By Shashank Tiwari, Preethi Venugopala, Anmol Rawat, Tina Basu, Soumyaa Verma, Niranjan Navalgund, Aathira Jim, Deepti Menon, Vinodini Iyer
What's love? The query brews one million diverse solutions. Love isn't really an entity. it really is an emotion that embraces a number of colours and colours inside of. 'A Little refrain of affection – Love via Ages' easily follows a similar notion and assembles 24 diverse writers portraying love in a kind they recognize the best.
Immerse your self into the main strong emotion with 24 diversified tales set in numerous time classes and suppose your middle beat for that one precise individual on your lifestyles.
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Additional info for A Little Chorus of Love: Love through Ages
While she spoke, I looked eagerly about me. Already I had spotted several of these ‘simple folk’ working in the fields: the men dressed in severe black and white; the women in long mother hubbards, their hair pulled back from their faces. Seen against the vivid greens of the unspoiled valley, they looked wonderfully quaint, like figures from a lost past. ‘It’s glorious here,’ I burst out at one point. ‘A kind of paradise. ’ Her manner changed for a moment. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances,’ she said, with that characteristic turn of the face.
Without waiting for his permission, I eased past him and onto the porch. As I entered the house itself, the foul stench of it hit me full in the face, and I paused for some seconds, gasping. I had hardly recovered when an older woman appeared from the shadows and led me upstairs – our way lighted by a crude lamp which was little more than a wick floating in a saucer of oil. At the head of the stairs she pointed to a door across the landing. I pushed it open, the stench growing stronger as I did so.
Of course it didn’t. As I released my hold and stepped free, I barely had time to think: I’m doing it! Flying! I will see the faerie light, I will! until, mercifully as they say, I lost consciousness. The generously spreading branches of the old tree saved my life, for I was still more or less intact when I reached the ground and lay spreadeagled amongst the tendrils of bindweed that had once been the setting of my fantasies. I wish I could say I dreamed of Robin Goodfellow during the hour or more that I lay there unattended – his glowing face stooping over mine, his wings brushing my lips with faerie-like concern – but I had no such vision.
Categories: Short Stories