Writing this story makes me feel happy and knowing that I am sharing this story with people makes me feel gooD.

When you are seen as weak most of your life, no one expects much from you. So they'll never know what hit them.
Just ask Legolas Eilianther.

LIST OF STORIES 
(With dialogues)

1)	FUTURE DEPENDS ON WHAT ONE DOES NOW
        (Nine Scenes)
2)	WASHERMAN AND THE DONKEY 
3)	LION AND THE RAT 
4)	The RAT and the SAINT 
5)	The Intelligent Monkey and The Cruel Crocodile 
6)	THE RAT MARRIAGE 
7)	THE INTELLIGENT MONKEY AND THE CROCODILE 
8)	CUCKOO'S PROUDNESS
9)	MINDLESS LION 
10)	LAKE POWER 
11)	THE FROG AND THE SNAKE 
12)	THE FOX AND THE CRANE 
13)	MONKEY ACT
14)	THE CLEVER CRAB 
15)	DONKEY IN LION'S SKIN 
16)	THE SELFISH FRIEND AND THE BEAR 
17)	THE CURIOUS MONKEY 
18)	RATS AND ELEPHANTS 
19)	MY LOVE STORY

These are mostly meant for Kids and Teens Animal Stories. Bed Time Stories. Animal stories Video creation could be made. Dialogues based stories. These are Panchatantra Stories. These stories also could be utilized in Movies. Well written with dialogues. Bounded Script.

Mantri Pragada Markandeyulu, Litt.D.,
B Com, DBM, PGDCA, DCCP
Poet, Novelist, Song and Story Writer
Royal Success International Book of Records 2019 Honor
InSc Research Excellence Award-2020, Bangalore (India)
Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips 2020 Honor
Hon. Doctorate in Litt. from ITMUT, Brazil. (2019)
Literary Brigadier Honor (2018) from Story Mirror, Mumbai, India
Spotlight Superstar Honor (2018) from Story Mirror, Mumbai, India
30+ Global Poetic Certificates (2018, 2019, 2020)

ADDRESS:
Plot No. 37, H. No. 1-6-53/1,
ANUPURAM, ECIL Post, Kapra,
(Opp. Dr. Homi J Bhaba Community Hall)
Hyderabad -500062
Telangana State (INDIA)
Email : mrkndyl@gmail.com
Twitter: @mrkndyl68
Phone Nos.
+91-9951038802

  

Its the apocalypse, be prepared for death destruction and teens being teens. Awkwardness beyond belief and misinterpreted signals.

This generation has a newer threat, Generation Z-OMBIE is about a group of teens trying to survive in the apocalyptic world. I have changed the title to Generation Z-OMBIE because the previous title was unprofessional.

I have always loved to write. In my teens I spend hours pouring my heart into poetry. Now, married with kids and still in university, writing is often more work than pleasure. I had always heard that writing can be cathartic, and at one time it was for me. Now, I have to push the to-do lists out of my mind just to be willing to sit still longer enough to consider words for pleasure.  

Until I got married I was a frequent world traveler. I explored without worry for finances or the future. However, after saying "I do," my Dear Husband and I starting having children and working... and going back to school... and it all just slipped away... 

That was until this past summer when a sudden push of wanderlust sprung our whole family into the world of expatriates. Within a two month time we had sold everything we owned and moved across the world to a country in West Africa. Now, everyday is an adventure, especially when I was the only one who had ever even flown on a plane before this move. 

It seems only reasonable to share this adventure with the world, even if just through my little overwhelmed eyes. Thankfully, I have this hidden talent...

MM’s life, as seen through her own eyes. The ups, the downs, and everything in between. 

Living overseas, MM never knows what life will throw her way. It’s not that travel is new, but each new place is an adventure, especially now that she has a family to take care of...

