Story

Literature Outsourcing ; How Twitter can create a unique short story genre;

I think it is fairly easy to conclude that with the advent of social networking and information being streamed online, the paper-back versions of long stories and short stories alike are facing an uphill struggle to retain readership.

Where once books were the best companions of intellectuals, as they still are, such type of intellectuals are themselves dwindling. A new age has begun. This is the age where you can download ‘e-books’, read them on your kindle, your tablet, your computer or even your smartphone.

This outsourcing of literature has made literature accessible to a wide range of audience. Moreover, the cost for doing so is remarkably low which means the cost at which these books, or more appropriately the ‘e-books’, are sold is also lower than the ones available in the market in a physical, hardcopy format.

However, there has been an unforeseen negative consequence of literature outsourcing as well. When someone is accessing a book via a smartphone, a tablet or a computer, he or she will become more susceptible to ‘distractions’ because these devices offer a variety of other exciting services that are available if internet access is available, or even without it.

These distractions mean that not only would less people actually read the books they have downloaded, but they will tend to read shorter books so that they could ‘expend’ more time in ‘discovering’ the world of internet.

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Life, Story

Chinese Guilt

Trying to clear your mind off stressful circumstances certainly is a healthy thing to do. Stopping by at Maaz’s place (my friend), I thought I could give him some tough time on the new FIFA 13. Well, I drew the first match and lost the second. Not a bad start for a guy playing FIFA 13 only for the first time then, right? But that’s not really why I went to his place. There’s this place at the Fortress stadium called ‘Mei Kong’, where all of my gang was finally going to meet up. Just so you know, my friends are busy with their college work while I’m taking my A’level re-sits. I know it sucks.

But that’s how I planned on clearing my mind. Finding the common ground to brew humour (finally) was definitely something I was looking up to. Except for an actor or a comedian, hanging out with friends is to either make fun of them or have fun made out of yourself – and simply put, this idea is very powerful and beautiful.

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Life, Story

Why Pizza Hut made a good decision

A lot of restaurants through out the country (Pakistan) join the Ramadan (Islamic Fasting Month) bandwagon as soon as the month arrives. From ‘All you can eat’ deals to the discounted, well-balanced diet plans, these restaurants lead the line. However, most people in Pakistan are ‘fast food crazy’ hence the lucky charm of Ramadan brings in a lot of money for the fast food chains such as Pizza Hut, KFC, McDonald’s etc. Continue reading

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Life, Poetry, Story

My Turn Disappears

They speak, and they speak on,

My turn finally arrives, and disappears

The heart aches, searching wild for lost opportunity

asking of the guilt non-existent, which they

think does exist – again – the turn to reply disappears

 

Annoyed, irritated, unsatisfied after a broken meal,

I ask them why and they reply with sneer and taunt,

rejecting claim, once again – my turn disappears

Now the veins I feel, I feel that they constrict

So I try to rekindle the candle against a winter storm

 

But winters are never warm, a cold reply fits

They ask me to abandon, and move away

‘you have no taste for this, no mind and no wit’

I ask them why – their reply disappears, and in turn

ends my turn – the clash ends before it has time to groom

 

Now, midst lost claim and time gone, I asked myself

Why? How? What? Where? When?

To all, I could not find another story but just one

and that one was all the reason of my plight

the plight bearing enigma, horror and damnation

 

The argument began – vicariously I re-imagined,

between two friends, one sane and one ‘insane’

heaping muck, tossing down the spirit

but not one who was expected of such – the crown

rested on a the sane, the shame he refused to own

 

Self righteous, a man or an axiom, still uncertain

however losing, cursing and rejecting

the calm ‘insane’, who clamored for righteous explanation

when none of it came – what to do now?

dismiss, reject and burn the inner man – the insane

 

And so a path finally forged, the crucifying purpose

of an ill man, killing the insane, killing what we used to call

the people who told the church to accept that Earth is not flat

but truth is hard to take, when power, reputation and self is on the stake

bravery vaporizes, and the insane has to die

 

Why? How? What? Where? When?

It happened, and it happened with no one to stop

And today, the insane yet lives, no, he hides instead

hides behind not a veil, but a trap,

a trap that reiterates – your turn has disappeared.
 

 

 

 

 

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Life, Story

The Local Heroes

Most students like me have the tendency to waste their long summer holidays, and then fret about the wasted time. This time, I thought it would be a good idea to do something productive, not only for myself, but for others as well. One of such opportunities presented itself  a few days ago, when my mom’s friend just invited me to go with her to a special children’s school, where she worked. As the special school ‘Amin Maktab’ was operating due to their annual summer school, the idea sounded good – ‘the boring days will at least go away’, I thought to myself.  Continue reading

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Story

Expectations Defied

I used to have another blog long time ago, from where I found a really good real-life story of myself. Worth sharing, I suppose. Enjoy Reading! 🙂

Second grade – and I can’t utter a word. Something trickles down my forehead – sweat? Rain? Blood? I can’t tell – though my brain tells me I must be imagining it, my heart knows otherwise. For surely I must be bleeding – surely this is a river crimson flowing from my skull, a scarlet lake gathering on the ground, a pool carrying within it all the dirt and filth of a liar’s sin – surely I must now suffer a slow and agonising death, all the dark penury of Adam, for having lied to my own parents?

Fear is my companion, the only one I can trust to stay. Isn’t it fear I feel every time I look into my mother’s eyes and tell her – falsely, cheerily – that I have done well, better than anyone, in my exams? Isn’t it fear that makes my muscles limp, my legs loathe to move, my heart racing every time my father asks me genially how my day has gone? Fear lurks in corners, creeps with the shadows, looks out of paintings with eyes that laugh at my burning shame – because I have lied, and it knew, and I knew, and it knew I knew it. And I cannot stop: this is the worst part, the thing that makes my lies almost gruesome, blasphemous, a slight against all that is good and great and noble. Each time I utter a lie, it hovers above me, a dark, heavy cloud that diseases the air – and I go on uttering it, because once spoken I cannot dare retract it; because I am not a bright student, have never been a great student, and I – only seven, at the time – have not the courage to hurt them with the truth. Did I have a choice? An excuse? Only that I was a prisoner to love; only that I was a slave to fear. I went on nearly failing my exams, and I went on telling them I had done well, hating myself each time I did.

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