Freewrite 1 – Chelsea Bridge & India

I wrote the first freewrite  to the jazz song “Chelsea Bridge”, and the second to the song “India”.


An evening stroll by the shore, slow and steady, across miles of chartered land. Sitting down in a sidewalk cafe, ordering coffee and a sandwich, savoring every bite as though it were the last. Moving over to the fireside, and huddling with a cup of hot chocolate.


The runner sprints in almost full swing, going to a place that will only be visible once it is discovered with multicolored socks, black shorts and a plain white t-shirt, he ran, chasing all of his opponents and flying past them until he was just a dot on the horizon. He could have been anyone in that moment, just one of the many dots fading and pulsing in the distance.



Poem 7 – Bengali Song

Strolling in the early morning

a bazaar

spices –

cinnamon, cardamon, cloves

and many other scents

mingle together

forming an aromatic

cloud of pulsating


Dancers sway to the movement


the bustle


Writing Tip 2 – Writing With Rhythm

If you feel like telling others about your life through your writing, but don’t think it’s interesting enough, this post is for you. How do you make a mundane series of tasks sound interesting and intriguing? Here are some tips!

* Alternate Sentence Length

If every sentence was the same length, your piece would not be intriguing, therefore vary the word count. Listen to music, speeches, TV shows, movies, anything, for inspiration.

* Move Your Words Around

Basically, edit your work. You’ll be surprised how much better it sounds in the end. Mix & match words until they are in the exact place that you want them to be. The most important element in a sentence should be at the very END.

* Rhythm = Mood

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Match the rhythm of the words to the mood you’re in. If you’re angry or upset, make the sentences flow into each other, and vice versa. It’s also important to consider the mood you wish to convey to your reader.


Poem 6 – Dark Waters

I’ve been writing a lot of poems lately, I guess I’m just in a poetic mood. Here’s my newest one. Please comment!



across the bay –





the feathered mask


was old enough

to see

the stars.



screeched calmly


on the





with force –

the Black Swan

in her

sleeping bag.


in the

small expanse of

dark water.


Poem 5 – Street Machine

This is not the normal style of a poem (there are no line breaks and it reads like a paragraph), but I was inspired by Ben Mirov’s machine poems in writing this one. I first wrote a lot of sentences down that came to me from movies I’d seen, books I’d read, paintings I’d seen, or from my dreams, and then arranged them in a somewhat logical order to create this machine poem. Please comment, I would really appreciate the feedback!

It was midnight, and the streets of Paris were still alive with activity. The narrow cobblestone alley with flowers hanging from vines baked in the morning heat. A drain filled with water flowed away. Sunlight slanted through a deserted street, the only attraction a red-and-blue barber’s pole. The movie wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for. Shoes click-clacked on the white marble floor, the slabs of shining marble illuminating their forms. I found the idea of living near a pond for two years enlightening. It was a way to escape from the material comforts of the world. Careening through a tunnel, the bullet train flew straight into a volcano. Its entire memory had been erased.


Story 3 – The Stained Glass Window

This is a short story that I wrote while sitting next to a stained-glass window a couple of weeks ago. Enjoy, and please comment!

In the darkened space, the brightest light falls onto figures from a stained-glass window. But it is not just any stained glass window – its vibrant shades of orange, red and deep orange, as well as the green leaves and succulent purple grapevine designs create an atmosphere of peace and tranquility. It is a haven for those who wish to escape from the bustling world outside the glass, a cave-like, hollowed space. Those who are inside can see out, as we are enclosed in a small bubble, but those outside in the world cannot see inside.


She sits on the ragged carpet on the floor, her hands unconsciously feeling its divets. Among her are many others, all sitting cross-legged on the floor, who have come from across the globe. They come from exotic countries filled with fresh aromas such as India, Tanzania, turkey, France, Thailand.

The room is beginning to fill to capacity with these people, their clothes – some vibrant, others tattered – blended together. It was as if the entire world was mixed together in one place.

She, however, felt utterly alone and wished she could break open the intricate stained-glass windows and re-enter the society that she knew, not this alien, foreign one.

And so she broke out of the haven, the shelter of sorts, and emerged into civilization.