Matilda: and haley stopped screaming 


Matilda; what the f*** was that foer slap 


Ben; ouch yep we derv that and reason I wanted to get there know so we won't miss it


Matilda: you know it starts in 3 days 


Ben: yes i know but me And Alice want to look around before it starts 


Matilda: for 3 days 


Haley; yep and so we can 


[AN im back i got out of the dungine that haley put me in a so the reason why they arrived early was a meshon that pop up that told them to go to the capital]


Cat: system um why are we here if you guys are doing stuff your selfs 


Ben; idk your the ones who wanted to teach us stuff but you haven't been talking


Cat: system faere pont 


Ben: how about we will just ask if we have questions 


Cat: system ok


Fox: system you know i'm here two rihet 


Alice: i know


Fox system: oof you know who to talk to if you need any thang fox out < yes nailed it >


Haley: so what are your plans to do first when we arrive


Alice: probably look at the shops 


Ben: i'm going to there Adventurers Guild to see what there missions are


Matilda: mind if i come 


ben : ok iny one else  nope ok


3 minutes later

This time the guards  of the gate looks more protective / in temanating 


Ben: pro paere for a quiet soft/ sudine stop 


Haley; ok i'll try not to throw up 


Alice; not on me ok


Haley: ok 


Onpon landing


Guard; id plez 


Haley me first here runs to the siyed and throes up 


Murilda: here is mine


Ben: and here is mine And Alices


Guard: ok let me take a look < the princess and the headmasters doterra I know thin looks at bens and Alices and gets whyed eyed> ok 4 A ranks here's your guys full pass and have fun at the Academy


Ben: ok thank you. Know were on to the Adventurers Guild 


Matilda: yep


10 minute walk later


Ben welp lets go in


Mutilda: ok 


Opens the door and its crowded with teens from 13 to 17 and the all look at ben and thin a mutida and start to freak out and stop what there doing.


Ben: ok why did everyone just stop


Matilda: I live because he'd mistress  daughter 


Ben: so your summers daughter


Matilda: what you've met my mom and know her real name only family know here real name

Ben: what really all we did was save a village from a goblin rade and she thin did the test and thin me and alice past out after we studded for the egzam than once we were awake she changed again


Matilda: where


Ben I know I ges Ill go to the Mishin bord know 


Matilda:ok
---------------------------------------/\/\/\/\/\/\///--------

Ok ok ok i know this is short but im kinda falling behind on my poetry and have to get ready for a mas Release on  February 5th oof i'm not ready why did i sing up for it

___________________________________

And i want my next chapter to be longer see you guys on saturday or tommaro 

in this novel we fallow ben and Alice in a total different world and how thay are part of the story
you can find out

ps. I'll add mare to this later

and hello everyone I'm the author and I can't spell great 

ok I think I got a schedule so it's going to be this novel one day the next day my other novel because I get a fresh start echoes time

all So 
check it on this maby
royalroad

discord cSmK6Vfm

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER
July, 2009
SOUTH WALES and RUSKIN, NY

I couldn't wait to see Lys again, but I knew I had to. I knew she was going out of town and I didn't know when she was coming back. I called or texted, I forget which, and wished her well in all her endeavors.
I didn't want to overplay my hand or read too much into our experience. I had enjoyed our few nights beyond measure, but people have short relationships all the time. Sex seldom means the same thing to each participant. Sex can only be casual for the higher-status partner. I was starting not to feel so sure what our nights had meant to Lys.
I don't know how to process my emotions at that time. I think I was in love. I say, "I think," because I don't know for sure what that word "love" means. In English we have one word for love, and I don't know what it means for others. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. We have all these stages: crush, infatuation, steady lust, then trust, then a sense of comfort, stability and nurturing... I don't know which stage I was at or where I wanted to go.
I do know that I had a sense of fascination for this woman, not only a sensual interest - eros - but a sincere curiosity about her. I wanted to know what made her tick. I wanted to mean something to her. I didn't just want to hang out with her, I wanted to be intimate the way we had been, again and often. I wanted to be her friend, her confidante, her lover. I wanted to do things with her, to ski and go to art shows and restaurants and parties... I wanted to make her forget the other guys. Who knows what beyond that? I don't think I had a game plan except to keep playing.
I don't know the way other guys think. I don't have long heart-to-heart talks with other guys, certainly not about our emotions. I can only go with what I was thinking and feeling, so I don't know what to call it. I never said I was the most normal character in the United States. A lot of people who end up writing books aren't - like painters, musicians, or sculptors. There's no road map for people in the arts.
But one July night came along that was just perfect to be with someone. It was one of those lush nights when the warm breeze combed the branches like fingers through long hair, the gardens spread their fragrance like sweetness permeating nectar, and the moon against the sporadic, drifting clouds sent silver tenderness onto all it touched.
I was at my cottage when the feelings became overwhelming. I thought of the imagery of one of my favorite poets, the tragic Percy Shelley, dead before thirty, who left us some of the most sublime lyrics in English. I was thinking of one of his poems, "The Indian Serenade," which to me perfectly summarized the night.

