It fills me with irony when I realize that I am writing a foreword. I have always been one who skips the forewords and goes onto the main book, coming back to read it only if I really liked the book. I have no qualms if you did the same.

The collection you are about to read (or have just read, if you’re reading this after you’re done) is comprised of short stories that I have written over the past two to three years. I first tried to write a short story in the summer of 2009, and within a month, I had finished “World War 3”. So these stories have, over the years, changed in style. I personally feel that my own style of writing has changed drastically between “World War 3” and “To Avoid Pain”, which was the last story I wrote. So, while you’re reading these stories, keep in mind that they may have been written by a single person, but the single person has changed quite a bit between the stories.

Unbiased criticism is gladly welcomed at: rahul.bhasker.sharma@gmail.com. Or on my Facebook page.

Hope you enjoy the book.

All in a day’s work

Mike Milanov felt like a slob. He looked like one too. His unshaven face was topped with bloodshot eyes and matted hair. His thin lips bore evidence of his last meal- a bag of crisps. His large khaki green T shirt hung loosely on his shoulders and billowed about his waist like a robe of sorts. His black pants were baggy beyond normal. This bagginess concealed the items he carried in his pockets.

Mike Milanov was a drug dealer- the biggest drug dealer in all of Rome. He operated alone. No thugs, no gunmen. Milanov personally attended each of his little “meetings”. All over Rome, Mike was known as Angelo-after his renaissance namesake.

At that point of time though, the generally sharp and clever twenty two year old, had taken some of his own medicine. Literally. Angelo was completely doped. Twenty minutes after taking a smoke of marijuana, Mike Milanov found himself sprawled across his bed in his posh two bedroom apartment.

There was a soft ring from a classy looking clock on his designer desk. Mike wearily lifted himself from the bed and fell onto the floor. With a low moan, he hoisted himself onto his feet and, after trudging to his desk, slammed his alarm clock off.

Mike stared out the window at the traffic building up on the street below. It took him a few minutes to realize why he was awake- It was almost time for another appointment. All traces of dopiness vanished from Mike as he pulled on his trademark black sweatshirt. After grabbing a suitcase marked ‘ZZ’ from a long row of suitcases, and pocketing a pistol from the shoe rack, Angelo left home for work. He gave a friendly wave and smile to the security guard as he left. The guard, unaware of Mike’s occupation, returned both.

Within fifteen minutes, Mike Milanov’s number plate-less BMW was gliding across the country roads of Rome. He brought his car to a crawl as he reached a large farmhouse. The mailbox showed the name ‘Zidael Zybysky’.

Russians, thought Angelo as he pulled the car to a stop, were the biggest crime lords. Italians like himself may be crime lords as well, but nothing compared to the Russians. Mike was pretty sure that the farmhouse he was about to enter was crawling with armed guards. Mike also thought it unlikely that his client, Mr ZZ would be present in person. The Russian crime lords always had thugs to do all the work. In fact, even the Italians followed this principle- It was only Mike who differed.

Angelo stood in front of the enormous farmhouse and stared at it for a few minutes, awestruck. He then proceeded to pull out a small piece of paper from his pocket. He nimbly dropped some white powder onto the paper and rolled it up. He proceeded to pull out a lighter and smoke the contents of the paper within a minute. Refuelled by this dose of Cocaine, and brimming with the confidence it provided him, Angelo touched the door of the farmhouse- it creaked open. Taking a deep breath to steady his euphoria, Angelo entered.

The moment he entered, Angelo knew something was wrong.

Four submachine guns were pointing at him, held by four burly American soldiers. Mike found this odd -Russians generally had Russian thugs. Mike froze. The briefcase was held high in his left hand and his right hand slowly inched towards his pocket, which held his pistol.

“Mr Mike Milanov?” said one of the men, confirming his nationality by his accent, “You are under arrest for distribution of illegal drugs.”

