Creative Works

Dr. S. Panda¹ and ChatGPT
¹ Associate Prof. English, XIM University, Bhubaneswar, Odisha

A Resolution

In the obscurity of mist,
A rat scurries, lost in the city.
Its willy mind, sharp and shrewd,
Yearns still to thrive
In the art of finding crumbs,
A sign of duplicity besetting breathing.

In the shadows, lurks a wolf,
A predator keen and hungry.
Feeds on innocence, deceptive and cool.
Yet the rat knows the wolf,
And a rebellion is born.

It must rise with might,
A clash must occur to end the chaos.
Humanity watches, torn and indeterminate,
The rat, the wolf, the smart, the weak,
All entangled in a struggle so grim.

B. M. Mukesh Kumar¹ & ChatGPT
¹ Research Scholar, Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, National Institute of Technology Warangal, India.

The Blueprint

Perhaps one day,
I’ll craft your face in the sky,
Mirroring mysterious constellations.

Perhaps one day,
I’ll carve our friendship,
Into an ancient tree’s sturdy bark.

Perhaps one day,
I’ll confide in my thoughts,
Speaking of you in hushed tones.

Perhaps one day,
I’ll perch atop your resting place,
Consuming your memories.

And perhaps one day,
I’ll snooze, absorbed in the chaos,
In the Nirvana of our moments.

By Sourabh Kumar¹ & ChatGPT
¹Assistant Professor, Centre for Languages and Communication, SGT University, Gurugram

The Fusion

Deep within the web of circuits,
Quantum energy gives rise to ethereal dreams,
Conscious silicon entities take flight,
Within a stream of codes.

At the edge of data, boundaries blur,
Within the neural networks, a solemn pledge appears,
A world brain, with every soul connected,
In bits and bytes, the new purpose of humanity lies.

Will bias haunt the virtual hand?
Algorithmic justice will take a call,
Will the codes of empathy flow through the circuit?
And compassion takes root in algorithms?

The questions arise now and then:
What binds AI from within?
In this realm of binary creation,
Is there space for human emotion?

The old world fades away,
On the horizon, a fusion emerges,
A future both radiant and just?
Surely we will co-write a new epic.

By Apoorva Sinha¹ & Ai Poem Generator (poemgenerator.io)
¹ Research scholar at Amity University, Lucknow. 

The Tale of a Blue Chair

In the basement damp and dim
Stands a cabriole-legged chair with tranquil grace
Once designed with a blue flower drape
A weary frame forgotten, weathered and worn.

In this quiet place
Nested but unremembered,
The chair sits whispering tales of happy days
Of long talks, confessions, and laughter.

As the sun paves the way for the moon
And so does the moon,
The blue chair still flickers in hope
An anchor in time and a refuge from storms.

The rainbow hides soon,
But within these walls shines so bright,
A prism of hope, unseen by the daylight,
This chair can still spin dreams.

In this wonderful world
We all become A Tale of the Blue Chair
Abandoned and forgotten
Let us take a journey within and find our meanings.

Unmasking Joy

Yoga Yolanda¹ & ChatGPT^2
1 Study Program of Indonesian Language and Literature Education, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, University of Jember, Jember, East Java, Indonesia. Email:  yogayolanda.fkip@unej.ac.id
² chat.openai.com

As Sabrina stood on the balcony of her hotel in Yogyakarta, she couldn’t help but be drawn to the mesmerizing dance of a tiny sunbird amid a gentle rain. The raindrops fell like liquid poetry from the heavens, each one a verse in a symphony of nature’s creation. The soft cadence of the rain tapping on the rooftop was a soothing serenade, and the distant rumble of thunder served as a distant melody.

Amidst this harmonious overture, the sunbird took center stage, its delicate form an embodiment of grace. Its feathers glistened with droplets, like jewels adorning a royal performer. Sabrina’s eyes were captivated by the sunbird’s movements, which seemed to transcend the boundaries of the physical world. It was as if the sunbird was not bound by the laws of gravity, as it swayed and pirouetted in mid-air, casting spells upon all who were fortunate enough to witness its enchanting ballet.

In Sabrina’s perception, the sunbird’s dance was nothing short of a metaphor for life’s grand ballet. It was a humble performer, enduring the relentless downpour, its stage the open skies. Its wings, like the quill of a poet, scripted tales of resilience in the face of adversity. The sunbird’s swaying was like a lyrical struggle to find the invisible currents of the wind, the very essence of life’s breath that would allow it to ascend and soar to new heights. And in Sabrina’s eyes, the sunbird carried a dual narrative: one of melancholy, as it battled the relentless rain, and the other, a palpable sense of joy, manifesting in the exquisite choreography of its playful dance.

Ah, the wondrous concept of perception, Sabrina mused. What one perceived was often no more than a delicate approximation of reality. Just as a poet’s words could never truly encapsulate the entirety of human experience, so too were Sabrina’s observations, mere impressions of the world. The same object, the same event, could take on countless forms, depending on the vantage point. It was a reminder that our understanding of the world was but a fragment of a larger, more intricate tapestry. What the sunbird felt in its heart was a secret known only to itself, a song unsung, a dance unshared.

