Really Minnelli

Content Warning: Violence, Anti Semitism and Adult Themes Art Speigleman’s Maus is an artfully crafted story where he recreates his father’s Holocaust (or the Shoah in Hebrew) experience. Having won a Pulitzer Prize, this comic portrays the brutality of Nazi regime with the use of mice, cats, pigs and dogs, a visual manifestation of Speigleman’s quote “Maybe vulgar, semiliterate, unsubtle comic books are an appropriate form for speaking of the unspeakable.” The Complete Maus is comprised of two books; Maus I: My Father Bleeds History and Maus II: And Here My Troubles Began . The first book follows Vladek Spiegleman, Art Spiegleman’s father, through his life from the mid 1930s to winter 1944. Spiegleman weaves the interactions he has with his father into the story using a dual timeline, allowing readers to interact with Vladek’s younger self and the person he is at the time of conveying the story to Spiegleman. This alternation between current events, where Spiegleman is interacting

I have been thinking of publishing a book I wrote when I was back in 8th grade for a school assignment. I think it turned out pretty well for a 12 year old's piece of work, albeit a little cringey, it's still cute and a solid piece of work. Or at least I think. I have been wanting to publish it for quite some time now, but my intense fear of being judged held me back. I even wanted to illustrate it, but I never did, because I never thought I would ever be able to deal with the criticism.  Recently, I have been thinking about my career, and I came to the realisation that I actually have done quite some good work, and I really, really like writing, but I have almost nothing to show for it. I felt like a hypochondriac with pneumonia. I could say I love writing. But people won't believe me. So I decided, to hell with anxiety, I'm going to put myself out there and actually work on publishing my book. If it turns out sucky, I can blame it on my younger self (I'm sorry lit

Othello. Image from Wikipedia. Othello was a play written by Shakespeare presumably in the years 1603 and 1604, during which a peace treaty was signed between England and Spain. This might have brought about the memory of the War of Cyprus that occurred when Shakespeare was much younger, inspiring him to write a play set in Venice around the time of this war. Othello was a Moor that Shakespeare portrayed as a kind, brave and charismatic character, contrary to the common belief at the time where people usually saw Black Moors in rather disdainful light. In Act 1 Scene 3 of Othello, Iago tries to humiliate Othello in front of the Duke and judges by exposing Desdemona’s marriage to Othello, which was carried out without the consent of Brabantio. Previously, Iago and Roderigo wake Brabantio up and break the news of his daughter’s elopement “to the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor”, giving Brabantio the impression that she has been forced to wed. Othello arrives and agrees to settle the

The subway was bustling with people. I was lucky to have found a seat and I sat, my backside indignantly plastered to the hard metal chair. I often wondered if I'd ever be able to lift my weight off the seat, and when I wasn't contemplating the possibilities of me getting up in time for my train, I was watching the people around me in the subway. There was a mother dragging her two children behind her, desperately urging them to hurry up. I wondered where the father was. " So many broken families these days ," I thought. Then there was an old man who was being fussed over by a woman wearing several layers of make-up and too little clothing. She seemed too old to be his daughter, and too young to be his wife. What people do for money . A middle-aged father passed me by, talking to his unresponsive daughter that was too busy poking at her mobile phone. These teens are too self-obsessed . A train whooshed into the subway and there was a crowd that swarmed at the doors of

 Hi! I haven't been posting much lately because I've got a few major exams coming up soon, so I won't be posting like before. I managed to get this piece of writing ready for you, but I'm still developing this story. I'll update this version as soon as possible. Hope you enjoy this. Stay safe! :) “See you later Dodge,” I texted. I waited for a reply and getting none, went offline to do the good stuff. And by the good stuff I mean the cool stuff, which was hacking for me. Because we all have that vice which is our downfall or our salvation, and for me it was the latter. Just then, one of my telephones rang. The ugly black one with its paint peeling off which I had scavenged from the scrapyard, which meant the Pig was calling. “Hello,” I said. “Hey Joey. I got a job for ya.” “I’m listening.” “I need you to rig the system,” he said. “The usual?” I asked. “No. This time it’s me. Get me out.” “Oh…okay, well I’m on it boss. And um, hey, I need the dumplings,” I said, rath