Angelo did not twitch. His escape plan was already quickly forming in his mind, aided by the cocaine he had just ingested. He made a puzzled face at the four men and said, “Sorry officers. Me not Milanov, me only delivery boy. Also, I was told suitcase had cash…” Mike took caution to add a rural Italian touch to his voice. He then asked, “This Mr Zidael ‘ouse?”

The four Americans stared at each other. They were told Angelo would come in person, not send some village boy. Well, the biggest of the men thought, we might as well take the guy’s cash, and while we’re at it, why not kill the kid? It would serve as a warning to this Milanov character.

Mike curiously watched the largest man’s face. He was able to read every thought off it. Thus he wasn’t surprised when the American thug demanded his briefcase. After a second’s pause, Mike squeezed the handle of the briefcase and flung it at him.

It connected with a dull thump and knocked the wind out of the thug. By the time the three others had realized their leader was knocked down, Mike had scrambled out the open door. Before any of the men could even train their gun on the fleeing figure of Angelo, he had thrown himself into his car and was whizzing off towards the city in a BMW which lacked a license plate.

The four Americans now focused their attention on the briefcase that lay on the floor. One man bent down and opened the briefcase. Inside, there was no money. There were no drugs either- Just a highly complicated looking detonative device. Three small beeps later, the farmhouse was a large structure of blazing wood, with four charred bodies inside.

Meanwhile, Mike Milanov was smiling to himself. Once again the bomb suitcase plot had worked. His policy of not taking the drugs unless the client could be trusted had paid off yet again. He had hoodwinked the cops and not an ounce of Marijuana had been lost. Singing loudly along with the tune on the radio, Angelo drove home. It was all in a day’s work for him.

~~~

Imprisoned

I used to walk past them every day of my life. They stood behind the glass, frozen for eternity. They stood and watched the world go by through unblinking eyes. They were like constants in an ever varying world. Many a time in the past, when life seemed too chaotic, I used to meditate in front of them about how life would be if I was pale, frozen and good looking.

Now I know. And I wish I were dead.

If you are reading this, then you MUST try and save me! You are my last hope.

You have probably seen me art the shop, gazing out at the world from beneath an Armani suit. I was once like you: A mobile, carefree human. Now I am frozen for life. Imprisoned for eternity.

Do not ask me how I managed to write this- I do not know. The human mind is capable of performing miracles when desperate. It is adequate if you know that I am waiting for you to help me. To free me from my plastic prison.

I have lived like this for a month now (if what I do is considered “living”), and every day has been hell. Let me tell you how it happened:

I was a regular customer at “Aunty Emm’s Clothesline”- the neighbourhood upscale garment shop. I used to visit the shop every alternate week- either to upgrade my wardrobe, check out the latest clothes in stock or to just pass time. The last was carried out either by helping Aunty Emm with customers or just loitering around and being perpetually amazed by the strangely life-like mannequins.

I personally knew Aunty Emm, the short, stout, kindly middle aged owner of the shop. A perpetually smiling woman, Aunty Emm always welcomed me warmly. She had no objection to my passing time in her shop. She genuinely liked me and appreciated my presence and help.

She had only one oddity in her otherwise normal personality: she was EXTREMELY fussy about her mannequins. I should’ve guessed then and there and never visited the shop again, but somehow, I never considered this odd. I always waved off my friends’ stories about Aunty Emm’s obsession with her show pieces. They were life like pieces, I reasoned with my friends, they probably need more maintenance. However, I too was flummoxed when asked how to maintain a mannequin.

Aunty Emm always ushered all her customers out the door by six o clock in the evening. She coaxed everybody to leave and return the next day with poorly disguised urgency. When asked what her motives were, she used to shake her head, mumble something under her breath and shove us out the door.

“She’s a witch” one of my friends concluded as we walked past the shop. It was late evening and the blinds were securely drawn. “She’s a witch and she’s doing something sinister in there. Those mannequins of hers, they’re……strange”

I countered him with the argument that new and different things were often perceived as strange.

“Have you SEEN those things? They’re like people!! That little one near the window? Doesn’t he look exactly like the guy who moved out last year? The kid who used to annoy us?”

This set me thinking. It had occurred to me too that the mannequin near the window had an uncanny resemblance to Annoying Sam. I decided to investigate Aunty Emm’s nocturnal activities. But unfortunately, like the adage, curiosity killed the cat.

Then, on that fateful day, I snuck into the shop around half past six through the bathroom window. After taking a few moments to acquaint my eyes with the dim interior, I left the bathroom and entered the main hall. The scene was utterly bone chilling.

Twelve people, men women and a few children, lay on the floor if the shop, gagged and bound around their wrists and ankles. The sound of muted screaming was quite audible as most of them squirmed on the floor, trying their best to break through the thick ropes that bound them. All eyes were darting frantically and hysterically for an escape. Then I realized that the mannequins were missing from their pedestals near the walls, and that all the frantic faces looked quite familiar. Perhaps my friend was right…

A strange monotonous chant began to ring out across the room. From my position in the corner, I looked around for the source of this incantation-like chant. Then I saw the final element of the scene: Aunty Emm.

She stood in the middle of the room like a stout pillar. A single candle was clutched to her chest as she chanted in a low inhumane voice. I began to panic.

I watched with growing horror as one by one, the people on the floor froze, and their eyes glazed. It was terrifying. I resolved never to visit this shop again. Unfortunately, fate had resolved that I should remain inside forever.

All at once, I felt her cruel, piercing gaze on me. My blood turned to ice. I was paralysed where I stood as she slowly advanced towards me.

“Well well….extra curious, are we?” she smiled a dangerous, cruel smile. “I was anyway planning on acquiring a new one. I guess you’ll do.”

With that she began to chant. The candle flame began to flicker wildly. I was helpless as my limbs slowly lost feeling. My bones turned to plastic and I lost all sensation. After several minutes of excruciating silent pain, my eyes glazed and the world turned black.

When I regained consciousness, I was trapped. Imprisoned. I have remained there ever since. Immobile, mute and shamelessly naked at times. Every evening, I am forced to go through the same ritual as the others: Being alive but helpless for a few minutes before returning to our horrible life. That is Aunty Emm’s idea of maintenance.

If you read this, you are my last chance to escape from this hell. Please save me. Save the others. Stop Aunty Emm before she creates an entire army of plastic people.

Our fate rests in your hands.

