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WINTERBERRIES; A tribute to Ruskin Bond

The wind sweeps the last of the fallen leaves from the driveway. It was getting grey and dim outside. Bagira, our beagle boy sneaked inaudibly and sat by the fireplace. The bread was puffing up in the oven and steaming spiced tea was brewing in the kettle. The windows were creaking painfully as the hook could not resist the steady winds blowing down the valley. The sun had set earlier than usual and everybody managed to escape work early after the local radio announcement from the municipality. Before I could pour some milk into the tea, it was already dark. On the treetop of the whispering pine, an owl was hooting faintly. The soft whistling of the leaves and occasional chirps from the nestled cuckoo and her chicks would catch the attention of little Bagira. It wasn’t typically a quiet night where the crickets would orchestrate with the nightjar in a breezy Jasmine fragrance. Read More


They say that a house is the manifestation of its owner. Donna’s apartment is quite a character like her. The walls have a flock of photo frames, souvenirs from all the places she has voyaged and titbits from the all the flea markets she has… Read More


A sky of the color Carolina and the winds of the mood Cerulean, there is a smidgeon of foggy clouds near the corners of the sky. In my Palladiums, I walk towards the end of the countryside unparticular of the program. It’s just a stroll… Read More


In the Lincoln county of Newport, past the West Bull ranches of Ivytown had little Manolo’s dream brewing in a white country house surrounded by alpine trees. Manolo lived with his single mother, Gennine and their dog, Memphis.  Gennine had a small novelty store and… Read More