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright...

I remember loving that poem, at least the first two stanzas, and what I envisioned of that age so much in my silly teens that I wanted to relive the images I got from them. I wanted to wander out and meet somebody meaningful on a night with just the atmosphere those words created in me. I wanted the world to be as enchanted as poetry could be, or at least to be with someone who loved me enough to let me pretend it was so for one evening of my life.

I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me - who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

I wanted to walk through a pastoral landscape and come to her in classical gardens by moonlight, under boughs and blooms just giving forth their scents.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream -
The Champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream...

I wanted to go meet someone somewhere whom I felt like telling... anything. I wanted to walk out into the night and be with someone who understood without speaking, who would let me speak without needing to understand. I wanted to see Lys. Almost like I was dreaming myself, I drove into town and parked my car on a village street.
I called Lys. She answered. She was in town. I asked if she wanted to go for a walk. She said she was willing. She seemed a little stiff when we met in her driveway.
I had been there for her at her times of stress after a long and contradictory acquaintance. We - at least, I - had had some magnificent moments. It should have been appropriate to reach out to her back. I wanted to talk about the joy of poetry, of nature, of spirit, of humanity, of life itself... I wanted... I don't know. Maybe it was my turn to want to have someone to hold. We walked, and whatever I wanted to say waited.
In half an hour, my mood was fading dramatically. Lys was as crisp as though I had done something to irritate her, as though she had had other plans for the night which she had broken off to minister to me.
The evening was changing, too. It was still warm, but the breeze had died and the moon was down. The air had taken on a murky, heavy tone that seemed to promise rain. I had lost my mood completely and was thinking of calling it a night.
It may seem to you that I should have said something about my feelings, or that I might have been disappointed or even angry that Lys wasn't getting it. Correction: I've never thought it was someone else's job to figure me out. If I can't come out with it... Next time.
Our walk took us by a pub along the railroad tracks an easy stroll from the house Lys was staying in. Lys wanted to go in to use the ladies' room. I walked her in and waited at the bar. She found me in two minutes and asked if I would like to have one. I knew Lys liked the nightlife, but that surprised me. I thought she was still grieving her dad.
Nursing my beer, I brooded at the bar, ready to give up on the evening. As maudlin as it looks now to me and you both, Reader, my fine poetic mood had meant something to me, and it had come crashing down. I get bored quickly hanging out at bars. I wasn't going to keep up with Lys when she decided to go party-time, anyway.
That night Lys was in capital form, engaged in a rowdy series of games of pool and hopping every ten minutes from her seat next to mine to varied perches about the table. She interacted riotously with a cast of first-night friends that reminded me of "Hamlet"'s Polonius' line about "each new-hatched, unfledg'd courage." This was a strange sort of grieving, but I could only relate it to my own cycle after my father crossed unexpectedly into Spirit. I did some outwardly incongruous things. Pain can do that to you.

[To Be Continued...]




Author:
Author, teacher, storyteller, and supernatural historian Mason Winfield studied English and Classics at Denison University, earned a master’s degree in British literature at Boston College, and studied poetry and fiction at SUNY Buffalo with professor emeritus and MacArthur grant recipient Irving Feldman. He has written or edited fourteen books, including the regional sensation “Shadows of the Western Door” (1997) and “Iroquois Supernatural,” co-authored with Michael Bastine, on the traditions of the Six Longhouse Nations (Inner Traditions International/Bear & Company, 2011). Several of his surveys of upstate folklore and paranormal tradition may be found at the website of Western New York Wares: www.buffalobooks.com. He may be reached at www.masonwinfield.com.