~~~

Brother

The rain gushed down in torrents. It was pitch dark. There was a small street which had no name. It was always addressed as “The little street off the main street” It was neither very wide, nor very long, with about four houses on either side. A single sodium streetlight hissed on one end of the road, blurred in the evening rain.

A single tall figure walked on the street, oblivious to the rain. His long, wet hair clung to his face. He limped slowly and gingerly down the street-towards the street lamp. His left hand clutched his right elbow, pinning it against his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His right hand clutched a pistol tightly.

He slowly limped into the orange pool of light cast by the street lamp. He stopped to rest against the pole. His face was contorted with pain, his left ankle was broken.

The youth had rested against the pole for just a few seconds, when a car pulled up at the other end of the street. Like a black ghost, the car silently cruised down the street and stopped just outside the pool of light cast by the street lamp. There were three thuds, as three officers emerged from the black car, banged the doors shut and sprinted towards the youth, who made no attempt to move.

The wounded young man watched with mild interest as the three officers surrounded him, blocking all routes of his escape.

“Mr Jock, you are under arrest for multiple murder and rape. Do not put up a fight, and you will not be hurt further.

The youth suddenly looked at the cop who had spoken with an expression of great curiosity, “Rape?” he asked curiously, “I didn’t rape anybody officer, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

“But multiple murder?”

“And proud” said Mr Jock, shaking the wet hair out of his face. He slowly observed each of the three officers, his eyes coming to rest on the man who was trying his best to stay hidden in the shadows.

“Well halo there King! Fancy seeing you here!!” he said, most casually.

