Authors Beware: Reblogged from The problem of book theft … — Books: Publishing, Reading, Writing

Close to two years ago, I discovered that my eBooks, both of them, were being listed for sale on a site about which I’d never heard before. They were not under contract to sell my eBooks nor was I receiving any payment for the nearly 1000 times the site reported my novel had already been […]

via The problem of book theft … — Books: Publishing, Reading, Writing


I’ve wanted to be with you

Ever since, ever since…

You ask, “Ever since when?”

I struggle to find an answer

And for a long time I wonder,

Was it since for ever

Or was it only since June?

I try hard to please you

But feel like a song out of tune.

I’ve wanted to hold you

Ever since, ever since…

And you ask again,

“Ever since when?”

Was it since I first saw you

Or was it since last April?

I try to tell you how I feel-

Yet, I act like a shy daffodil.

I can churn out words (in general)

Like artillery fire; 

But when you question me,

I feel so lost in desire-

As if I were stuck in a mire.

Some feelings are best left

Unexpressed; better still,

Just discern them, if you will.


Don’t know how long

I’ve been waiting

For you. I remember

Several occasions

When my need was

Stronger than ever;

But especially, I

Remember one July

Afternoon, wet and cold,

When I, a gawky kid,

Fifteen years old,

Turned homeward,

Deliberately forgetting

Raincoat and umbrella,

Just to enjoy the rain.

I left school,

Soaked through,

And into the rain

I walked, searching

High and low, for you.

Oh, but, where were you?

I braved the storm;

Cascades of water, too,

That blurred my vision;

Even waded upstream

Through waist-high water

That transformed

Roads into rivers.

Oblivious of open drains

Or gaping manholes,

I pursued my way,

Expecting, at every turn,

Your strong arms

Or your warm bosom-

Oh where were you, then?

And how old?-

Sixteen, I should guess.

I miss you, now,

As I missed you, when

I was gawky and fifteen,

Frightened and wet!

Yet I love you, if

For no other reason,

But that I survived

Three heart-breaks and

Now, you’re heart-broken.


Please, try a little harder,

Try a little more-

To care for the Other,

To love like never before.

Try a little harder,

Pray, try a little more;

And I can promise that

Love will open newer doors.

Just try a little more, darling,

And try to care deeper;

And you’ll find this world of ours

Is a world without borders.

Try a little harder, please,

Now, won’t you, sweetie?

My heart’s an open book, my love,

Filled with beautiful reality.

Just try; and I’ll ask no more

Than for you to walk in

Through my humble door.

I’d ask you to sit down

And may be watch some golf;

Or share some senseless chit chat

O’er priceless mugs of coffee.

I might ask you to make love even

And never yell, “Back off!”

I’d find a million excuses

For us to be together;

All I want is you, my love,

In this world or the other.




She had just returned from the funeral, and she was still thinking about the wreath of hyacinths she had placed inside his coffin, in respect of the last wish he had expressed. Hyacinths had been his favorite flower. She had heard him say so often enough; so she wasn’t really surprised when he had expressed his intention of being buried with them, just before he died. Now, the scent of the flowers still clung to her fingers, as did the feel of them, and she missed him more than ever. Yet she couldn’t cry; she wouldn’t cry, because he had, before dying, placed his ring in her hand, with the promise that his soul would find hers, that she wouldn’t have to wait too long to become one with him. And so, she planned to wait, till his soul found her.

The day passed in a daze, for his last words “my soul will find yours” kept reverberating in her thoughts. And at night, when she finally went to bed, the smell of hyacinths still clung to her fingers. As she looked out of the window, for just a fleeting moment, she thought that she could see him standing in the garden, looking up at her with his usual smile, in his usual way, until she suddenly remembered that he was no more. So she closed the window, and tried to sleep, and while she slept, she dreamed of hyacinths…

Next morning, when she failed to make an appearance at her usual time, and repeated attempts to wake her up proved futile, her parents had the servants break open the door of her room, only to find her lying dead in her bed, an expression of peace, quite unlike the haggard expression that she had worn for weeks, ever since he had been taken ill, showing on her now-cold face. The doctor, when he had finished examining her body, pronounced her as “having died due to some unknown cause”. But her parents ever-after maintained that she had died of a broken heart; that they had seen death written across her face, ever since he had been taken ill…


Years had passed since the family that had last lived in the house, had left it after the sudden death of the daughter of the house. And having remained untenanted for a long, long time, the house had fallen into disrepair, and the gardens had grown wild and out of proportion, with hyacinths having practically claimed the territory. They were simply everywhere. So that, when the new tenants came to live in the house, they were faced with the formidable prospect of repairing the damages in the house, as well as getting rid of the surplus hyacinths. When finally the place had been put in order again, and the family came to live in the house, those few that remained of the neighbours of old, held their breath in surprise, when they saw the daughter of the family; for she looked remarkably like the one that had lived in the house so many years ago; only this one was lovelier. To those who knew all about the other one, this was like history repeating itself. And they were all overcome by a secret sadness, which they couldn’t really understand.

And so the new family started living in the house, which was once again filled with laughter and songs and life, after ages of reigning silence. Then, one day, the daughter, while looking through the contents of the drawers of an old bureau, found a ring lying in a corner of a drawer, on which was inscribed “my soul will find yours”. She turned the pretty little thing over in her hands a few times, and then went bounding downstairs to show it to her mother. She already had her hand on the door-knocker, when a little voice from somewhere seemed to scream in her ears, “Don’t.” She stopped in her tracks in surprise, as she seemed to feel a strange sense take control of her thoughts, that filled her with a sense of foreboding; that if she showed the ring to anybody, what was about to happen would not happen, and that, would be a grave loss to her. So she went back to her room and hid the ring under her pillow instead. That evening, when she was out in the garden taking a stroll, she suddenly came across a divine-looking youngman, whom she had never seen before, leaning against the furthest door of the garden, with a bunch of hyacinths in his hand. When she went forward with the intention to ask him who he was and what he was doing there, he came out of the gloom he was standing in, raised his hat to her and silently handed her the flowers. She looked into his face for a long moment, and she seemed to know him; only she couldn’t remember where she might have seen him. In that moment, she seemed to hear the words “my soul will find yours”, as if he had whispered them into her ears. And then, suddenly, he was gone. She wasn’t really surprised; so she calmly went back to the house, assured that she would see him again. And at night, before she fell asleep, she toyed with the ring for sometime. And as she slept, she dreamed. She dreamed that her young man was standing in front of her, holding out a bunch of hyacinths to her. As she reached out her fingers and touched them, the hyacinths seemed to come alive suddenly, filling her with horror, and as she stood there, gaping at the young man with eyes wide with horror, trying to ask for his help, but not being able to, as she couldn’t find her voice,twining around her fingers, and reaching up fast across her hand, enveloping it, and then, reaching still higher, seeming to spread out and grow across her body, suffocating her with their scent…

Next morning, the parents found their daughter, lying dead in bed, with a sprig of dried hyacinths clutched to her breast by her right hand, and her left hand clutching a pretty ring, on which were inscribed the words, “my soul will find yours”; and what was stranger, the entire room, from the ceiling to the floor, every inch of it, seemed to have become horribly overgrown with dead hyacinths overnight; yet, there was a strong smell of hyacinths everywhere…