An anatomically perfect human jaw fashioned of diamond-hard quartz crystal is uncovered at an Ohio burial mound and sold on the underground antiquities market. Shortly after, three pothunters are found dead.

A mysterious new drug suspected of South American origin surfaces in Buffalo, NY. Its unprecedented psycho-tropic effects include the momentary activation of ESP. 

Blind, speechless, emaciated street people start appearing in many parts of the world. An urban legend-cycle forms around them, and the name of a murderous old cult, “the Whistlers” attaches to them.

An archaeological team at a Mayan site reports finding a bizarre artifact and vanishes. 

An upstate schoolteacher’s book of New York legends and folklore foreshadows these developments and more. 

   These are the threads – plus his affair with a maddening woman – that draw narrator Ward Courier into the international adventure of occultism, terror, Native American tradition and onrushing prophecy that is Mason Winfield’s anticipated new novel THE WHISTLERS. By the time the picture of THE WHISTLERS becomes clear, we are ready to believe in a sinister conspiracy that could predate Atlantis and even hail from another world.

*Heavy, heavy sigh.
Growing up, man... my dad was hard on me. So much so, I'm still healing from some wounds. Consequently, I grew up having great disdain for older men and had very few male role models. You know...  It's important for boys, especially teens, to have someone they look up to because they soon grow to become adult men.  Just like I have today.
So concerning the very few men I looked, there stood one ever tall, flawed, and reliable - Kobe.  You were my childhood hero.
I fell in love with basketball when I was ten, but I was trash since I had just returned from Africa. I didn't have the luxury of joining any basketball camps, so learning how to play was left up to me. During this era, it was tough to make friends as an African kid since you were considered an "African booty scratcher."  
Fortunately, my boy Jenung embraced me, first, as only a friend and the brother I never had.
And he would soon teach me the fundamentals to help me get going. After continuous long hours of self-practice, playing by myself, and studying Kobe highlights, I finally got good. So good that I'd eventually go on to play high school and AAU basketball, and have most of my neighborhood calling me Kobe instead of Kofi, my middle name. My game was just like yours. Some even said I looked like you. 
However, beyond all the athletic accolades and star glamour, I loved you most for being human. Though we distinctly differ in nature, I connected with you on so many levels. You were your father's only son just like I was and were also once your father's greatest disappointment - a sentiment I've carried most of my life.
Being a fan since the early 2000s, I watched you face endless criticism for your actions on and off the court. Some of which you earned and some I couldn't even vouch for, though I wanted to. Yet somehow, someway you would often step on the court unfazed and silence all the noise. It baffled me how someone under so much scrutiny and attack could be so composed and never succumb to the external pressure.
And then to my shocking surprise, I saw you a breakdown and cry in an interview one day.  Completely human; You did hear all the negativity and slander talk after all. 
You see, just like you, Bean, I've also shed many tears in silence. And at times, the weight and pressure of all I face simply get to me.
But you finally explained how you're able to keep going. "Everything negative - pressure, challenges - was all an opportunity for you to rise." This mentality is what enabled you to step on the court, excel at your job, and be at peace. Basketball was your haven, and so is mine, even til' this day. When I'm overwhelmed with stress and filled with distress, the court is often my place of solace.
It has wiped away many of my tears. Having watched you over the years, you were the perfect harmony of hard work and flash. Your style profoundly resonates with me because you were the embodiment of intensity and grace.   
And If I ever loved you for what you did on a basketball court, I simply loved you more for being a loving, gentle father. Your eloquent speech was poetry to my ears, and your laughter soothing for my soul. 
I had ten missed calls and several texts asking me bout you last night. I even had middle school teachers and coaches reaching out to me.
So Uncle Kob, why you have to break my heart?  I know you said to keep going, but today... the going is merely tough. 
You know, I only hope to touch as many lives and capture as many hearts as you did before it's my time to be at rest. 
And If I'm ever graced with parenthood, I now know of a name to give my son.
Thoughts and prayers with the Bryant & Altobelli family and all those aboard. 
Wasn't even trying to make this a long rap but couldn't hold this in for too long, smh.
...Nah, you probably weren't a bigger Kobe fan, but it's chill.
Love you, Bean! My swag.
#MambaForever.


