought to be a product of a society and creates his piece of art as his reaction to his own life. Influences varying from person to person, resulting in changing views and those who take interest in such literary sculpting, gives exposure to such writing skills that scores the moment of glory.

A pen can be implied in a number of ways. Call it a poetic diction or a model of many revolutions or sharing your own personal experience or views. Literature, considered as the spirit of age, knocking the doors of various periods, glorified the literary entities day to day with changing views and influence, all comes under the worth of a pen. The patriotic songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore that have stirred our nation, even drifted apart the religious differences between the Hindus and the Muslims at the time of Swadeshi Movement, stored as the glorious moment in our mind forever. Why, haven’t you felt pride in your heart, while singing your national anthem right in front of your national flag? Isn’t that a moment of glory? Even in western countries too, the French philosophers who have dared to hold their pens strong enough to cause a riot among the minds of common people, during the French revolution, resulting in rocking the whole of Europe. “A pen is mightier than a sword” goes the old proverb. A sword always fits only a physically strong man, but a pen can be a weapon of a feeble man too. It depends on a strong mind, not on a strong body.

As a matter of fact, I always consider my pen as my best friend. It helps me to communicate with myself. I can judge myself. Who am I? What am I? I recall one incident when someone dear to me was lost forever. I cried a lot, although nothing really worked to relieve my inner burden. One afternoon I was sitting near my window, wondering. Suddenly I saw a pen on my study table. Without any further notion, I picked that up and started writing on a piece of paper. I wrote gibberish at first (at least to others), but I was relived of that burden, of that pain. So from that day on, anything that troubled me, excited me, my first love, my first trip with friends, several mischief, was recorded in a book termed as my diary. This was my first introduction with the literary world. All thanks to my pen. Yes, I still write in my secret world, maybe a time will come when the world will get to know me and the skills of my pen. Appreciated if though, then that very moment will be my moment of glory. Till then, let us keep it as my personal achievement of my cause inexplicable to others.

——

Apurba Mazumdar, a resident of Calcutta, is a freelance writer. She is currently pursuing her B.A. in English Literature.

PDA

by Megan Ranger

Robbie cut deep into Ma’s leftover lasagna, the nuked cheese oozing from the layers of noodles she had carefully stacked the day before. He twirled the gooey string around his fork and chewed richly on the starch, meat, dairy, and sauce. He caught the saliva that had built up to the point of eruption in the corner of his mouth, wiping it away with his sleeve. Using the plastic claws of his least-favorite collector’s edition Wolverine action figure, Robbie dug the chunks of lasagna out of the tracks of his braces. Marinara smudged the mouse of his computer as he feverishly scanned the numerous fan pages devoted to Annalise Thompson, who had recently starred in a movie based off of a World-War-II-vampire-young-adult-romance-mystery novel. He jotted down notes about her family, career, romances, childhood, convictions, and ambitions. Everything about her entire life was accessible through a persistent Google search.

A commanding knock on the bedroom door broke Robbie’s concentration and made him jump in his seat. He readjusted his glasses and spun around on the chair’s tired axis, nearly toppling over onto the mountain of dirty laundry that had been building up in the center of his room for weeks.

“Whaddya want, Ma?!” Robbie yelled as lasagna spit freckled his chin.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I will not be barked at from behind a door. I work two jobs just to keep this damn door up, the least you can do is talk to me like a man. Now open up before I take this thing off its hinges,” said Ma.

Robbie could have sworn he heard her hands authoritatively connect with her hips. He dragged himself away from his computer, his legs tingling from the sudden activity. He clicked the lock and swung the door open for his mother.

“Gawd, you’re so annoying. What is it?” he said. He rolled his eyes as he impatiently fiddled with the doorknob, eager to shut himself in again.

She gingerly smacked Robbie’s cheek as he itched himself through his basketball shorts. Her waitress uniform was neatly pressed and her hair was arranged in a tidy knot, and her eyes were heavily lidded with fatigue. She threw a small package onto his Adventure Time bedsheets.

“Your Proactiv came in the mail,” she said, “ I think it’s almost time to renew your prescription. You want me to leave a sticky note on the fridge to remind you?”

“I can remember by myself, Ma,” said Robbie, consciously picking at the newly formed puss socket on his chin.

