STORY: Falling Feathers ( A fallen Angel Story)

I descended from the ladder of the treehouse I had built for myself early that morning. It was nestled high in the tallest oak tree at the heart of this pristine rainforest in the south. Time was of no consequence to me, for I had no concept of how the humans' device, the clock, measured the passing of seconds, minutes, or hours. In the realm where I existed, time drifted as freely as the wind that swept through the trees. It didn't matter—not really. I could glide through time in the blink of an eye, centuries passing as easily as yesterday. Millennia were inconsequential. I could travel back and forth, at will, for as long as I wished. Yet, I had chosen to remain here, in this paradise of solid reality. The idea of existing in just one dimension captivated me, and this decision to stay here, in this beautiful, untamed woodland, was the first true choice of my entire existence. This was my present—this forest, my sanctuary, the perfect representation of the world.

I knew it was early; the forest was still quiet. The birds had yet to hum their tunes, and many of the animals were still in their lairs, sleeping. My feet finally touched the ground, which was covered in dried leaves that had fallen every summer. This tropical land didn't experience a withering season, so the leaves would fall during the summer, when the sun's heat made the trees shed their coat. The earth beneath me was obscured by the blanket of leaves, creating a soft, matted floor that I couldn’t even feel beneath my bare feet.

The forest was shrouded in mist, and the scent of nearby pine trees filled the air like nature's own perfume. It was dim here, for the rays of the sun couldn't fully penetrate the thick canopy of trees that stretched high above. I could hear the soft whistle of the wind as it swirled over the rocks and through the trees. The neighboring hills and mountains were hidden from view, their outlines obscured by the forest's density. Even the peak of the sleeping volcano was nowhere to be seen. With a heightened sense, I knew the villagers of Sugarland were still asleep, except for the few elders who always woke early.

Waking early was inevitable for me. Even if I tried to return to sleep, it was useless. Unlike humans, my body was in perfect harmony with the breaking of dawn. It wasn't just a task I had to perform—it was a privilege, an unbreakable part of my existence. I was built to honor the coming of the light, a ritual we immortals followed without fail.

Whether I wished it or not, I had to acknowledge the rise of the morning sun. Our bodies knew what to do: we would submit to the light’s radiance, for it signified the heavenly fire. It was the only way for us to briefly reconnect with the En Sof, our father—if only for a fleeting moment. This glimpse of home was the only way we knew we still mattered to Him, that He hadn’t forgotten us, despite the mistakes of eons past.

Yes, I was one of the fallen angels, cast out of Heaven’s gates. A terrible mistake, one I regretted deeply. Many of us, the fallen, still resisted the call of the En Sof, refusing to acknowledge the morning light. These were the ones who created the pit—the realm known as Hell. But I was not one of them. I refused to be manipulated by the superior angel who led us astray. For years, I worshipped the morning light patiently, despite my homesickness. I held onto the hope that one day, I would be granted redemption for my defiance—that someday, my prayers of repentance would be heard, and I would be allowed to ascend again.

Standing on the ground, barefoot and clad in a simple white gown of thin, soft fabric, I felt the silence of the forest wrap around me. The giant trees towered over me, their vastness making me feel like I was in the presence of giants. The air was still, save for the soft whispers of the wind and the delicate rustling of leaves. The water from the stream sparkled with a soft sound, but then—silence.

And then it came—the heavenly symphony.

The sound of cherubic voices singing in perfect harmony filled the air. It was a pure, melodic rhythm that consumed me entirely. I could not resist it. My mind was overwhelmed by the music, my reason no longer in control. My body moved on its own, driven by the call of the sacred ritual. I felt the music pulling me, leading me toward the clearing at the base of a hill just outside the misty forest.

The ritual had begun, and the gates to the divine were opening for all of us. I had to reach the top of the hill. My body seemed to glide effortlessly, barely touching the ground with each step. As I ascended, I felt weightless, as though gravity no longer had any hold over me. It was as if I were floating, light as a feather, and with every stride, my heart raced with anticipation.