Eazy at 50years old woke up one day in his ten year old body happy about getting another chance at life. He gets info that he has three abilities.
This is my first time writing so I'm going to wing things as it comes to my mind please bare with me. Please point out any Grammer errors.

PS. THIS NOVEL IS NOT FOR THE WEAK HEART AND ITS NOT ALL SUNSHINE EVERYDAY THE MC WILL HAVE BAD DAYS SO IF YOU NOT READY TO SEE A MC TAKE A L PLEASE DO NOT READ.

RIP KOBE AND GIGI

Join our discord channel to discuss anything about this novel and art work
https://discord.gg/AWrv2x3

The language learning course which tested the ability of the students' minds to read, and comprehend a certain text, acknowledged the variety of literary pieces across the world, expressed one's sentiments, and viewpoints through creative writing, and gave up a speech to the public with a required self-confidence and charisma had conquered the class of Yeats.

"English Time!" a classmate exclaimed.

"Ugh. Why on earth..." Noah said, lying her head onto the armrest.

The teacher had arrived with her male student who assisted her to carry on her stationery materials and left afterwards. 

She expressed her warmest greeting to the class, "Good morning, everyone."

"Gooood Morningggg, Ma'am Rhea," the entire students responded in dullness, deliberately prolonging the words.

"Again, good morning, Yeats."

"Good Morning, Ma'am Rhea! We are happy to see you today!"

The teacher nodded, and commanded them, "Okay, you may now take your seats."

"So Yeats, in this period, we would be having an activity, and I'm sure you would definitely love to hate this one."

The students plastered a counterfeit grin on their faces as they listened to their teacher's introduction. It looked as if their incoming task would be an "easy yet a lazy job" for them.

"You will be composing an original poetry! Isn't beautiful? A form of art of regurgitating all your personal experiences, feelings, aspirations, and showing off your ideals and visions of the world around us by using a piece of paper and a pen. What lies ahead of our future? Who shall be the one to pass this on for the next generation. It's only you, the young ones. As our beloved national hero, Dr. Jose Rizal quoted, 'The youth is the hope of our nation'," Ma'am Rhea Azuela dramatically spoke, and her fists were firmly closed.

Everyone groaned with the exemption of Ma'am Rhea whose energy was trying hard to somehow radiate the entire classroom.

"Hmm... Okay, you only have two options: To create or not to create. My role as a teacher is simply taking down of your grades and morals in your report card. If you want a failing grade, why not? I'll give it to you. Other than that, what does youth always say? You only live once, eh? So, I won't stop you from not submitting your requirement," Ma'am Rhea shrugged.

"Anyways, for those who wished to conform to the task, listen up. Before you start writing, I would love to give a bit of a background about our today's lesson. I'm sure most of you familiar with them. We've known different lyrical poems, epic poems and etcetera. Now, I'll ask you. What is haiku? Anyone?"

"Just give me a gist of it."

Students were staring at each other's eyes, and no one dared to speak. Few were looking at the white board. Most were avoiding an eye contact from their instructor. Some of them were gaping at the outside of the room. Ma'am Rhea whined and continued.

"Guys, you have to talk. Remember, this is an English class. You have to hone your communication skills. How are you going supposed to learn if you don't utilize your mouths? Ha? Come on. No answers are wrong in language. It's more on thoughts and ideas that we should express. You should be engaging more on interaction. And pretty please, let's help each other out. Don't leave me hanging guys, Okay?"

"Now, any thoughts from this group?" she asked, looking at the first row. Ma'am Rhea was about to choose her lucky victim when one of her students raised her right hand, "Ma'am."

"Yes, Miss? What do you think? What is haiku?"

"May I go to the comfort room?" the wench replied.

Some of the senior high students were retaining their soon-to-be-bursted laughter. Ma'am Rhea sighed, and said, "Yes, you may."

The young lass stood up straight, and said, "But, If I am not mistaken, haiku refers to a five-seven-five syllable count in a one three-phrase stanza. It is also originated in Japan."

"Again, thank you for your permission, Ma'am."

