RAYAPOSITORY

“I can’t believe you still go around telling me your father and I fight every alternative day,” Marie rolls her eyes sitting in the breakfast table, eyeing her twenty-three years old daughter May, who expresses an emotion of guilt and indifference mixed into one. Marie fails to catch so. She is annoyed enough. May doesn’t reply, simply sits while having her cereal. “Are you not going to say anything?” Marie gulps another bite on her bread. “What’s the point of saying anything?” May shoves another spoonful in her mouth, now rage bubbling in her mind, “No matter what I say, you’re going to be spiteful about it anyway.” “I will,” Marie’s gaze turns sterner, “You don’t go around saying that to people, especially outsiders.” “My friends aren’t outsiders,” May voices through gritted teeth, “They have been enough patient with me while I talk about what affects me and what doesn’t.” “And your father and I affect you?” Marie’s voice nearly booms, “Is that what you are trying to say?” “You two b...

The boxing ring appears hazy to Sol. The spectators appear hazy to him, the voice of the referee, the murmurs around him. It all fades in and out for him, not sure how to subdue the feeling and get a grip on himself. His eyes threaten to droop close, his mind in imbalance, the helmet on his head heavy.    His vision flashes nothing but blue and red, a feeling of slight vertigo and lethargy washing over him. The stadium appears to him in two, fours, even sixes. His legs are slowly losing power to keep him afoot, to put a blow on the opponent, to plummet him to the ground and claim victory in the finals he worked so hard to reach. A silver medal is not an option. He tries to shift the weight of his body on both feet interchangeably, looking at the opponent whose physique is Herculean. The person throws a punch, but he evades it sloppily, nearly falling to the ground but bouncing back from it, hearing a low, annoyed groan from the burly one. Then the moment comes down for him to ...

Peace always seemed to be a shroud of false assurance of everything thought to be right, at least in my view, even for the slightest bit or for the longest period of time. At one point in life, all I’ve sought for is peace, peace and peace, and I still do. Although peace is abstract and intangible, and peace is something far from a literal grasp, imagining one won’t hurt, would it? I believe a peaceful world would mean expression of compassion, expression of kindness and expression of grace among and within. A peaceful world would mean the grass would be greener, the foliage would be fuller, the sky would be bluer, the sea would be more translucent beneath the jolly sun, and be able to truly bask in their glory. A peaceful would mean a truthful gleam in smiles, an elucidation of reassurance painting their eyes, the melody of justness ringing in their ears. A peaceful world would mean that everything the word ‘peace’ molds a picture in one’s mind. A peaceful world may not be fully reali...

  Madison visited a deep forest with her family, to a meadow which splayed not too deep into the forest. Anymore further, and they knew animalistic danger would find them. The four members of her family decided to camp out for the night, and Ivan, her brother, was the jolliest about the plan. His younger age than Madison disallowed him going into the forest. Since he was thirteen then, their parents agreed but on the promise of entailing their presence. The forest amassed less trees than usual, but the number is enough to call it a forest. The coarse narrow trail taken by them was a bit moist from the rain the day before, where downpour amidst summer is unlikely for them. Mason, the father of the children held his son’s hand, disallowing him to slip from the branches than cascaded upon or the upended roots which showed itself from the earthly brown. Iris, their mother knew Madison was capable of hiking, so her worry was directed to Ivan. They could infer upon a good place to stow t...

 A mortal woman views Heracles and Deianeira trying to cross the river Euenos, as Heracles attempts to ferry his wife, but fails to as the ground attempts to buckle under the weight of two. She contemplates coming to their aid but retracts at the possible wrath she might face later from the lady of the demigod, as if she attempted to whisk Heracles from her. She’s not Deianeira, but beautiful enough to bewitch the male population. She remains soundless as Heracles and Deianeira voice between each other about wanting to cross the river, no form of transport in their outlook to carry them to the nearby village they have been opting to visit. The woman is not unaware of the danger which treads the emerald of the forest and the cerulean of the water, one of the most frequent to manifest itself in the centaur. Nessus. His biggest form of feast is stripping women of virginity. With a woman as ethereal as Deianeira, an exception is not of his rationality. Speaking of the devil, she views ...

The car is driven towards the light quite briskly, something its inhabitant fails to fathom. Or the dark, depending on the trail it was coaxed into.  The radio playing a disco track sounds scratchy before it translates into a static. The driver treads ahead, heedless of the pointer lugged towards right, every potency wanting to catapult it back to a riskless numeric.  Gazing back, the shadows of his misdoings trail him with equal fervour.  “Do you want to be in the dark?” An unnamed RJ voices robotically, and her eyes enlarge towards the music console then to the road again. Still dark. “I think you’ve been in it for way too long. Now it’s time to step into the lig-,” The static sounds before it ceases and the vehicle gets mouthed by a large white void.  For a few seconds, she is blinded before he discovers himself levitating.  The car isn’t there. It’s all too bright, too intense. “Do you hear me?” The voice ricochets the cavernous expanse, the robotic essence ...

