Jack the Ripper

​Toward the end of the Victorian era, there were a set of very grisly murders that took place mainly in the east end of London. The serial killer was named Jack the Ripper and was called this owing to the way in which they would rip into their victims and remove their organs. Their identity is still unknown to this day.

The rain that falls outside caresses the glass of the window gently. Golden drops reflecting the street light outside. The fog lies heavy over the town. No respectable person is out at this time of night. Even those of the East End have scurried away to some hovel in the back end of their boxed in homes. 

There is one person outside however. Cloaked to protect themselves in the terrible wet conditions, a hat covering their eyes from any unlucky spectator and a blade hidden in the pockets of that large cloak. Wrapped up well to preserve the shine. To prevent the moisture of the surrounding areas from damaging the blade.

Invisible to the human eye, at least for now, the Collector stands high above the streets. Death scythe in hand she waits, her empty eyes show no sign of remorse or sorrow for what is to happen. She is merely here to do her job. Collect the souls of the dead and leave. Tonight it shall happen slowly and carefully. She has no emotion in her. To her it is another soul among the countless human souls that are being taken from all over the world. In any case, she is forbidden from interfering in the issues that plague the human world.

She watches them walk briskly and deliberately. They have a motive in mind. Around the corner, then the next, cutting through the fog that closed up, swallowing their cloaked figure from behind. But she with her supernatural eyesight can see. The cloak stops in front of a dilapidated home. Inside there is a dim light that struggles to find its way through the grime that covers the windows. The carefully wrapped blade is drawn, and opening the rotting wood door with ease they step inside. A few moments later there is screaming that is quickly silenced. The Collector looks around. Nobody else has heard. Her attention is drawn back to the entrance of the house where the cloaked figure is dragging out a woman. Presumably the one who screamed inside the house. She is beautiful by human standards. Pale skin and a petite body covered only in a dirty white dress. She is alive still, but barely just. 

The collector watches as she is strangled properly by the cloaked figure. Black and purple bruises start to appear on her neck where the rope lovingly embraces it now. And as they do her pulse fades away and her spirit starts to appear next to the Collector. The collector makes her move to take the spirit to the next world but she looks at her with pleading eyes. The spirit is just as filthy as her body was. Covered in mud and hair all a mess but something about her gaze makes the Collector feel sorry for her. “You can stay till the end but after that you must come with me.” 

“I thank ye greatly me lady” the spirit tells her. They turn their attention back to the cloak. Satisfied with his work, strangling her, he takes his blade and rips through her throat spraying blood all over the pavement and the street. Then slowly and what seems to be lovingly they caress the body of the woman and soon get rid of all the organs from her putting them inside the cloak.

Hearing a scream beside her, the collector turns to look at the spirit who is flying down to the cloaked figure. She follows in hast but doesn’t reach them in time to stop the spirit from pushing her murderer down. As her death scythe slices the spirit, sending her straight to the underworld, the cloaked figure rises. They stumble to their feet, blood drips from their body onto the pavement and mingles with the grime. The collector watches as the figure stumbles toward the pier, their own blade sticking out of their chest. When they trip and their hat falls off, long yellow hair cascades down. She falls over the edge right into the murky waters of the river, never to be seen again… 



When you say I’m beautiful, what do you really mean? What do you want to imply when you say that I look pretty? When you hadn’t noticed me before but I suddenly caught your eye, what do these words mean? You, the man who has so many falling at his feet. Why do you notice me now? What makes you say such things that you know I will like to hear?  When you tell me these things I feel like a swallow. I am flying in the air. I am light, free, and yet I am tied to the earth. Forced to come back down when you leave. That is how I felt with you. That is how I was. 
What do you mean when you tell me I am beautiful? Is it just another way of your getting me to fall to your feet like the thousand others you have enraptured. I see how they are, captivated by your words. Your laugh ensnares them. You know exactly what to say to make the yours, and each day you add to your collection. And me? Am I in it? Am I your prized possession? You had me. You caught me. And then let go. So I fell from my place in the skies. You plucked away the wings you once gave me and let me plummet to the ground. Your prized possession? I guess not. In the end, was I more than just another one of those that you used and threw away? I guess I didn’t make a dent. I was just another game to you and I lost while you walked away with everything that I did. And it’s been so long, yet I still know you. I remember you. 

And though it scares me to admit this, I miss you…

Where is God? 

Where is god? I do not know.
Is he in the homes of the suffering?

Where is god? In all this show

Of fire and bodies gathering.

Where is he when those whom he calls

His children are all fighting.

Does he come to help,

Offer some relief to the people who dying?
Is he there, when his flock

Murders in his name?

Does he hide when cruel men

Pass on the blame

Is he there when little creatures

Cry out for his help?