King froze, half in the shadows. He heaved a sigh and stepped into the light. “I’m glad you recognized me Dan” he said in a deep voice. He stared with revulsion and rage into Dan’s unusual eyes-which were bright red.

King drifted off into memories of those same ruby red eyes. Shining with joy as Dan and King won the tennis doubles championship. Gazing with fear as King stopped the hooligans at the college from ragging him. Twinkling cheerfully as Dan rolled around in laughter, having just played a prank on his best friend King. And finally, King remembered Dan walking away from him, cursing him under his breath.

King was brought back to reality with a start when Dan remarked loudly, “Are you going to kill me then?” The two other police officers cocked their weapons. King, keeping work in mind, also pointed his gun at his childhood friend.

With an alarming burst of energy, Dan moved at lightning speed. With a flourish and two bangs, he sent a bullet into each of the two inspectors, killing them instantaneously. King, unharmed, did not dare to move a muscle.

Dan panted furiously, his little energy drained. He glared at King with ruby red eyes. “You know that the people I killed deserved it King.” He said slowly. King nodded understandingly, “They killed your parents didn’t they?” he asked gently. Dan nodded. “But, I’m sorry Dan, we have no evidence on that. So you’re going to have to come with me”

King began to advance on Dan, but stopped short when Dan spoke.

“They were your parents too.”

King froze. He had come to terms with the fact that he was an orphan. But Dan’s parents always seemed to take him in, treat him like one of their own. They let him stay over for days at a time, they bought him birthday gifts and supplies when he needed them…

“You know they were not the richest of people. They couldn’t afford a second child. So they sent you to the orphanage, where they knew you’d get a better life than if you stayed with them, but they still loved you.” Dan remarked quietly.

The street lamped flickered, bringing the brothers back to reality. Dan pulled out a piece of paper, “They wanted to give this to you soon.” He said.

King quickly read the piece of paper. It was a letter addressed to him, saying the same thing that Dan had just told him. He heaved a sigh and pocketed the letter when he heard the click. King looked up and his eyes widened.

Dan had reloaded his gun and held it against his own forehead.

“I have nothing more to do in this life. So goodbye, brother.”

Before King could stop him, Dan pulled the trigger. There was another loud bang and Dan dropped onto the ground, lifeless. King stared, shocked, surrounded by three dead bodies.

The rain continued to pour. The sodium street lamp flickered and finally went off for good.

~~~

Never tempt The Rain

The rain lashed, the wind howled. Torrents of rain gushed down to earth, as though it was destined to be drowned. Trees creaked and groaned under pressure of harsh winds. Sheets of rain whipped the faces of pedestrians.

On the top of a high building, a young lad pressed himself against a pillar, hiding from the rain. The thunder roared in rage as the wind changed in order to drench the boy with rain, but he quickly shifted his angle on the pillar so he remained fairly dry.

His face showed an odd mix of fear and determination. Ever so slowly, the boy shifted his gaze away from the dark clouds around him. He spied the half open door a few metres away from the small structure under which he was. He looked up at the sky again. A blinding flash of lightning, a deafening roar of thunder: Almost as though the clouds were angry. The boy also noticed that a few kilometres away, in any direction, the skies were perfectly clear.

Paling a little, the boy turned in the direction of the half opened door, which led away from the terrace. It was about three or four metres away, but to the young boy it felt like several miles. He took a few steps forward, leaving the cover of the stone pillar, and got drenched within seconds. The rain drops felt like needles against his skin. He began to shiver with cold and fear.

“You’re not gonna get me.” He mumbled indistinctly under his breath, as he stood defiantly in the rain. He planted his feet firmly in the ground, refusing to be blown even a step backwards by the buffeting winds. He summoned up as much energy as he could and took a step forward, against the wind. “Ha.” He muttered softly.

The moment the soft word left his lips, the wind intensified. It blew with a force never experienced in these parts of the country. The boy was thrown backwards onto the ground. For a few seconds he remained on the ground, winded by the fall. Finally with an almighty grunt, he lifted himself and cast himself back behind the pillar.

Just a short dash to the door, he thought, bracing himself. But the door seemed farther away than ever. As the thunder roared like a monster, the boy made up his mind. He knew that the rain would continue throughout the night if he didn’t move. That was the price of insulting the gods. He had personally learnt his lesson, but he knew that he could not plead or beg the rain to stop. His fate lay in the sprint to the door.

Steeling himself once and for all, the boy ran for it. The rain knew immediately. Sensing his moving form, the rain poured harder than ever and the wind blew like a hurricane. The boy had to splash through ankle deep water to reach the door, and that was the reason he couldn’t make it.

The water below his feet pushed him towards the edge as well, throwing him off balance. The wind took advantage of this temporary blunder. With the force of an express train, the wind slammed into the boy’s side, hurling him over the parapet and sending him plummeting down ten floors.

With a sickening crunch, the boy hit the ground. As though to ensure that the boy was dead, a bolt of lightning flew down from the heavens and electrocuted his body, setting fire to the underbrush where he lay, in the process.

The moment the boy stopped breathing, the rain began to cease. The wind intensity and lightning and thunder began to reduce. The storm began to subside. But as the clouds began to dissolve, a final rumble of thunder echoed across the area. Along with the thunder came a voice, a voice so low and loud that it merged with the thunder itself, A voice so strong and powerful that it seemed to emerge from the rain cloud itself. The voice said, “NEVER INSULT THE GODS.”