bit of a love letter, i assume Dhaka is all she has seen for the most part of her life. The city that bustles in colors, the city that bustles in gr e y. The hubbub of traffic choked roads, beggar clad concretes who begged and begged until their voice parched itself, the dearth of foliage which she gradually saw crossfading into the ruthlessness of time, the shrieks and screams of hawkers, the upheaving voices of the passersby haggling for the price, wrestling with the cacophony of horns, all of it. She walked through the paved and unpaved roads, stranded for the worse, her feet aching from the deformity, the coarseness of it all. She looked around and saw tall buildings, people typing away in their computer, footpaths clad with temporary shops of bangles to fuchkas, a local street food, to pickles to even cutleries, low end jewelries, makeover salons, both low- and high-end. The shops were spread haphazardly, one without a roof, one with a makeshift roof, being a victim of the swingin...

She woke up to the blaring sound of explosives and the tumbling of a building nearby.  Hamza’s eyes opened briskly before she sat herself on her makeshift bed, viewing for her family deep in slumber, perceiving the sound of their breathing. All of them are alive, and awake with a sense of trepidation and worry glossing their eyes, gazing back at her. “Hamza,” She failed to perceive her mother getting up and tenderly nudging her, as she tethered herself to reality she was distortedly unaligned with another cacophony emanating from the explosives.  “Ammi,” She voiced shakily, as her hands turned clammy from the impending death which might discover her. Her family. “We’re going to be okay,” Her mother tenderly embraces her, as Hamza’s hands twirled into fists, attempting to inject a vial of reassurance which is her mother’s words. “They’re bombing far away from us,” Her mother voiced as Hamza felt her father bringing in water for them, having awoken from the sounds which ran anxi...

Another stamp of approval from university publication Fear.   It’s such a small word, but it holds you in a vice-like grip at any point, at any experience, at any moment.  Some might have a fear of heights, if said in a single word: acrophobia. Some may have a fear of sharp objects, called aichmophobia. Some may be afraid of the idea of marriage and love at the same time. These two are called gamophobia and philophobia. Although the latter two don’t, to some degree, need experience, at least that’s what I think. You see the tangible effects and the desire to avoid intangible sentiments among the people who saw the end of love burned brighter than ember and marriage, which itself is a promise of harmony and goodwill among the pair tied, as if a red ribbon has solidified so.  If I were to speak about the number of fears in the world, it might not end. But this writing has to end at some point, and this is the beginning of my end to this piece. My fear is really bizarre, as ...

“There are two types of lives people can live,' he said. 'The kind of life in which one writes in a diary every day, and the kind of life in which one doesn't. They're as different as a country with a history and one without.” The Cabinet by Kim Un Su builds upon a premise which appears to be eccentric, yet the unrealistic notion of ‘symptomers’ sets off the story of Cabinet 13, the titular cabinet. Cabinet 13 is an enigmatic presence in the story, whose safekeeping is bestowed in the hands of a persona someplace between a curator and janitor named Kong Deok Geun, an assistant to the enigmatic Professor Kwon. His involvement with the bizarre yet fascinating occurrences, which have been an aftermath of covert experiments. It’s where magic and mundane emulsify, yet far from a rather conventional perception of how it must transpire. Deok Geun’s life unfolds as he documents and supports these ‘symptomers’, a group of people who, what you may call, reinvented themselves.  Ki...

That one time I took part in a relay race and won The stadium starts brimming with people after lunch, sitting themselves on the vacant seats while entering in two different lines from two entrances on the north and south. The capacity is not as mammoth as its only a national level event, yet enough to make the competitors nervous, chills sprinting across their bones.  The player’s benches are surrounded by the players, occupied in warmups before their turn is announced through the in-built speakers. The sheen of precipitation and anxiousness paint their forehead in minimal fashion as they try to release the tension from their muscles, priming themselves from any mishap which might find them in the rigorous sports.  Nia isn’t an exception in this case. She pries on her ponytail to tighten the hair band on her head before letting out a deep sigh. She goes back to warming up, folding knees and counting to five before doing it in repetition. Her three other teammates warm up in ...

My first ever piece published. Tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap. “Who’s it?” “It’s me, your dark thoughts.” “The void who visits me everyday?” “The void who visits you everyday.” I open the door to nothing and everything at once. It permits itself in my subconscious, grinning a sinister smile, eyes sparkling in feasting from my mind. From the gray mass which molded the pathway to my subconscious, which molded everything thinkable and unthinkable for me. “May I sit?” I toil to voice a no, yet my lips crease and swirl until it can express a yes. The void sits itself on a sacred chair of ethereal sentiments, which I fail to view, as my eyes blindfold itself from such. The chair douses itself in charcoal, which I fail to view. The grin of the void grows wider, nearly extending to its ear. “So let’s talk.” I forge no reply, as if my ears have been brimming with tinnitus of darkness.  “I know you’re hearing,” The void speaks again, viewing as I am immobile.  “You know I am here to eat your...