Is he here when evil persons

Wreak havoc and bring hell
Or has he left, ashamed

Of what humanity has become

And drifted far and

Far away from this human scum

For we may be his children but

It’s time that we grow up

See that while we’re different

We are all the same stuff
Blood and pain

Crying and shame

Laughter joy and all that remains

Deep down we’re all just human.

God or not.

The Secret Life of Socks, Earphones, Hair Ties and, Bobby Pins

The earphones weren’t having it. All day they played amazing music for their master and they just had to sit there. Lying completely still while the music coursed through their veins. Beating out of their chest. So when they weren’t in use – shoved into a pocket or into a bag they would dance. With each other. And the others would watch. They’d dance, and dance, and dance, till they could dance no more. All sweaty and tangled they would be found the next time a mess of wires. This would make their master get frustrated and grumbling and mumbling they would untangle the two, Right and Left, from each other. To no avail because they’d just go do it all over again when they were out of sights. 

Socks watched the earphones at night. Lying in the basket of other clothes waiting to be washed. Sock 1 would look wistfully at them and wish he had their freedom. Sock 2 would scorn such practices and look away in disdain. Then while Sock 2 had her back turned, Sock 1 would slide out of the bucket and slither away into the night to mingle with the earphones. He didn’t like being on a smelly foot all day, only to be drowned in water and soap at night. He wanted the freedom of the earphones. He wanted to dance. But alas the cat saw him creeping across the floor and with one pounce he was in her mouth. She jumped outside into the garden and played with him while he tried his best to get away from her. But to no avail. When she finally let him go he was terribly lost, and had no idea how to get back home. Inside the house Sock 2 sighed as she waited and waited for her other half who never came back. 

The hair ties and bobby pins had had a hard day of work. They were tired from holding up all that hair. They wanted to escape but the cat would never let them. Looking down from the dressing table they saw the cat chasing after the sock. This was their chance! They jumped onto the ground and bobbed away to the open window. There they jumped out and landed in to soft grass without a sound. Rolling and bobbing away from the poor Sock and the cat they soon disappeared into the night to go to a land that is only accessible by them and no one else… 


To Single Parents…

This is an open letter to all single parents… I know I posted another open letter to my math teachers before, but this also needs to be written. Because this is something that I feel like I need to say.

Dear Single Parent,

It matters not whether you are male or female or whatever. Honestly it doesn’t. What matters is that your little monster, (your cupcake, pudding, pie, sweetie, whatever you call that child of yours) is getting all the love it needs from you.

I see you. I see the sweat on your brow as you single handedly bring up your child (or children) while simultaneously juggling all the responsibilities as a fully functioning adult. Sometimes people will tell you that you aren’t enough. They will look down on you and say some rubbish like “That child needs both a mother and a father!” Don’t listen to the poison they spew. You tell them that they only think that way because they they’ve been brought up to think that way. You are enough for the job. Don’t let the mindless societal thinking tell you that your effort is not worth anything because you are a single parent.

Oh my dear. Take a look at your child. Whichever one you can see. If you love them and raise them right (which I’m sure you do) they will be forever loving, you. They will see as they grow, that you as one simultaneously do the job that is mostly done by two. For that they will respect you. They will look up to you as a role model. Know the strength in you.

Don’t let some stupid stranger who doesn’t know any better tell you that you aren’t enough for your child. You are enough. Your child will agree with me. Perhaps they shall feel for a bit that they are different. You can teach them that it is that difference that makes them special too. Because differences create beauty. Differences are the fundamental right of any creature. It’s okay that they’re different. It’s okay to be a single parent.

A letter to all the teachers who tried (and failed) to teach me math

Dear teacher. Math teacher. I would like to say to you (all of you) how very sorry I am. Sorry that you had to put up with teaching a dunce like me. Sorry that the pay probably wasn’t worth the completely blank looks I gave your faces after you had spent yet another hour trying to get me to understand the new sum. You probably hated looking at me. Well the feeling was definitely mutual. I’m sorry that you had to teach me. I mean we were both in pain. I’m pretty sure I was in more pain but we were both in pain. Because math, as a subject, was my kryptonite, and you were no Lois Lane.

But I am also sorry my dear math teacher, that you didn’t know how to teach math. You, stuck in your backward calculative ways of thinking didn’t manage to get it across to me. And I, the dreamer, the writer, the less numbers more colours one always fell victim to the cruelty of the math. I am sorry that you were taught that there is no other way to teach. I’m sorry that there was no imagination in you (or time thanks to the restraints of physics) for you to think up ways in which you could have taught me. So thank you, Math Teacher, for bringing me this far, still hating math completely and at the same time letting me know just how important it would be for me to know why ABC even shows up in the world of mathematics at all.