~~~

Ghosts

“Its all absolute balderdash!” declared James, as the five teenagers strolled down the street. “Ghosts do NOT exist. People just use them to scare others from houses and thus avoid any visitors….and maybe even to avoid property tax…” he chuckled at his own joke. He ran his hand through his spiky black hair and looked at Rebecca, who was walking next to him. “But dear Rebecca would probably curse me to live in the underworld if I contradict her beliefs, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself…”

Rebecca however, was staring, with glazed eyes, at the orange sky above her. Thinking of what they had planned to do; wondering if it was the right thing. Her hands instinctively clutched the beaded necklace she wore around her neck for safety, grabbing the cross that dangled down from it. It was definitely a little out of character for her to attempt something so risky, but since she was the one who had the strongest belief in ghosts, she had to prove it to her friends. Her eyes shifted to Number 211, Church Street, silhouetted by the setting sun. She prayed to her stars and continued striding confidently towards it.

Rudolf, or Rudy for short, had no opinion on ghosts. He was not religious and had never had any reason to comment on the existence of ghosts. He was tagging along only because he had had a rather boring day and hanging out James and the squad could make anyone’s day interesting. He pulled up the hood of his jacket and shivered, it was going to be a cold night.

Stephen was a thinker by nature. As he gazed at the little house at the end of the road, he marvelled at how extraordinarily ordinary it looked. It had a small iron gate, with a rather small post box beside it. The little house sat at the other end of the relatively short driveway. It was no mansion as most “haunted” houses are said to be. It was a small, cosy looking, two bedroom house. There were no ravens, no dead trees and no skeletons in the front yard, only waist high grass, interspersed with parthenium and flower bushes. The house wasn’t rotting or covered in ivy, it was rather white and in one piece, with peeling paint and grimy windows though. He marvelled at how peaceful it was and he found himself wishing to live in such a quiet house during his old age. Stephen mumbled a few lines of Shakespeare under his breath and hoped that he would not have the misfortune to see a ghost that evening.

Rosie, who was known as Joe for her boyish behaviour, strode determinedly in front of her friends. She was the pioneer of this mission, so it was almost an unspoken agreement that she was to lead them into the house. As she walked on, she noticed that her laces were untied. She paused and considered whether to tie them up or not. To hell with it, she thought, if we DO get into trouble with REAL ghosts, we’re going to need a lot more than tied laces to come out alive. She cast a glance over her shoulder and checked if any of her friends had chickened out. Not yet. Adrenaline pumping through her body, Joe called out to her friends in a mock-formal voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our destination. All passengers are advised to keep their wills prepared in case of an emergency. All cell phones are to be switched off during the séance and all visiting spirits must be treated courteously. Any attempts to contact the devil will result in immediate excommunication. In case one of you is possessed, the others must show no mercy and hack them to bits using their pocket knives.” She flashed a grin at her fellow explorers, who were now rather pale-faced. “We wish you a happy, peaceful and possession free day!” Saying this, she kicked open the gate and marched up the driveway.

