STORYTIME EP.2

((Again, this is all comedy and is not to be taken seriously))


The awesome young adult named T had just left a land known as India, where many of the less fortunate had never been to before. (Sucks to be you, Columbus)

Strangely enough, the public melancholy of departure radiated by his traveling fellows also pierced our favourite genius' normal (sorry, awesome) sangfroid and threw him into emotional chaos.

This mental turmoil, when coupled with the copious amount of unhealthy food our hero had consumed while in that mystical land, could lead to only one thing. Sickness.

And indeed, sickness did come. With the force of a great hurricane, the flu germs landed on the craggy shores that were to become the battlefield for T's health. A great war then ranged, lasting for almost a whole day, during which T wasn't entirely sure whether he was coming down with the flu or not.

However, by the end of the day, the victor was clear. The many trenches which had previously been manned by T's noble white-blooded soldiers were now littered with their drained corpses. The Germ-an artillery had broken the last line of defense, and their disease fully penetrated T's body.

Here now is the last stanza of the epic poem 'The Flu has Won'


"The war is lost
The Germ-ans have invaded
And in our white blood bathed
So begins the second Holocaust"

With these sombre words, STORYTIME Ep.2 will now conclude.

STORYTIME EP.1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: To make it clear, this story is not meant to be taken seriously, and is written for comedic purposes


Once upon a time there was a completely awesome teenager named T (The name has been hidden in the interest of maintaining anonymity).

Now, T here was one of those rare few awesome geniuses of the 21st century, and would rub it in everyone's face at every given opportunity. As could be expected, this meant that T didn't make a lot of new friends.

However, this didn't really seem to matter to him, and he was content with the few he had, as awesome people, must always learn to adapt.

T had a host of unusual idiosyncrasies. He was constantly blacking out in the middle of long talks, his mind not content with the un-awesomeness of the mundane world he lived in, teleporting his mental self to worlds like Middle-Earth, where T truly felt he belonged. T also constantly greeted his friends to acknowledge their good fortune in having become his friends. It was annoying sometimes, but his friends soon learned to live with it.

T once wrote a poem about himself. It runs like,

"From amidst a world of folly
Emerges a boy looking jolly
Genius of the new world is he
His name? It's simply T"


With those awesome and inspirational words left to guide you on your path, this session of STORYTIME will now conclude.

Last Struggle of the Grey

I wrote this poem about 2-3 years back, after re-reading Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time.
I was a bit younger then, so please forgive the standard of the poem.

(( Just to clarify, this poem is about the duel between Gandalf and the Balrog in the Mines of Moria))


With Istari grace did he fight
Striving to defend what was right

The Balrog of Morgoth was his foe
Unholy fire, could it throw

Durin's Bane was its name
Durin the Deathleass, it had slain

With whip, fire, and blade it fought
But 'twas all to be for naught

The Flames of Anor struck him down
And into the darkness it did drown

It looked as though the victor was clear,
But the Grey wizard's end too, was near

The Balrog's whip shot out for the keep,
Drums, drums in the deep

A Travel Poem

This is a poem which I wrote while travelling from India to Pakistan in a bus.

Ahead, the ruddy red of the mountain rises

With the road cutting ever through,

All the twists, turns, and surprises,

'Till it reaches the endless blue

(This Stanza was written as we were passing some fields and a river)

Clouds of all sizes grace the sky

While the greenest of grass billows through the meadows

Outside, the farmers thresh their rye,

As the wind is wending through the willows  

Time has passed, sunlight begins to die

The meadows darken, and on them shadow falls

The murders of crows start to fly

And the farmers retreat to their halls