Suicide Silence (Trigger Warning)


There is a place, a land of dreams,

Not nightmares surely, no evil things.

A world away from the one we’re in,

But still very much happening.

I know this world has fun and games;

And joy and laughter ever exist.

This place so far, but yet so close,

A place we will not be morose.

Fancy princes, funny creatures.

Serious, wise men who are good teachers.

A place where everyone wants to be

A place that just belongs to me.

Time passes there as you wish,

In the blink of an eye or the blow of a kiss.

And you control this world at large

And do what you want to, at heart.

Castles and underwater escapades.

Magic mysterious is the place.

You’ll feel like never really leaving

But will be forced to when ‘reality’ stings

Returning is an easy thing,

Don’t be afraid of anything.

Because this world is yours to own,

You can come back even when you’re old.

You can be a hero or heroine,

And any battle, you will win.

Nothing will fade, no place is gone,

Everything waiting for you to return.

So come escape this world of tears,

Of sorrow, and despair, and fears.

The scars on your hand you will not see.

They’ll heal you in the healing waves of the sea.

And all the blood that went down the drain,

The shouting, screaming, lying, the blame,

Frustration that would never cease

The tears that just wouldn’t freeze.

The blades, the thought, the pills, the tie

Every time you made up some other lie,

And then the aching, lingering pain.

The constant attempt to escape this place.

The slitted wrists, the crying eyes.

Deyaced soul, the eager flies.

Come away, hide with them

These people are not enemies but friends.

So close your eyes and then retreat

Into your mind so close, so sweet.

And even then it’s far away,

So come on and enjoy your stay.

Remain for as long as you please

And from the cruel world find release.

I’ll also let you in on a secret.

There is one way you’ll never leave it.

And promise that you’ll never tell,

’Cause damn that secret’s really swell,

All it takes is a simple rope,

With Death beside, Life can elope.

Truly if you needed this break,

You’d know, no one would miss your face.

Take up the knife, swallow the pill,

Adrenaline rush; awesome thrill.

Drift away on broken wings

To the land where your heart sings.

The tears that fall after that

Will not-


Both images belong to http://aelathen.deviantart.com/

Of Fandomly Power…

How fandoms helped me adjust to new places


The girl from the North East beside me rises with a start. She sits up in the bed and rubs her face with her hands. It is dark, only the street light streams in through the half-open window. She turns her head to me, her name is Cat (that’s what I call her), she asks me in a trembling voice to hug her please. Straining on the please. She calls me Anna. Like her best friend she left behind in Shillong. I am awake. I wasn’t able to go to sleep. Strange ways my mind works where I can sleep at the drop of a hat when I want but for some reason I was awake that night. I was awake and able to rise and hug her and stay up with her for an hour to comfort her. We finally went to bed at two on the morning…


This small incident that happened, took me back to about a year ago. I had just shifted from living with my mother in my aunt’s house, to living in a hostel run by nuns. This worked because the hostel was right behind the college. It had a lot of rules but I didn’t think they’d actually be troublesome. For instance, all Catholics had to go to mass every morning at six, and there would be prayers at 7:40 before dinner that all the girls had to attend. They were new and thus didn’t have an internet facility and therefore promised to put one in. A lot was said. Everything was settled. My mother was happy. I was happy. Mom and my aunt scoured the hostel thoroughly. They went ahead and checked out the room, the bathrooms and everything. It definitely got my aunt’s approval. She liked the place and she made sure she was heard. She kept telling me that I wouldn’t find a place like it. She was right.


Cat is very different from me. She finds her place in the PG easily. She made friends with so many people so fast. She’s just a nice person to be around. On the first day of college I wore a Star Wars tee-shirt to the orientation. Desperately hoping that I’d attract the attention of like-minded people and in turn make some cool friends. In retrospect, I should have worn my Deathly Hallows tee shirt instead. There are so many more Harry Potter fans than Darth Vader fans in college… I made some friends though. Perhaps not on the first day. There was Steff. She was and still is the nicest one I’ve met so far. She is sweet and so understanding, ready to help always. But her I had met at the interview itself. On the first day I wasn’t exactly the one who made friends.

I did make a friend later though. Anjenny, as we now call her was coming down the stairs after my mom had dropped me off to college and told me class had been cancelled. This was theology class and the first hour of the day so we were pretty happy. We went down the stairs talking and I introduced her to mom whom I had asked to stand outside and wait in case we didn’t have class. She had worn a fandom tee. I remember it was a silhouette of the 11th Doctor and the T.A.R.D.I.S. Blue print on black. I excitedly told my mom about it. I felt like a child among all the other college students. I felt like they all looked down on me for not having the decorum and sophistication.