The five trotted up the driveway in the fading light, unsheathing their flashlights as they went. As they all assembled at the desolate porch, they pushed Rudy to the front of the group, to face the door. At six feet tall, Rudy, who worked out every day, was considered the muscleman of the group. With a grunt, he slammed his shoulder into the door, which, after a little resistance, gave way with a bang. The door flew open and Rudy was thrown into the dusty interior of the house, followed by his cheering friends.

The moment he broke into the house, Rudy turned around and examined the door. It was weak. Too weak. He voiced out his concern, but his ecstatic team mates waved it aside. “It’s an old, unoccupied house, whadya expect?” Joe pointed out as she, like the others, switched on her flashlight and began exploring the house.

Rudy shut the door behind him and began exploring the house with the others. From the entrance, they tromped down a narrow passage into a compact living room, which lead to a cramped dining room with a rather weak looking circular table in the middle. The grey walls were adorned with several black and white photos of rather formidable looking people.

“Okay people,” Joe began authoritatively, “We look around for half an hour tops, and we come back here to begin our séance. No touching and NO stealing. We’ll regroup here in half an hour and conduct the séance here. Rudy, you can leave the bag here if you want, I doubt anyone will steal it…” Saying this, she tromped out of the room up the stairs. She needn’t have set a deadline and a meeting point, because everyone stuck together throughout.

Fifteen minutes later, the five of them, satisfied with their exploration, sat down on the filthy bed in one of the tiny upstairs bedroom and rested in the light of their flashlights.

“Ignore the skittering sounds,” said James haughtily to his friends, “those are just the sounds of the spirits running away from my awesome presence.” Everyone sniggered.

“More like they’re the rats running away from you out of disgust” Joe retorted, causing more chuckling. James kept quiet.

Suddenly, Stephen spoke, his voice soft, “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not aware of why this place is considered haunted, care to fill us in, Rebecca?”

Rebecca looked at Stephen, took a deep breath, and began her narration in a low and dramatic voice, “This house was built about forty years a go, by Sir James Claudwick, a veteran of the war. He put his heart, soul, and all his money into the building of this house, so he could live happily with his wife and children. But there was only one small problem”

“What was that?”

“On this very spot, a hundred years ago, there was a burial ground. Foundation digging revealed bones, skeletons and some rather intact bodies. The church declared that it was unholy to build a house on the old graveyard but Claudwick, having spent all his money on the project, proceeded. The house was built into what it is today, though not in as bad a condition.” She shook her hair out of her eyes, readjusted her position and continued. “A month after moving into the house, Mr Claudwick died. Nobody knows how. He was found dead in this very bedroom, alone and with an expression of horror on his face.”

She paused for a moment and allowed the horror to sink in. The four teenagers looked around the room, trying to picture the tall, moustached, prim and proper Mr Claudwick lying dead in that very bedroom several years ago. After a rather frightened silence, Rebecca continued her story.

“The priest just gave a big fat ‘I told you so’ and refused to conduct Claudwick’s last rights. It is rumoured that Claudwick’s body is still in the attic of this house, but nobody is brave enough to go check. And we are NOT going to check” she added harshly to Joe and James, who showed every sign of wanting to go and look for a dead body.

“So what happened next? Did everybody else die mysterious deaths as well? That is SO cliché”

“Shut it James, I’m telling the story here” Rebecca snapped before continuing in a low, mysterious voice, “So Mrs Claudwick lived a widow’s life with her two children. But by the age of thirty five, she began considering remarriage. Soon she wanted to get over her dead husband by marrying a young man, Harold Martin, who was in the navy. His parents approved, her parents were dead, so the date was fixed and the wedding preparations were made with full gusto. However, the night before the wedding, evil struck again.