When I reached the top, I stood on the cliff, gazing at the surrounding landscape—a sea of green pasture beneath a sapphire sky. The sun’s rays bathed me in brilliant light, and I absorbed it like a sponge. The wind howled around me, lifting my hair and the flowing fabric of my gown. My heart swelled with joy, and my eyes closed to savor the moment.

I spread my arms wide, and with a sudden surge, my wings erupted from my back, tearing through the fabric of my dress. They rose higher, glowing with a radiant light, as if they were reflecting the sun’s rays. From afar, I might have looked like a falcon preparing to take flight, but to the human eye, I was just a flickering light on the hill, an enigma beyond comprehension.

My wings were phosphorescent, the very essence of my being. They stretched wide, powerful yet impossibly light, as if they were woven from the fabric of the cosmos itself. I felt small in their presence, yet in their weightlessness, they carried unimaginable strength. They were my connection to Heaven, my link to the divine realm. I was not of this world, for I existed before it, long before the En Sof envisioned creation.

The wind continued to rage around me, but I was numb to its force. In that moment, when all the weight of the world seemed to leave me, when the pull of gravity no longer tethered me to the earth, I took flight. My wings beat in unison with my heart, and with one powerful stroke, I soared higher—higher than I ever thought possible.

As I ascended, the world below disappeared, and I crossed the threshold into the ethereal realm. I could see the heavenly gates in the distance, shimmering like a beacon. My fellow fallen angels emerged from all corners of time, drawn to the boundary, their hearts filled with longing and despair. We could see the gates, but we could not cross. We could only witness the heavenly realm, separated by a divine ring that kept us outcasts forever apart.

This was as close as we could get to redemption, and it was a torment that echoed throughout the cosmos. Yet, in that pain, there was always hope—a promise that one day, we would return home.

All of us, damned and suffering, would find our way back to the light. The promise of the morning light would never fade. There is always hope.

Story By: Ronnan Bangis

Reading the Classic and To Kill A Mocking Bird

I got into reading classic novel a few months back. At first I was skeptical that I won’t be able to grasp the gravity of its context since I was more accustomed with contemporary books.

 I always thought that classic novels held the most profound conversation dealing with literary diversity. It’s eloquence with words was vivid and transcending. Of course I was right with this assumption.

The dialogues that the author used to narrate the story were precised and smoothly written. The way the words were woven fluidly to convey every character’s emotion was more of a melody to a song. It was beautiful.  

Being a person with trifling vocabulary, I realized that reading classic novel was a challenge and a learning ground to push myself out of my comfort zone. I was introduced to a different kind of experience in reading. With my heroic attempt to penetrate the world of the Sherlockian, the Dickens, the Stoker, the Lumas and many more, I brought to me the experiences not only those immortal phrases that I've been mumbling for awhile to know how it sound if I was the one uttering those lines but also those deeper meaning that the heroes such as The Count Of Monte Cristo induced within me. How many times I was left breathless and enthralled, I didn't know. Every classic novel is divine.     

To keep an open mind is a must!

As I flipped the first page of Harper Lee’s classic To Kill a Mocking Bird, I was incensed with astonishment as to how the author described the fictional town of Maycomb. The culture of the town and the era as to when the novel took place were very enthralling. The characters were brilliantly created; their emotional struggles and sentiments were intense and moving. I could almost hear the distinctive southern accent through their dialogues.

In a nutshell, the novel took place in the time when the racial discrimination in America was at its peak. Negro was the word as a description for bigotry for the black community.  It was painfully executed on the pages that I could almost feel the odd intensity of racism that made me cringed or fume with anger. I've never been into a situation where I am racially discriminated and the anger rising inside me puzzled me even more. I was that affected and I didn't know why.

It was just a relief to think that the world changed all through out the years. Though racial discrimination still existed even today, still it wasn't the same as before. I couldn't imagine living in a world where people still breathed with prejudices in their hearts.  

I think racial discrimination; in any form is a disease that could ruin people’s lives.  It couldn't be eliminated easily but it could be prevented in ways of constant education to the young ones about variances, ethnicity and diversity of human beings in all walks of life.  Someone cannot perceive the world the way he/she wants it to be.