Shakespeare is widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language. His works showcase the deepest feelings of humans, that the majority of us would be too ashamed to even admit the presence of. On reading Othello, I have been awed by such human emotion that is so vividly portrayed in Shakespeare's words. I also realised the amount of energy that a person, overcome with jealousy and hunger for power, is willing to put into another's downfall, instead of using this energy to improve oneself, and that even though this world has evolved in various aspects such as social and technological, those basic feelings are still prominently expressed and also underlie conflicts that occur at different levels, be it international or personal. The themes of his work are based on human feelings. He shows that by being infatuated by one thing, and by being overcome with strong degrading feelings, you become rather possessed and unable to function on activities that you believe to be

This is a piece of writing that I published on Reedsy's website. You can read my writing here , but I'll be posting them on my blog anyway. Hope you enjoy reading this. :) I kept looking at the door expectantly, watching the people come in and go out of the restaurant. I could feel butterflies in my stomach, and I wondered if I’d even eat tonight. I was nervous — not even the light instrumental music playing in the background or the bright little candles dotting every table could make me calm down — but it was a good sort of nervousness. Looking around, I noticed that there were a few families, but most of them seemed to be couples, all of which were busy chatting or clinking their glasses together and cutlery on plates filling the air with the sound of dining. The waiters bustled in and out of the kitchens, some even skilfully and effortlessly balancing a number of platters on both their hands and along their arms, making the aroma of food waft around the place. After watching

This is a piece of writing that I published on Reedsy's website. You can read my writing here , but I'll be posting them on my blog anyway. Hope you enjoy reading this. :) The bus-station this particular morning was deserted save for a few people dotting the concrete seats built into the walls of the station. I knew that I had to take the 4.30 bus to Kandy, but I didn’t know which exact bus to take. I was in the mystical foreign land of Sri Lanka that my ancestors had under their grasp a few decades short of a century; however, people that could converse well in English (and not send you on the wrong route, speaking from personal experience) were almost nowhere to be found. Undeterred yet, I decided to ask the stationmaster, or who I assumed to be was the stationmaster. “Hello,” I said warmly with a tinge of tentativeness in my voice. The little man in a beige shirt and black pants looked at me in an unwelcoming manner and returned to the piece of paper he was holding, which he

The keys fell on the ground with a clink. I picked them up and tried locking the door with my trembling hands. I dropped the keys again. I didn’t want to be late. Sighing, I bent down to notice that I had folded my jeans up. I hastily pulled them down, knowing how much she hated them that way. Without her around, I was living on autopilot. After a few more attempts, I heard the much awaited click of the lock slipping into place. I slapped my back pocket to check if the book was still there, and the even lump confirmed so. I walked past my car and the flower beds that only had brown soil and brown, withered flowers. I didn’t take the car; I decided to walk instead. I made my way towards the market a few blocks away. I was still trembling, my head dizzy, sweat running in rivulets down my nervous face. “This is a bad idea. I should go back home,” I told myself sternly. I turned halfway, but then strongly decided against going back. After months of worrying and procrastination, I got mysel

Sitting in my porch I watched the children run and scream in delight as they played a very animated version of tag. On Saturdays the kids spend the day at my place, and those are the best hours of my life that I ever so religiously look forward to. I wake up as early as my age allows me to, to bake some goodies for the kids. And every single morning the kids would fly into my arms and I’ll tell you that there’s no better feeling than that. I remember when I was that young. Those were the good old days when going from one place of the house to another didn’t take hours or make my joints ache as if they’d fall off any moment. Physical pain back then was temporary, much unlike now. Once, when I was in my mid-teens, during a netball match it started raining; however, the coach gave no indication of stopping the match, so on we went. But being the clumsy oaf that I am, I slipped and fell and somehow went and struck my knee on the concrete base of the post. I heard a crack (maybe it was