Thank you all so much for voting last edition!
A majority of the votes were for B, so our character is going to pick up the key and keep it while searching for more clues.
I decide to test my fate, and I pick up the key. If worse comes to worst, I know I have at least one ally for me behind the four doors that wait to be opened. That is, hoping the note isn’t lying…
Besides, who even wrote it? I see no one here, not even a pen that someone may have used to write it. I guess it must have been something supernatural, like everything else here. This whole scenario is so weird. Why am I the one here?
I walk right back down the path where I came from. I pass the fire-lit torches again, but somehow it feels like a longer walk than the first time. I walk faster, but the stairway is not even in sight. I run, slowly at first but faster by the second. The stairway is missing. It goes missing as randomly as it appeared.
Great. I was trapped in a strange house, and now I’m trapped in the strange house’s basement. Trying to catch my breath, I accidentally drop the key. I barely blink, and the stairs are back in front of me. I almost run up them, but I realise that I forgot the key and turn to go fetch it. The second I turn back around, the stairway ceases to exist. What kind of magic is this? I drop the key again, because I have a theory in my mind. I close my eyes, key on the floor. If I’m right, as soon as I open my eyes the stairway should appear. Not surprisingly, it seems that I was right. It’s some kind of sick game this house is playing on me.
I can’t take the stairs if I’m in contact with the key.
Going upstairs without the key would be utterly useless; I’d just go back to looking around the place pointlessly. If I stayed here, however, that just seems stupider. There’s nothing I can do here. With my luck, I bet the stone wall is back at the end of the passage.
Oh! I have an idea!
The only thing I can’t do is have direct contact with the key, right? Simple enough. Thank you, fashion designers for having added pockets in everyday clothes. I pick up the key and slip it into my back pocket. I close my eyes, and sure enough, when I open them again, there the stairway is. All I have to do now is walk upstairs and get out of this weird dingy, dark place.
The second I take my foot off the last stair, the stairway vanishes into thin air for the umpteenth time. I’m a little less surprised this time than all the times before. Am I… getting used to this place? No, I won’t let that happen.
I’ve thought over my choices. Opening any of the doors will be way too risky; no way will I give up my safety in the hope for an ally. In all reality, (well, as real as it gets in this place.) there’s no danger I am in, in this moment. There aren’t any freaky monsters chasing me, no flood coming my way, no raging flames in the next room. I’m as safe as I can be in this second.
I’m going to keep the key with me, in case I’ll need it in the near future. I don’t trust my luck nearly enough to choose a door at random. Who knows what the hell is behind them?
I pocket the key again and keep walking. As a result of mindless footsteps, I see the floor is covered in footprint-shaped dust prints. It takes me a minute to even realise that those were mine. Stressed, I end up walking back to the kitchen. I see the stove is still on. I wonder if there’s something I can cook or eat. On finding a few slices of expired bread, I eat them quickly, forgetting my earlier plans of toasting them over the flame. I’m about to open the fridge again, when I remember the stench that wafted out the first time I opened it. Rotten food or something. I don’t have the best sense of smell; I can’t pinpoint exactly what it reeks of.
I’m still sitting where I was, on the kitchen counter. For the first time, I take in the way the house actually looks. Lacking a front door is probably the only thing architecturally wrong with this place. It looks like it’s got completed sets of designer furniture, and even the plates I found on the shelves seem to be extremely high quality ceramic. Hell, even the wallpaper looks expensive. Whoever created this place sure spent truckloads of money. Or maybe it’s all weird magic and paranormal things. The house doesn’t look too old… I could even say it looks freshly set up.
Was this place created… just for me?
No, certainly not. I have incredibly self-absorbed thoughts at times.
Wait, what about the stove? Didn’t that have some keyhole last time I checked? I wonder if this key would fit there.
I hop off the counter and take slow steps toward the stove. It’s still on, though I’m sure it’s been a while since it would’ve been turned on. Didn’t the gas for this thing ever run out? Anyway, I crouch slightly to take a better look at the keyhole in the stove. It’s extremely strange, to have a keyhole in a random spot like that, isn’t it? Set right between the two handles, it’s almost like it’s inviting me to put the key in. Would the key even fit here though?