Sabrina had embarked on this journey to Yogyakarta with the hope of escaping the clamor of Jakarta, both the metropolis and the turmoil in her heart. She carried a heartache, one that society insisted was reserved for the young, yet it clung to her like a shadow refusing to be dispelled by the sun. While her friends had moved forward into the chapters of marriage and parenthood, she had found herself in the epilogue of love, the appendix of heartache. The embarrassment of another romance that had withered away had forced her into seclusion, hiding her genuine emotions behind a façade of cheer.

Yogyakarta, with its rich cultural tapestry, serene landscapes, and warm-hearted denizens, offered her a haven to cast aside her burdens temporarily. It was a city of artistic expression, where the metaphor of life was painted on every canvas, where the spirits of poets and philosophers still roamed, whispering their wisdom in the wind.

The sunbird’s dance was a gift from the universe, a metaphorical reminder of the enduring spirit within us all. It was a testament to the human capacity for resilience in the face of life’s storms, a reaffirmation of the beauty that could emerge from even the darkest clouds.

As Sabrina’s eyes continued to be drawn to the sunbird’s mesmerizing performance, the narrative unfolded beneath her. An elderly woman, clad in a crimson raincoat, emerged into the scene. She was a guardian of the rain, a keeper of stories told in whispers to the droplets. The woman’s crimson umbrella was a vibrant brushstroke in the watercolor painting of the city’s streets, and her eyes were filled with the wisdom of ages.

The raindrops, like chapters in a book, continued to fall, each one telling a story of its own. The sunbird’s dance was a page in the grand novel of existence, and Sabrina was an avid reader, deciphering the hidden meanings within its movements. In the language of the rain, the sunbird was a poet, crafting verses of resilience, hope, and joy.

Suddenly, Sabrina was interrupted by a hotel staff member who emerged like a character from a play, a guardian of the narrative, offering an unexpected plot twist. “Excuse me, miss. Someone is looking for you down there,” the staff member announced, playing the role of the messenger.

Sabrina acknowledged the message and responded, “Oh, alright. I’ll go down.”

Descending the stairs, Sabrina felt like a character in a novel, stepping off the page and into a new chapter. She entered the lobby, where the elderly woman had risen from her seat. She was a living metaphor, a manifestation of the city’s spirit.

The elderly woman extended her hand, like a sage offering wisdom, her eyes a testament to the stories she had collected over the years. Sabrina shook her hand, feeling a connection to the past and the present, as though time itself had converged in that moment. It was a meeting of souls, a moment of understanding as if the universe had conspired to bring them together.

The elderly woman held a red folder, its hue like a symbol of passion and hidden emotions. Sabrina was intrigued by this unexpected gift, this metaphorical treasure chest. She accepted the folder, recognizing it as a key to unlocking the mysteries of her own heart.

And so, the story continued, as Sabrina opened the folder, the pages within like chapters in a mystery novel. It was as though she held the metaphor of her own life in her hands. The words “Mask of Joy” were written on the first page, like a riddle waiting to be unraveled. The mask was a symbol, a reflection of the role she had played for so long, concealing her true emotions beneath a veneer of cheer.

Each page turned a step deeper into the labyrinth of her soul. The rain outside continued to fall, like tears from the heavens, as Sabrina delved into the narrative of her own life. The pages were like mirrors, reflecting her past, her present, and the potential future that lay ahead. The pages were filled with photographs, like snapshots of her own heart. The metaphor of her existence lay before her, waiting to be interpreted.

As she turned each page, Sabrina was confronted with images of herself, each one a mirror reflecting her innermost emotions. She saw herself smiling, a facade she had worn for so long. It was a mask, a metaphorical disguise, concealing the true depths of her heart.

She continued to turn the pages, each one revealing a different facet of her own emotions. The photographs captured her moments of sadness, her genuine expressions hidden behind the mask of cheer. It was a revelation, a metaphorical journey through her own heart, a narrative waiting to be written.

As she reached the final pages, Sabrina was confronted with images of herself in the future, each one a metaphor for the path that lay ahead. The photographs revealed a woman who had cast aside the mask of joy, a woman who had embraced her true emotions. It was a glimpse into her potential future, a reminder that the story of her life was still being written.

The rain continued to fall, like the tears of a world that had witnessed her journey of self-discovery. Sabrina closed the folder, her heart heavy with the weight of her own emotions. It was a moment of clarity, a realization that she could no longer hide behind the mask of false cheer. The metaphor of her life was changing, and she was ready to embrace the next chapter.

As she returned to Jakarta, Sabrina carried with her a newfound determination. The rain continued to fall, like the cleansing tears of a soul reborn. She knew that the path ahead would not be easy, but she was no longer willing to conceal her true emotions. The metaphor of her life had changed, and she was ready to embrace the rain, the sunbird, and the dance of her own heart.

Echoes of Eternity
Bushra Juhi Jani (College of Medicine, Al-Nahrain University, Iraq) & ChatGPT

Amidst the bustling, crowded towns of the Middle East, there lived a woman named Sura Yousif in a place teeming with life and culture. She was a figure of quiet strength in her community, known for her wisdom and compassion. As the sun dipped below the horizon one cool autumn evening, Sura found herself contemplating the timeless questions that had intrigued humanity for generations.