I guess I am blessed that I was born in this age. I was blessed that in my time the world’s mind is ready to accept the nature of the twisted, the deviant and the unique.

To Kill a Mocking Bird is one of my favorite novels. My worn out paperback copy is tucked neatly on my shelf along with the great novels I got in there. One day I will pick the book again and read it. But for now, I want to hear about David Copperfield first.

My Dream Scenario (PART 2)

Continue...

Tolkien couldn’t contain his amazement and he asked Miss Rice about her vampire characters. In calmness she answered his questioning and told him that most of her characters were metaphors for the outcast in all of us and this was rooted on the time when she was living as an atheist. Tolkien’s eyes were huge and his jaw dropped as he listened carefully to Miss Rice. Then the door of the Tavern burst opened and all of them turned to the direction of the door in haste.   

A man wearing glasses entered the room but the drunkards didn’t seem to notice his arrival. He looked like an easygoing person wearing a checkered polo shirt and a cargo short and a pair of flip flop. He was smiling to everyone even if everyone never returned his gesture. But he wasn’t bothered after all; instead he went straight to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. When he turned around to face the crowd and leaned his back to the bar, he saw the most unlikely group of extra ordinary people looking at him. They seemed like studying him, scrutinizing every aspect of his personality. With a glass of beer in his right hand, he sashayed to the huge table and greeted those remarkable people sitting there.

He said HI to everyone and extended his hand to shake theirs. He introduced himself as Rick Riordan. It wasn’t hard to like Rick because he was a charming man who could easily get along well regardless of personality differences. He invited himself and sat next to Tolkien. He told them that he was looking for Mount Olympus but the road led him here. Rowling asked him why he was looking for Olympus. Didn’t he know that Olympus was just a myth? He answered Rowling and told her that he was a writer and he was writing novels about Greek Mythology and lately he was combining Greek and Roman Mythology for his new Series. He thought he almost heard an Ohh’s and Ahh’s from the group and he could see it in their eyes that they were interested. Lewis told him that all of them were writers too and mostly they wrote about fiction novels with parallel world and outrageous cosmology.

Rick was excited to learn this and he said that it was a great honor to meet all of them in person. He told them that everyday was a learning process for him and his decision to quit his day job and focused on his writing was the best decision he ever did in his entire career.

“It’s just feels right” He said.  

And earned a nod of agreement from the group. “Writing feels write of course for writers, just like painting for painters.” Said Rowling.

“Well, as I always tell the aspiring writers who seek my advice, it is important to write the book that you want to read.” Miss Rice said.

“Indeed! Indeed!” Blurted Tolkien.

Rick told them that he was also writing book series about Egypt and he was already on his third book in that series.

Miss Rice looked at him enthralled. She loved Egypt and the long history behind it but she kept her silence and let Rick told his tale. When Rick was done talking, Miss Rice smiled and thought about the adventures she took when she wrote the novel Ramses and Queen of the Damned. That was Egypt for her, Akasha was Egypt for her.

Lewis called her name and asked her if she’s alright. Miss Rice nodded and assured Lewis that she was fine.

There was never a dull moment for fantasy writers got together. The Tavern was full with people and drunkards alike and the place was filled with laughter and cursing all around them but these fiction writers were having the time of their lives. It seemed that they were physically there but their conversation took them somewhere else, somewhere unimaginably awesome that no ordinary human being could follow. They’d talked about history like it happened yesterday, Gods and Goddesses as if they were tangible. Then there was the thrill when the conversation brought them to the topic of MAGIC as if it was real thing. The noise was never a problem for them.

Then the Tavern door swung opened. 

A bulky fat man stumbled from the door cursing. The rain was heavy outside and the fat man’s jacket was wet and his boots were soaked with mud. He was having difficulty getting out of his jacket and so a waiter approached him and offered some help but the fat man sent him away with foul words. The waiter just shook his head smiling, obviously he wasn’t offended by the man’s vulgarity and it seemed like he knew the man very well. Rick called for the waiter and asked him who the fat man was and the waiter told him with dignity and pride that the man was a regular customer of the Tavern and he was the famous writer name George R. R. Martin. Upon mentioning the name, Lewis turned his attention toward his friend Tolkien while Mr. Tolkien returned the gesture and gave Lewis a grim look.