Drowning in curiosity, I shove the key into the hole in the stove, hoping that it will put out the flame and I’ll find a clue or something. I’ll take anything at this point.
The flames of the stove disappear for a split second, and then engulf the entire machine. It’s so sudden that I forgot to even take my hand out the fire, and I have small burns now.
It’s not stopping… the flames are spreading to the counter!
Ah, this is what the note meant, didn’t it? The fire was my ally when it lit up the pathway for me… and now it’s going to kill me. How cruel, yet genius.
Luckily, I see a sink with what looks like a running water supply… maybe I can put out the fire. What do I do?
This is where you, the reader, come in. What do you think our character should do? Please choose one letter and one number of the options below.
A) Let the fire engulf the kitchen, and leave. It’s one less place to worry about finding more strange things. This will also eradicate the horrid smell from the fridge. Plus, the kitchen has a weird door, which seems fireproof. The fire, with luck, will stay inside the kitchen.
B) Try to douse the flame. You still haven’t found out what’s in the fridge… it could be a clue in the most unlikely place, just like you got a clue from a stone wall.
1) Leave the key in the stove, then option a. It’ll probably be of no use in the future.
2) Get the key. You never know if you’ll need it again.
It didn’t go as it was planned. Enter Alatar the Blue and Strength. As we were nearing Yukon, we met rivals in air. The guys were tough. Strength was, like, invulnerable. What’s more was that the girl could make us do stuff by just, you know, persuading us through our minds. Moral would turn to fight her and run away screaming. She’d read our minds, and just as I’d block a backhand she’d pull my sword away.
And Alatar- the guy had mad power. He manipulated time. Like, there was this one time where I swung at him. Calm. He clicked a finger on his staff and just like that- everyone stopped moving, but we could see. He skipped away, shrieking, ‘Tra-La-La! I can’t hear you!’ And every time Alatar lost focus and got wounded, Strength would rejuvenate him. We barely managed to escape them. And even that was not because of our bravery or anything- It was because when I cut of the head of Alatar, Moral kept Strength busy enough (By pouring pepper in her eyes) to ensure that Alatar died.
He didn’t die.
At the last second, Moral let go of Strength (‘Cause that girl was strong) and we all ran for our lives. They escaped, and we all lived happily ever after for about twenty minutes.
Then came Atheris, Mistress of Snakes. If she had wanted to, she could have killed us and lived happily ever after. But nope. She didn’t, which was a surprise. She turned us away when we asked for supplies. When we hung around planning in her yard, she sent me a message.
Wot y’al dooing in moi yard!? That one eench of spes u r standeeng
on eez maine!
Surprise, surprise, we decided to leave. Then, we had to deal with Rebel. That girl was tough prey. I was like, When do we get easy prey? The girl did nothing by the usual way. She was left-handed with her sword. She kept her hair in two space buns. She wore her shirt backwards to front. In short, she was like a teen rebel, and her nature suited her name perfectly. Which also meant trouble for us. The usual ways of maiming, killing, torturing and dismembering did not work with her. Every time she dodged our swipes at her, she said, ‘Punks. You guys wouldn’t know Fight if she hit you in the face.’
Yeah, she wasn’t exactly the ‘Barbie and Ponies and Rainbows’ girl. More like the ‘Fight and Fight and Fight’ girl. We had a hard, hard time getting away from her. Slumping our way to Chaos’ place, we figured that we’d all rest a couple of days and take Chaos to help us fight Evil.
…to be continued in edition 9
How can you fall in love with someone you have never known?
How can you willingly throw away everything you once loved for someone even before you met?
How can this person change your entire life so upside down?
How can this person make you cry in pain at one moment and make you laugh with tears of joy, the very next moment?
How can you love this person with all your heart even when you're hurt?
How can you lose yourself and still be so happy?
Isn't it a miracle?
Isn't her child every mother's love of her life?
Isn't this one true love?
--- dedicated to all the parents who fell in love with their children even before they met!
- Manasa
We can do this.
Together.
Right?
No second guessing ourselves.
No looking back- as soon as we take off, that’s that.
Yes.
I sigh.
It’s been a year- or maybe more; I can’t really remember, all I’m really left with is a hazy memory of loss and pain. I guess I'm lucky then. In a way.
I don’t really have to remember and relive what happened in the past. An amnesiac, yes. I can’t really recall old memories- or new ones either.