The schoolgirl went to the school comfort room, leaving the entire class in amusement. Ma'am Rhea snapped her fingers to get back her little ones' focus.

"That's my girl! She got it right. Finally, someone saved you from danger, eh?" the teacher cunningly grinned, and the student were then relieved. 

"And since this is a surprise activity, you need not to compose a haiku. Still, it is included in your quarterly exams. Instead, I challenge you to write a poem. Freestyle. Whether you want to have your piece that consists of a rhyme, or a regular meter. It's up to you. Make sure it has three stanzas. Do you understand me, Yeats?"

Dassah lifted up her hand up, and called, "Ma'am."

"Yes, Miss Dassah?"

"What would the topic be about?" the student asked.

"Hmm... Good question," Ma'am Rhea nodded, and began considering a great theme for her class's written poetry. Suddenly, a brilliant idea popped up. She smiled and responded to her student.

"It should be based on your personal experience. For example, your bonding with your family and friends. Maybe you want to write about your life as a student, and whatsoever. The sky's the limit."

"So, any questions?"

The class replied, "None."

"Okay. You may now start. And please let me check your composition before the bell rings whether it is done or not. I'll give a plus point and a secret award for those who could create a finished piece," Ma'am Rhea announced, and sat down on her chair to relax her voluptuous legs.

"Ma'am, what is the reward?" one man asked.

"It won't be confidential anymore, if I'll tell you, mister," she said.

The students proceeded writing on their mandatory art work. Creative juices were flooding up inside of their right brains. Tearing papers were echoing everywhere in the section. Loud mental groans from every school teens dominated in the class. Frustration mixed with determination to make a possible masterpiece were obviously transparent on their hopeless faces. Dassah who eventually ended her write-up stood up from her armchair, and submitted it to her English teacher. 

Ma'am Rhea was impressed, and took her ample time to read her three-stanza poem. As she perused Dassah's work, she smiled in delight.

"Miss Quinn."

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"I have a dumb question," the instructor said. She glanced at her unknowing student in mischief, and continued her talk.

" Are you in love?"

"NO WAY, MA'AM," Dassah yelled at her teacher. Her classmates instantly shifted their gaze at the two. She became flustered, and softly spoke, "Umm... Sorry, ma'am. I was just shocked. But, no, I am not, ma'am."

"And what makes you think that I'm uh..."

Ma'am Rhea replied, still smiling, "In love?"

Dassah slowly nodded in embarrassment,"Uh-huh."

"It's just my assumption. It seems the message of your poem conveys about a clichè romance like this love at first sight kind of scene. Ah. Reminds me of my first young love,"  Ma'am Rhea Azuela said, feeling the nostalgia of her past teen era.

"And, what's even more interesting is that I instructed you to have a poem that talks about your life encounters." Dassah's teacher continued.

"Then, I thought I might be wrong, so which is why I asked you."

Dassah again nodded as an abiding servant, and the English teacher spoke again herself, "So, mind if I ask you the story behind this piece of yours?"

"Um... Sure, Ma'am. But, it already says it all," Dassah said.

"It's basically this. I met a guy at a convenience store, and I did not forsee anything that we would see each other for the second time around. And for me, I was happy it happened for the both of us."

Ma'am Rhea could no longer hide her squeals, and let it out without any reservation.

"Oh, ignore my giggles. The story was too cute. But hey, Miss Quinn. This is your prize," she commented, and gestured her to move closer. Dassah came near to her instructor in obedience.

"You'll present it to the other class."

"Ma'am?!" Dassah exclaimed in terror.

"Shh... Don't tell anyone," she warned the young lady.

"But, but..."

Ma'am Rhea smiled, and said, "You may go back to your seat, Miss Quinn."

Dassah heaved a sigh of defeat, and move herself back to her armchair.  Floating her countless regrets of submitting her poem, the young lady had enough of the trap, and let the situation sail by itself.

poetry for teens novel

The Way of The Blessed

ANIMAL STORIES FOR KIDS AND TEENS

LIFE FOR LOVE POETRY

Generation Z-OMBIE

Blueberry spice

MM’s Musings

Two Best Friends Transmigration

The Whistlers

I Cant Miss !!!

中区

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