“You didn’t recognize him?” Lewis asked him.

Tolkien shook his head slowly as if he was trying to remember the face of the man from the people he had met from his lifetime.

“I don’t remember meeting him before.” Tolkien finally said.

“He was that boy!” said Lewis.

Tolkien gave Lewis a strange look as if asking him what-he-was-talking-about. Lewis smile and shook his head in disbelief. Obviously his friend Mr. Tolkien didn’t know what was happening around him.

“Look” He said addressing Tolkien. “Haven’t you notice? Not everyone around here is from our time my friend. ”

“Huh?” Tolkien asked bewildered.

“Okay, We just came out from the School in which both of us are members of English Faculty and we came here for a drink and to discuss our works. Then later on, these wonderful people that we just met came out of nowhere.” Lewis addressed the remarkable people surrounding the table.

“So?” Tolkien asked still didn’t know where Lewis leading him.   

“They are not from our time. We,” pointing at Tolkien and himself, “Existed from their past and they belong to our future.” He smiled.

Tolkien looked at him and his attention went through each of the person on the table. Then he asked.

“What year is it in your present time?” He said.

“2013.” The group answered in unison.

“Wow!” He said.

“What year in yours?” Rick asked.

“1930?” Tolkien answered still couldn’t believe.

“We knew who you were gentlemen.” Said Ms. Rice to the both of them. “Both of you are heroes for writers in our time. The world worshiped you.” She said and smiled at them.

“You are two of the finest and most brilliant writers of the 20^th century.” Rowling added.

Tolkien looked at Lewis who was beginning to have teary eyes.

“All was worth it my friend.” He said as he tapped Lewis shoulder with a smile.

 “Well done gentlemen!” Ms. Rice said.

“So, who is this guy again?” Tolkien said breaking the emotion that was building. He was referring to the fat man who was now standing at the bar with his back on them.

“Well, He was that kid who wrote those fancy letters for you. Remember the letters you received every month at the faculty? That was him… your number one fan.” Lewis said.

“You mean our… number one fan?” Tolkien said with a huge grin in his face.

Tolkien stood up and smoothed his trouser and sashayed to the bar and stood beside the fat man who was wearing khaki, a polo shirt with a suspender on it. Rowling leaned forward on the table and watched them while everyone on the table did the same.

Seconds passed while the two men exchanged words on the bar and later on curses were flying all through out the Tavern from the fat man. But it wasn’t a curse of disappointment but instead it was from astonishment and surprise. Georgy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was amazed to know that he was standing in front of the person he aspired to become. Yes, he was the one who wrote those letters to Oxford addressed to Mr. Tolkien when he was a kid. But for him it was just an illusion to cheat him from the truth that Mr. Tolkien might not be able to read it. Never did he know that Mr. Tolkien did read his letters and he read it when he was still in his 30’s. Georgy was laughing feverishly and tears were streaming from his eyes, he was that kid again. Tolkien then wrapped his arms around Georgy’s neck and ushered him towards the table where everybody was waiting for them with a smile on their faces.

Tolkien introduced Georgy to all of them and when he came to Lewis, Georgy was overwhelmed that he finally burst into tears. He couldn’t contain his excitement any longer for what was happening in front of him was too good to be true. Lewis stood and extended his hand to welcome him but Georgy caught Lewis in a bear hug instead. The group erupted with laughter at this touching moment while the women secretly wiped the tears in their eyes.

It was indeed very touching, thought Rick. He couldn’t imagine it for Georgy, meeting his icons who somehow shaped his life or his career. Probably this was applicable to most of us humans; Rick continued musing while the outburst of emotion was still high. Somehow in our lives we met people that helped us realized our destiny, our dreams and those people, regardless if we knew them personally or through their works and passions, they become our icons, someone that we looked up to… We spent days dreaming what would it be like if we have their gift, it would have been marvelous. But they’d helped us do better, strived more and dreamed BIG.