I do however remember pieces and fragments- shards of my broken past, but they have no context, and I choose to ignore them. Trust me, it’s better that way.
I get up every day, and I’m hit with a wave of unfamiliarity- I could go as far as to say it’s become a habit.
I breathe in. On top of the trauma of having to relearn everything all over again, I gain a new memory every day.
And the thing that makes it harder for me to sleep at night, is that each memory is completely different. No ties, no connections, no proof to be sure that these are my memories. They feel more like snippets from nightmares, with unnecessary details, skipping important parts. I recall the eyes of a cat piercing me.
I remember the smell of the sea- fresh, saline water; it feels as if I were just there- a touch away.
I remember hiding, my tiny frame scrunched into a cupboard, not excited, but scared.
None of it makes sense. I have no proof that these are even my memories. But every day, I have to brave through the voices in my head.
Because no else will. It’s just me, and my fear. Alone.
Everything weighs down on my hope.
Hope that one day, one day, I’ll remember more than just segments.
I know that one fateful day, I’ll remember who I really am.
Every morning, a soft but persuasive voice tells me to just stop.
Not to try. And I wish I could listen.
Wish I could give up.
But I know I never will.
I still have the thirst to rediscover, and it drives me.
So I move on.
My dog gets me up in the morning- just like how it’s always been.
He jumps on my bed and licks my face, radiating euphoria and I simply can’t help but break into a smile. He means everything to me. And I know I’ll never leave his side.
Oddly enough, he’s the only one I remember when I wake up. So he’s the only one I’ve trusted; the only one I ever will trust.
I gently run my hand through his bright mauve coat as he waits for me to slip his leash on for a walk.
I get up, my feet shaking and stumble towards the sink.
And then I remember.
A new memory, and it’s nothing like the ones before.
Because this time I feel something I’ve never felt before.
Fear so intense that it leaves me trembling, gasping for air.
Because this time, I remember running from the inevitable darkness, and I don’t remember coming back.
Sponges are really dirty yet we use them to clean the things we eat on. I mean, think about it. A bunch of pores with water and dirt in them and very hard to clean all of it out.
Now that I think about it, all of the dirt in the world is still there, somewhere. We have to make something dirty to clean something else. Where does dust even come from.
Like I said, all of the garbage is still out there, but all of the garbage was still technically there a 100 years ago, or the beginning of Earth. Or the beginning of the Universe, the fact that everything used to be in one small atom still scares me. I mean, there are many atoms right now, what if they start to explode, or maybe they already did and there are millions of little universes we can’t see, maybe those universes are what we call atoms. What if we were just a tiny speck to someone, or something else in another dimension?
Does anyone else randomly think that they aren’t the protagonist of their life. Or, what if we were just play things someone made for them to watch and be amused, what if I’m just an extra and can be replaced. Well that got dark quickly.
So like. People say ‘ur’ as a short form for your while texting. But what about ‘you’re’? Why does no one say u’r? English is confusing.
Toothbrushes. Why’re they even called that if they brush more than one tooth- Teethbrush. Ok no that just sounds weird.
What if birds had arms lol
I don’t think people ever notice until someone points it out or they have a brain wave for random things like how breakfast is basically breaking the fast, which was when you were asleep. It’s right there but you don’t notice it until you do- I’m sure there are a bunch of other thing like this, if you know them, enlighten me with the sacred knowledge.
Flutes are basically over glorified whistles that make a bunch of squeaky noises-
Cement factories. I find them quite interesting, they make something that they’re built up of. And the building of one would be quite an interesting thing to watch- same thing with brick factories.
How do fish end up in ponds lol it’s not like they were already there and it’s not like humans put them in- like it doesn’t rain fish right? Ok never mind I looked it up and apparently there have been instances where it has rained fish. Well that was good to know.
You know how babies are born with 300 something bones? And then they all merge to make 206 of them. This is weird to think about but bones will be there with you throughout your entire life, almost all organs come to think of it. Organs man, they’re such good friends.
Air and water is basically the same as a 100 years ago. I could be breathing the air a dinosaur did 0.o
What if humans evolved like butterflies through metamorphosis, how would their cycle be like? And can we talk about over exaggerated nature documentaries for a second? The background music and how the narrator describes the animals is just so funny- But what would a documentary about humans look like? And more importantly, who would film it? 0.o
How long would my nails and hair be if I never cut it- kind of disgusting-
Our brain is basically an electrified hunk of flesh.