“Harold was spending the night in the house; the children were sharing the room across the hall. On the morning of the wedding, both the children were found dead, stabbed in several places, and Harold was covered in their blood, though there was no evidence whatsoever of Harold being the murderer.”

There were several gasps throughout the room as Rebecca paused dramatically. Rudy looked a delicate shade of green in the torchlight and Stephen seemed to regret asking the question. Joe was staring wide eyed at Rebecca. James, however, was listening with sceptical interest, with an amused expression on his face.

“Well, as you can expect, Mrs Claudwick was devastated and the wedding was called off immediately. The man, Harold Martin, who swore that he was innocent, fled, and was never heard of after that. Mrs Claudwick wanted to leave the house, now that she had no family left. But nobody wanted to buy the house because of its gruesome history. So, with a heavy property tax to pay, and no source of income, Laura Claudwick ran steadily out of money. Until one day she was found dead on the floor of that very bathroom.” There was a collective intake of breath as everyone turned to look at the bathroom door. After a moment of pause, Rebecca continued, “There was no evidence of any kind of drug consumption and coroners were unable to come up with a satisfactory cause of her death.

“They buried her in the local graveyard and debated what to do with this house. Nobody wanted to buy it, nobody was brave enough to tear it down, so it was left as it is now, desolate, unoccupied, and supposedly possessed.”

The story was over. Unable to handle the deafening silence around them, all five of them began to get up and stretch their limbs. After a few seconds, Joe marched up to the door and declared in a low, excited voice, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the séance!!”

The five young adults trooped down the staircase, their flashlights lighting every surface in around them with caution, in search of any traces of ghostly existence. They arranged themselves around the circular dining table, while Rudy pulled out candles, a loaf of bread, and a crystal ball from his shoulder bag and set them on the table.

Rebecca began to arrange the items with a sense of purpose. Six candles around the loaf of bread, six around the crystal ball. She pulled out a cigarette lighter from her pocket and began lighting the candles. “Yo James, close the curtains, make sure all doors to this room are shut. The rest of you, take your seats.”

James went around drawing the curtains and shutting doors, noticing a closet door in the wall as he went around the room. He resolved to check it for corpses later. Everybody else tested out the rickety chairs with their weight, they held their weight with rather protesting groans.

Within a few minutes, the candles were lit, and everyone had taken their places around the table. Rebecca instructed everyone to hold hands and began conducting the séance in the light of the flickering candles.

“Great Spirits that reside in this house, forgive us for our rude entry. We wish to commune with Sir James Claudwick. Come, Sir James Claudwick, and talk to us.”

There was a tense pause as all five waited for a reaction. Even James, who doubted the existence of ghosts, had his ears pricked for any sound of a presence. Rebecca tried calling again. And then it happened.

There was a loud bang and the tinkling of glass as a window flew open and shattered. The scariest part was that it was not windy outside. James made an attempt to get up to close the window but Rebecca and Stephen firmly gripped his hands.

“Do NOT attempt to break the circle,” she warned, her face pale, “if you break the circle there’s a greater chance of something going wrong.” James resumed his seat, his eyes wide.

Five sets of eyes gazed at the loaf of bread and the crystal ball in the middle of the table, unsure of what to expect. All of a sudden there was a loud voice which made all five of them jump out of their skins. It was a crisp, masculine, harsh voice with a slight British accent.

“Rebecca Walters,” The voice called, in an arrogant, authoritative tone, “what is your purpose of summoning me from my sleep?”

Rudy quickly glanced around the table to see who the spirit was “talking through”, but nobody seemed to be possessed. Rebecca was shivering violently. James was pale and sweaty in the face, all traces of haughtiness gone. Joe was clutching her friends’ hands like a frightened toddler, her eyes darting rapidly all over the room, looking for a sign of the otherworldly. Stephen had his eyes narrowed to slits, ready to shut them in case of an emergency. Rudy himself, the calmest and boldest of the lot, too, found his teeth chattering involuntarily. The voice seemed to emanate from the walls of the room itself.