Dreams are not just for sleeping… They do come true… you just have to believe in it and claim it on the stars.

The End

My Dream Scenario (PART 1)

I was thinking about my dream scenario, what would it be? Hmm Okay let’s see:

In a tavern, let say somewhere in a small village in England, CW Lewis and JRR Tolkien were having an afternoon chat. They occupied the biggest table at the center of the tavern where all the people could see them but the drunkards around them didn’t care. They went on talking about the parallel world that they created in their novels. While Tolkien bragged about Middle-Earth and how the brilliant idea formulated in his mind, Lewis in other hand nodded in agreement and congratulated him. Then he went on and shared about the world of Narnia and asked Tolkien if creating a character name Aslan was cool. Tolkien said that the idea was great and he could create Aslan as a huge talking beast. Lewis agreed and said that it would be interesting if instead of having an untamed animal he would settle having a prudent Lion that was wise and gentle in which Tolkien happily approved.

Later on a smart looking woman with a blonde hair appeared from the door, she was wearing a black suit and Manolo Blahnik killer high heels. The two men looked at her and invited her in. She introduced her self as JK Rowling and told them that she was strolling around Hogsmeade and she ended up in the Tavern. But they didn’t know where Hogsmeade was located and so she explained to them that Hogsmeade was a place she created in her Harry Potter Series. Tolkien and Lewis were fascinated and they urged her to talk about it for awhile, Lewis even asked Rowling some questions about witchcraft and wizardry because he was thinking about creating a witch villain that he wanted to call The White Queen. Rowling ordered a drink but since it was a Tavern and most of the people who came here - with only have one thing in their mind and that was to get drunk, there was no way they served ladies drink, so she asked for wine instead. When the wine arrived, Rowling took a small sip to have a taste of it, the wine was delicious and she was satisfied. She smiled with her eyes closed savoring the wine on her taste bud. When she opened her eyes, she saw a petite older looking woman entered the Tavern, wearing a black ensemble, closed neck dress with a cameo pinned at the center of the dress right on the breast area. The woman was probably in her seventies with her shoulder length grayed hair and feline grace as she walked toward the group. The three of them looked at her and noticed how commanding she was despite of her age. The entire room went silent as if the time stopped as she moved to the table but then the drunkards were mindless people and they went on with their businesses and the tavern hovered with the same chattering again. The woman stood next to the table and looked each of the three faces who were sitting around it. Rowling looked at her musing, the old woman made her thought about a timeless character in a dark novel. Rowling was awed.

The old woman looked at her and met her eyes, she smiled at Rowling and her eyes gleamed with the wisdom that she carried within her, as if the old woman lived for thousands of years that nothing in this corporeal world would shock her. Her eyes flamed with the Lighthouse of Ancient Egypt, her movement was graceful like the aristocrats of old Rome and the lines in her face showed the knowledge she probably acquired since the fall of Jerusalem. As if, she was there at the very meadow, sitting among the Jews, listening to the son of God Yeshua when he told his teaching.

Then the old woman cleared her throat and introduced herself. She said her name was Anne Rice and that she was also a novelist who wrote fiction and fantasy novels about vampires and werewolves and witches. Tolkien and Lewis beamed with excitement and asked her to join them and she did. She sat beside Rowling and while Tolkien lifted his hand to call for a waiter to take Miss Rice’s order, Rowling took the liberty to introduce everyone on the table. A bald man with a big tummy approached and took Miss Rice’s order and she told him that she have what Miss Rowling was having. The waiter bow his head and left.

Rowling said that she knew her; she went on and told Tolkien and Lewis that Miss Rice loved to write about dark characters from the myths and legends of the old and that she had a natural gift in descriptive writing that whatever she was writing about, regardless if its from the ancient time or the present, her skills would bring those times to life in the pages of her book. It had a powerful effect for readers; Rowling went on, “transcending effect” she said. Miss Rice bow her head in humility with Rowling’s praising her and gave the younger woman her most sincere gratitude.

To be continue.... 