Abstract Art
Abstract art or non-objective art is the form of art where the paintings portray everything but what is captured by the natural eye, or rather what is seen in the natural world. Abstract art is art that does not attempt to represent an accurate depiction of a visual reality but instead use shapes, colours, forms and gestural marks to achieve its effect. Abstract art can be ‘abstract’ in many ways; by colour, shape, size, or even the texture and tone. Prior to the 20th century this abstract art was to portray human civilization rather than the artist's feelings.
Abstract art originated sometime in the 19th century and it was greatly based on the movement romanticism. This new style of painting allowed the painters to paint with freedom and expression. Though it can be very confusing to view abstract art, it is a movement that was the base and foundation for other movements like cubism. Abstract art is like a puzzle itself, trapped in it is the artist's true meaning for the painting.
Example - ‘Senecio’ - Paul Klee:
Cubism
Cubism is a form of art that uses several objects, for the painting and in the painting captured from different dimensions and angles. Cubism is the base for craft styles like collages because artists like Picasso and Jackson Pollock used bits of paper, music sheets, cigarette ash and broken utensils in their paintings. Most cubist works are actually extremely deceiving, because you tend to see a normal household in most paintings, and the paintings are viewed by you from the artist's perspective. That is, you are viewing it from a different angle than the usual position of these objects. Cubist painters were not bound to copying form, texture, colour, and space. Instead, they presented a new reality in paintings that depicted radically fragmented objects.
Example - Still life with chair caning - Picasso:
Surrealism
Surrealism, movement in visual art and literature, flourishing in Europe between World Wars I and II.
Surrealism grew principally out of the earlier Dada movement. The movement represented a reaction against what its members saw as the destruction wrought by the “rationalism” that had guided European culture and politics in the past and that had culminated in the horrors of World War I.
Surrealism was a means of reuniting conscious and unconscious realms of experience so completely that the world of dream and fantasy would be joined to the everyday rational world in “an absolute reality, a surreality.” The work of major Surrealist painters is too diverse to be summarized categorically.
Each artist sought his or her own means of self-exploration. With its emphasis on content and free form, Surrealism provided a major alternative to the contemporary, highly formalistic Cubist movement and was largely responsible for perpetuating in modern painting the traditional emphasis on content.
Though it was a movement dominated by men—there were several talented women in this movement.
Example - Harlequin’s Carnival - Joan Miro:
Kidding! There’s no actual error. The author of The 800s, The First Message, is taking a short break for this edition. We’ll be back with a brand new engaging chapter of the story for you next edition!
Varsha: Our amazing comic illustrator! She finds inspiration in the small, vague details hidden in the world, and incorporates them into her everything.
Jyotsna: The first to introduce the bob obsession, she’s the peacekeeper (I see you hunger games fans), is on the tranquil side of our team, and writes stellar articles.
Aadhav : our talented pianist! He loves anything musical, from singing to of course, playing the piano. He loves sports too, and is an avid Agatha Christie fan.
Moukthika : Our Artist!!!! Her art skills are next level - Even buzzfeed agrees that she’s artsy and she cooks really well.
Bhargavi: She’s our editor and personal kpop spammer; expert at burning toast. She’s also everyone’s (self proclaimed) favourite unnie.
Vedika :the one team member who’s up before the sun with a smile, she’s our motivator. She’s a part of our photography gang, and contributes art and articles every other edition too!
Aravind: Fellow youtube animator addict, he's known to be talkative and lighten the mood anywhere he goes! He contributes both articles and stories
Paddy: known by the name ‘Evil.’, She’s our evil, chaotic teammate. she’s the inventor of a language we’re proud to use. She talks equally as often as Favorite Unnie, and is the author of the regular section, 3 am brain factory produce.
Sriram: A voracious reader with his interest in a variety of genres, his fingers can do magic with both pen and brush. He loves cooking and eats cricket for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Anhiti : The youngest here,she makes the website for the particle. Famous for convincing us to save the reefs – budding artist and author. (Don’t tell her, but she’s basically kpop spammer #2.)
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