All the kids were taller, smarter, prettier, better dressed than I was. They fit in college. I looked like some weird school-reject potato in my home-made fandom tees and my not styled, wild hair. I was the most unglamorous and stuck out like a sore thumb among the glamorous. In a way I still do there are days in which I cannot bring myself to even wear eyeliner to look like I put some effort into my upkeep. But I learnt that none of that mattered. Because in the end there was so much more in college. College is a melting pot of culture. It’s a place for varied backgrounds and people with different thoughts and opinions. I am lucky to have not been harassed or ragged. Perhaps this is because I am a stronger person. There was one really mean guy whom I’ve blocked out of my memory who came up to me one day and asked me why I looked like an obese Harry Potter. I had been feeling so happy that day. I was laughing and having a good time. The minute I heard him say that my mood overturned. I suppose I won’t hold it against him. I don’t know what made him go to a complete stranger and say that but he did. Anyway. In the end I appreciated being seen a bit like my hero Harry. Even if it meant I was fat.


The day my mom left me in the hostel I was a bit low. I had Anjenny with me then, she was the only one I knew. The two of us walked far. The hostel curfew was 6:00pm. I wanted to stay out for as long as I could. We found a park and sat in it for so long. Finally going back when there were just a few minutes’ left for curfew time. I found my solace in the only Harry Potter book I was able to keep with me. My bed was too high; I didn’t know a single person apart from Anjenny who would go to sleep early. I was alone. But the book was my escape. That and my music. For the longest time I’ve found my refuge in the songs I listen to. You can’t ask me what genre I like because it’s so varied and there exists within it complete polar opposites. But My Chemical Romance has always been a standstill for me.


I had my place in the study room. I kept my things there. It was close to a single plug point that I would use to either charge my phone or my laptop. I needed it because my phone would run out of charge so often. And I needed my phone for the internet. Yes, I sound like a spoiled brat but quite frankly the net was the dark hole I needed to crawl into when I was alone. I made friends slowly. I still charged my phone. It was my link. The only link I had to people who were fanpeople like me. This became all the more important as life in my hostel (soon to be called ‘hostile’ by my friend Nayn) became all the more unbearable. I delved into the notoriously addictive T.V. show Supernatural. When the warden of the Hostile would do something to annoy us all I’d go back to my laptop, in my place beside the window, and I would watch. I would binge episodes at a stretch. And this didn’t seem to hamper my studies much because I got pretty good marks throughout. One more thing that becoming part of the Supernatural fandom has done for me is that it has given me a fandom family.


I’ve been in the Harry Potter fandom for a really long time. And after that I was a Whovian and then a Merlinian. I became part of the Supernatural fandom most recently. However, it is only in the Supernatural fandom that I felt the togetherness that could call us a family. The Supernatural fandom is huge. It has often been described as a cult and a lot of people are even scared of it. They have power. At the same time, these people are one of the nicest bunch I have ever had the pleasure of interacting with. I was accepted into a group on Facebook called Supernatural Shippers, but the group goes so far beyond shipping. (Shipping by the way is the act of pairing two characters together mostly romantically in this context.) I know that the days I was having problems in this new setting all it took was one post in that group telling them I was low and asking for help when my notifications were flooded with loving comments and helpful bits of advice. Even nice pictures! And I’m not the only one. There are so many others who ask and they too get the help they need. Often, I feel that the people on that group are more helpful to me than the people who are not on the internet.


It is true however that there is a lot of unnecessary hate among fandoms. There is always the people who are at odds with each other. There are always the ones who – for reasons unknown to me – like to start wars.  But the helpful outnumber these. When fandoms take up arms and rise against something it is scary. Because they do have the power to hurt and they do have the power to make great things happen. That many people, all over the world, united for one cause. They can make things happen. As a majority they can influence others.


I brought up my friend Cat for a specific reason. Cat and I became friends through fandom. When Cat first came she was mostly quiet. We didn’t really talk much. But then she asked me about the many Gerard Way quotes that I had stuck around the room, asking me if I loved the man or the band. I told her I liked both. She stayed quiet sneakily and then the next night she pulled on a My Chemical Romance tee-shirt to wear to bed making me gasp when I came out of the bathroom. She grinned at me and I asked her if she was a fan, and if that was why she asked me about the quotes… After that it was like an unbreakable bond had been formed between us. We stayed up till late at night singing songs (mostly My Chemical Romance songs), watching musicals, or just simply talking, but it wouldn’t have happened that way if it wasn’t for MCR.

The number of times fandoms have helped me adjust is uncountable. In some ways I depend on fandom to make friends. It’s become the shield I take out with me every day when I go to face the world. Merchandise is expensive, so I make my own. I base so much of my work off fandom references. I am the Fangirl.