BOOK READS: SHOOTING KABUL

I am very particular when it comes to genre of the book that I wanted to read. Lots of times I'm drawn to the cover of the book that makes me want to read them.   I don't consider this a good idea but of coarse it's not a bad idea either.

Just that, all through these years of spending hours in a bookstore particularly in a book-sale, I learned to flip at least few pages of the book and read the teaser of the story written normally at the back before purchasing it. I no longer rely on the the book cover itself.

The book cover and the content are totally different thing, created by totally different mind. There are lots of great books out there with stories that will pinch a heart with just a very simple cover. There are also a lot of awesome covers out there that will give you a straight to the trash-can stories.

"Shooting Kabul" by N. H. Senzai is one of those great stories with simple cover. First, this book is not actually my genre because I am more interested with genre that deals around Fantasy Fiction and Supernatural stuff. So to say the least, this book is way out of my comfort zone. But just lately I decided to open myself to other genre to broaden my views. I want to learn more about sub-cultural books, historical fiction and thriller. A good autobiography is a go for me and some books that dwells between chic-lit or satirical prose probably written by female comedian or gay authors. 

Now, this gem of a book is from the sale section of the bookstore and I really got it in a very low price. The cover was just a so-so but the thing that caught me is the thought about a family escaping from the border of Afghanistan in the midst of the Taliban war. The journey that the family took to get to that border so they can hop on the Truck that will take them to America with the Asylum Visa given to people living in a war zone. The entire story is told by a young protagonist as one of the member of the family escaping. His younger sister has been left behind in the midst of the chaos when the truck comes and lots of family who wanted to escape the war are pushing their way to get into the truck. Because the little girl is so young, she loose her grip and lost her way to get into the truck.

The entire story is told in a subtle way and every scene and struggle of the family when they get to America is palpably executed well. The burden of our young protagonist is raw for his age and I really feel for the kid. He is a dreamer like me, but of coarse he shape his dreams to help solve his family's problem but because he is still young, he can only do much. The frustration that he feels is very real for me. A lot of times I choke to fight back tears.

This book also deals about how Afgan. families cope during the time of the 7/11 tragedy. This particular struggle is experience by our young protagonist when one of his schoolmates call him terrorist. 

All in all, I totally love this book. It's a simple read but it fills the heart with knowledge and love for religion, country and for being alive.

THE BOOK IS DRAGGING ME

I am currently behind with my reading and the book that I am not-so-hook right now is something that I picked randomly online. Well, to say the least, I am literally pushing myself to finish it so I could move on and forget about it.

Though I like the premise of the book, Angels and Demons and all that stuff but there's something about the writing that failed to pull me in. I never had the kind of attachment  that I used to have when I read other supernatural theme books. I am not drawn to these characters, I am not even compelled.

Normally, when I encounter this kind of problem with books it only meant one thing - I'm loosing my interest.

Anyway, I am not going to give up easily since I already finished half of the book. It doesn't hurt if I need to spend more time to get this over with.

I know I need more luck to do it...



Xoxo

BOOK READS: The Son Of Neptune (Heroes of Olympus #2)

I just finished reading the book "The Son of Neptune". It is the second book of the Heroes of Olympus Series by the amazing Rick Riordan. To say that this book delivers in my opinion is an understatement. Just like The Lost Hero, which is the first book in the series and the Percy Jackson Series, this book gives the reader the adventure of a lifetime.


Totally hands down to the author, with his great talent recreating the world of Mythology about gods and goddesses and monsters, heroes and villains alike.

Mixing Greek and Roman mythology is really not just awesome but brilliant idea. With the same rhythm the way the other books were written, readers will be catapulted into the world of Percy Jackson and his new found friends ready to save the world from the wrath of an evil goddess.

I don't want to give out anything from the book for the sake of those who haven't read it yet. All I can say is that, it's hard to despise this book not because I am a Percy Jackson fan but for the mere reason that I am a sucker for fantasy fiction adventure.

This book will never disappoint you in that area... From top 'til the last page, you'll be compelled to keep the pages turning until you finished reading it.

Please do read...

Xoxo