Who Is The Author Of THE HERALD OF SPRING : Poems From Mohua With A?

I had spent years paying for Damian Grant’s infertility in every way a woman could. Doctors, treatments, private clinics, and humiliation I swallowed in silence. Then, against every odd, I finally got pregnant. It was the child the Grant family had been waiting for. The miracle Madam Evelyn Grant had prayed for. The one thing Damian had been told he might never have. On the night before our wedding, I saw a local post climbing the trending list. [Another day of being the only girl who gets under my boss’s skin.] In the video, a young woman smiled sweetly at the camera. [My boss is terrifying to everyone else. Cold eyes, bad temper, the whole package. But today, during a meeting, I secretly stepped on his shoe under the table. He actually smiled at me. Then he texted me and told me to behave.] The comments were full of people swooning. [That has to be love. A man like that only softens for one woman.] [Look closely. There must be some little detail on him that belongs only to you.] I scrolled down and saw the influencer’s reply. It was a photo of a dark silver tie clip pinned right over her chest. [This is the gift he gave me. He said whenever I see it, I should think of him.] I stared at that tie clip for a long time. It was the engagement gift I had spent a month polishing by hand for Damian. And inside it, there was still a tiny heart made from his fingerprint and mine.

The novel is mainly about the forgotten British poet/writer named C. J Richards who lived in Burma/Myanmar in colonial times and he believed himself as a Burmophile. He served as I.C.S (Indian Civil Servant) and when he retired from I.C.S service, he was a D.C (District Commissioner) and he left for England a year before Burma gained its independence in 1948. He came to Burma in 1920 to work in civil service after passing the hardest I.C.S examination. He wrote several books on Burma and contributed many monthly articles to Guardian Magazine published in Burma from 1953 to 1974 or 1975. Though he wrote several books which had much literary merit to both communities, Britain and Burma (Myanmar), people failed to recognize him. The story has two parts: one part is set in the contemporary Yangon (then called Rangoon) in 2016 context and a young literary enthusiast named “Lin” found out unexpectedly the forgotten writer’s poetry book and there is surely a good deal of time gap that led him into a quest to know more about the author’s life. The setting is quite different comparing to colonial Burma and independence Myanmar (Burma), early twentieth century and 2016 which is a transitional period in Myanmar. The writer’s life is fictionalized in the novel and most of the facts are taken from his personal stories and other reference books. It is a kind of historical novel with a twist and it has comparatively constructed the two different periods in Myanmar history to convince readers, locally and abroad more about history, authorship, humanity, colonialism, and transitional development in Myanmar today.

Every year, the village had to choose a girl of age to become the Blossom Bride. The girl who was chosen would be sent into the cave as the village god’s wife. She would spend the entire night with him. If she came out alive, she would be honored for the rest of her life as a village elder. Any child she bore was said to be blessed, destined for a life of effortless fortune. If she died, the village would simply wait for the next year, when another Blossom Bride would be chosen. The blessing of the Blossom Bride was believed to pass on to her parents and elders as well. However, no one wanted to be chosen. To escape the ritual, families quietly left the village, one after another. I was the only one who volunteered. I had a lust problem, and I had always wondered what it would feel like to be with a god.

I was the Peacock Princess. On the day I came of age, suitors from every corner of the clan gathered, all eager to win my hand. I chose Silvan, the noble Green Peacock, believing him to be the finest of them all. But after our marriage, I gave birth to a third-tier White Peacock. When Silvan saw the child, his face twisted with fury. He snatched the baby from my arms, killing it in one brutal motion. In his rage, he attacked me, ripping me apart from neck to feather, and tossed my remains to the wild beasts for their feast. Meanwhile, my elder sister, who married a second-tier Blue Peacock, gave birth to a rare and magnificent Purple Peacock. Her husband was crowned the new King of All Birds because of their child. But when I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day I had first chosen Silvan. This time, he publicly rejected me, turning to my sister instead, convinced that marrying her would bring him the coveted Purple Peacock. I knew then that he had also been reborn. He believed he could change his fate and father a Purple Peacock with her. But in this lifetime, he wouldn't even be able to produce the humblest Black Peacock.

"Is she his mistress?" "No, She is his wife." He regretted passing the information when the facial expression of their Boss changed. The only link to reach the traitor would be her only. "Enjoy the meal boys and don't forget to cut down her every part before throwing her into the burning mansion." She thought death was her escape but found herself in the clutch of another monster because of his husband's betrayal. What she didn't know, was the sin that would be committed by her too. Entangling herself in forbidden love with another man even being married. The end of her torturous life opened another sinful path for her to take. The desire took its turn. Will she accept this life or make herself free from every possible shackle she had? Copyright 2020-2021 by Irene Davison (Esperanza) Paperback Available

Found in the marooned ruins of Chavand was a book ripped and torn. Its yellowed pages eaten up and coiled. Forgotten and unheard about was this book until it came to light. His legends lived on, his tales of valour prevailed. His glory seemed enternal and he was worshiped and adored. But his heart remained shrouded in a cloak of mystery. His emotions, his turmoils went unnoticed in an attempt to make him great. Seen as someone who was invincible and immortal, the Rana changes your perspective from his greatness to his soft heart. Written across the pages during his last moments, he wrote his own life. Where bards would be at a loss and poets were simply lost in his glory and valor, the Rana is said to be the only one who could write about himself.