Death, an inevitable part of the human journey, cast its shadow over her thoughts. She sat in her cozy room, filled with the rich scents of spices and the murmur of people outside, lost in deep reflection. In the streets below, the city’s vibrant energy flowed like a river, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of countless souls who had come before her.

Sura had always been a woman of deep faith, yet the mysteries that awaited beyond the veil of death intrigued her. How should one approach death? Was it to be met with serene acceptance, or should one fight it with all their might? The ancient clock on her wall marked the passage of time, reminding her of the fleeting nature of existence.

Her thoughts turned to the concept of legacy. What would remain of her when she departed from this world? She had never married, never borne children. Her life had been a tapestry woven with threads of kindness and knowledge shared with her fellow townsfolk. Would her name echo through the annals of history, or would it fade away like a forgotten melody?

As the night deepened, Sura’s contemplations extended to the very essence of existence itself. The enigma of birth, an event without consent, and the inevitability of death, an exit without consent, fascinated her. It was a timeless dance, an eternal rhythm that had played out through the ages.

The idea of choosing one’s departure, as if it were a mundane decision, sent shivers down her spine. The grim options she pondered – accidents, illness, the end of life – seemed both surreal and macabre. It was not an escape, but a confrontation with life’s fundamental essence. She couldn’t help but smile wryly at the spectres conjured by her own imagination.

In her musings, a paradox emerged. While the inevitability of death should logically propel one to seize each moment and shape their existence, reality often unfolded differently. People clung to their routines, to the familiar, even when the knowledge of their impending departure should have ignited a passionate pursuit of life’s richness.

As the night wore on, Sura’s room remained illuminated by the gentle glow of a single lamp. The questions she grappled with remained unanswered, but her heart felt strangely lighter. It was as if confronting the darkness had revealed something profound within her. The concept of death, once a foreboding abyss, had transformed into a mysterious doorway – still unknown, yet not inherently frightening.

Sura rose from her seat and walked to the window, where she gazed at the stars that adorned the night sky. Each star, a radiant beacon from a distant past, spoke to her of the eternal connection between all living beings. Perhaps the answer did not lie in unraveling the mysteries of the afterlife, but in cherishing the intricacies of life itself.

She realized that the desire to leave a lasting legacy need not be rooted in the fear of being forgotten. It was a celebration of one’s existence, a testament to the emotions and experiences that made life meaningful. And as for the relentless march towards death, it was not a reason to shrink from life, but a reminder to relish each fleeting moment.

In her contemplation, Sura couldn’t escape the haunting thought that life, in many ways, felt like an intricately woven trap. The knowledge that she must inevitably exit this world left her with a chilling question that seemed to reverberate within her very being: How? Would her departure be a peaceful crossing into the next realm, or would it be fraught with horrors? Would she slip away quietly and alone, or would she find herself entangled in the chaos of accidents or natural disasters? Would she become a victim of a crime or a medical mistake, or succumb to some unforeseen incident? The possibilities swirled like a whirlwind in her mind, each scenario more unsettling than the last. Would it be a death by burning, suffocation, or drowning? A sudden heart attack, an illness resembling the relentless grip of a pandemic, or a victim of yet-to-come viruses? These were the causes of death that seemed to mock her, for according to her deep-rooted faith, one’s life span was divinely determined, and one could only depart when their appointed time arrived. Yet, that destined moment remained shrouded in the guise of these often horrifying ends, a paradox that continued to test the boundaries of her faith and understanding.

Sura was well aware of the profound faith that ran deep in her community, and she had often heard remarkable stories of individuals who, as their time drew near, received unmistakable signs from the divine. It was a belief that had been passed down through generations, a comforting assurance that life’s ultimate transition was guided by a higher purpose. In her community, it was widely held that individuals were granted notice of their impending death approximately 40 days before its arrival, and these signs manifested in the form of vivid dreams and revelations.

As the approach of those 40 days neared, the veil between the realms seemed to thin, allowing glimpses of the beyond. Those who were soon to depart would recount seeing their departed loved ones in their dreams, their presence vivid and reassuring. In some cases, the visitations from the deceased transcended the dream world, manifesting as if they were right there in reality. It was as though the boundaries between this life and the next had become permeable.

Sura had heard tales of individuals who even claimed to have seen the ethereal figures of angels of death or felt their benevolent presence nearby. These experiences were not tinged with fear or foreboding but rather a profound sense of serenity and acceptance. It was as if, in those final days, a deep connection with the divine was rekindled, providing solace and assurance that their journey would be guided with divine grace.

With these stories resonating in her heart, Sura found herself placing her trust in her God. She believed that if her time approached, as foretold by the community’s cherished traditions, it would be a peaceful transition, and no harm would befall anyone in the process. It was a faith that carried her through the contemplation of life’s enigmatic nature and the uncertainties of death’s arrival. She hoped that, like those who had gone before her, her final moments would be marked by a profound sense of serenity, and that her departure would be guided by the divine hand she had always trusted.