His mother brushed off Robbie’s indignant tone as she fumbled for her keys inside of her purse.

“Fine. Listen, I gotta work late tonight, so you’re on your own for dinner. There’s a DiGiorno in the freezer for you. Don’t forget to turn the oven off after you’re done with it. Stay out of my beer.”

“Alright fine geez, just go Ma,” said Robbie, slamming the door in her face. He waited to hear the creaking of the garage door closing before he resumed his work.

Robbie opened up a new window which requested an email address. He typed in “annaliseangelbaby89@gmail.com” and hit the “enter” button.

Forgot password? Please answer these three security questions: What was the name of your first pet?

Robbie smirked as he found the first answer on his first page of notes, causing his braces to get snagged on the fleshy inside of his upper lip.

“Queenie,” Robbie said as he confidently typed his answer into the square.

What was the name of your high school?

Robbie cross-referenced IMDB before entering “Playa Vista High” into the second field.

What is your mother’s maiden name?

It had taken Robbie a couple tries before he found the third answer on an obscure fan site outlining an oddly detailed family tree. He punched in “Beaudet” and waited for Annalise’s iCloud to lower its defenses.

Robbie penetrated Annalise’s firewall within moments of pressing his “enter” key. He scoured her emails and iMessages for images IMDB would never be able to offer him. Annalise’s  hushed-up relationship with her co-star was stripped down in front of Robbie on his computer screen. He uncovered revealing sensual idiosyncrasies the public would crucify him for revealing, but would follow the link to see regardless. (more…)

Sylvia Plath Reading from Ariel

by Janea Wilson

SylviaPlath_2469087b

 

Today is Sylvia Plath’s birthday. She would have been 82 years old. I guess I never grew out of my Sylvia phase. How could I? Her poetry is perfect. It reads so beautiful. Clean. Precise.

Sylvia is queen of the metaphor. The rhythm is explosive. Have you heard her Sylvia Plath reading her poetry before? Apparently you can listen to her reading on Spotify. I usually spend afternoons listening to her on YouTube. Someone uploaded her reading from Ariel, a recording from October 30, 1962. Three days after her birthday and just four months before her death. One of her most famous poems, “Daddy,” is the last on this video:

1. The Rabbit Catcher; 2. A Birthday Present; 3. A Secret; 4. The Applicant; 5. Daddy

While some may sit around making their “oven” cracks, I’ll be celebrating her poetry and her life by having a cupcake. I guess that’s an unintentional baking joke. Nevertheless, happy birthday Sylvia.

1. Medusa; 2. Stopped Dead; 3. Fever 103°; 4. Amnesiac; 5. Cut

Who Do I Think You Are: A Review of Gone Girl

by Julia Gibson

img via: the film stage

img via: the film stage

A few Sundays ago, my roommate and I were enjoying a lazy day around the house in our pajamas when a preview for David Fincher’s Gone Girl came on the TV. “Oh, I want to see this!” my roommate said, and turned up the volume. When it was over, she leaned back onto the couch and thought for a moment before saying, “Ben Affleck makes a perfect Scott Peterson, just less bloated.” That sums up the expectations I had going into the theater the following Friday. I had not read the book, and I thought that what I was about to see was a movie that mirrored the infamous disappearance of Laci Peterson and her murder at the hands of her husband. I had no idea what I was in for.

Director David Fincher has delivered a thoughtful, mesmerizing, and disturbing film, another in a long line of pivotal movies including The Social Network, Fight Club, and one of my favorites Zodiac. His distinctive murky chiaroscuro is the perfect style for the story of a marriage that unfolds into a horrific mess. Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor’s chilling score complements Fincher’s visual direction, and they use their musical talent to spur moments of intense anxiety and add to the overwhelming sense of dread in the film. (more…)

DAILY GLITZ: Anthropocene

selected by Janea

 

anthropocene

Team of scientists to decide if Earth has entered a new human-influenced epoch of history.


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img via: the film stage
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By Apurba Mazumdar What does a pen signify to us? It is a solid object acting as a medium to express

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DAILY GLITZ: Anthropocene
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selected by Janea   Team of scientists to decide if Earth has entered a new human-influenced ep

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