“I-we…..is…..is that…..Sir James…Claudwick?” Rebecca asked tentatively.

The tiny room shook as the walls uttered a roar of rage, “You first disturb my slumber, then you ask me for my identity?! This is preposterous! You will suffer the consequences!!” There were several tinkling noises as four sorry looking vases shattered simultaneously. Stephen uttered a small whimper.

The sound of heavy, angry breathing filled the room. “My name,” the voice said slowly, “is Jerry Lawrence. I left your world six months ago, thanks to a domestic accident.”

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table as the name was sounded. Mr Lawrence was the father of their classmate. James and Matthew Lawrence were almost sworn enemies. The entire gang had been involved in pulling a massive prank on Matthew, just days after his father’s death. James’ eyes became as wide as saucers when he heard the name. His teeth chattered violently and he strongly resisted the urge to throw up. Rebecca looked at James, and prayed that he would come out of this safe and alive…

“I sense guilt,” whispered the voice, which was still emanating from the room as a whole. “I smell guilt. Who here feels guilty? OWN UP!” The last two words were roared in a thunderous voice, causing several photographs to fall off the walls and shatter. James jumped violently at the noises; the spirit seemed to detect his presence.

“James Smith!” James froze, paralyzed with terror. He couldn’t even shiver. The voice was now a slow rasp, still coming from an undeterminable source. “You seem filled with emotion. Guilt? Is that….repentance? Oh, I see, you’ve been troubling my son, and now you’re contacting me? How stupid are you people?” His voice was rising in pitch, intensity and anger by the word. “I think I shall teach you kids a lesson…”

There was a loud thud as one of the chairs in the corner of the room flew up into the air and crashed back onto the floor. Mirthless laughter began to echo through the room, deafening all the occupants. The windows began to burst into shards of glass as every window exploded. Joe screamed. The door leading to the kitchen broke into splinters, showering the gang with wood shavings. Stephen broke the circle, and bounded towards the door. Rudy, Joe and James were not far behind him. Rebecca, devastated by her friends’ sudden escape, scooped up the crystal ball, the shoulder bag, and hurried out after them, almost hyperventilating, tears flowing down her cheeks. The five ran as fast as they could, as far as they could, away from the house.

**********

For a few moments, there was a lull in the house, all was silent. A soft, careless wind whistled through the glass-less windows. The floor twinkled with shards of glass and china. The few black and white photos that remained on the wall, those of the Claudwick family, continued to gaze blankly into the room.

All of a sudden, a low giggle began to emanate from the closet in the wall. The laughter rose in intensity until it echoed across the empty dining room. With an almighty crash, the closet door burst open and a body tumbled out, crying with mirth. The small made body of the youth rolled around on the floor, laughing.

After several minutes of laughter, Matthew Lawrence rose up to his limited height, wiping his eyes before replacing his glasses on his nose. He viewed the ravaged room with a triumphant glint in his eye. Finally he had had his revenge. And it was SWEET!

With the help of a few simple gadgets, he had succeeded in scaring the living daylights out of his foolish classmates. And that wasn’t even the best part. Matthew walked to a corner, glass crunching under his shoes, and pulled out the camera. The camera was the best part of his scheme. He had recorded every second of the “séance”. The camera would be the ultimate source of embarrassment for the five troublemakers.

Matthew hummed a few bars of Bach to himself as he continued to gaze about the room, overjoyed. Hidden speakers, small range explosives and pulley systems. That was all he had required to teach those brats a lesson they would never forget…

“I,” he said, gazing at the ruins of the room, “am the best ghost ever!!” He grinned at the walls and held his hands out on either side of him, waving to an imaginary crowd. That was when he heard the voice. It was faint at first, but strengthened as it continued talking.

“Well,” said a small voice, coming from somewhere in the middle of the room, “I quite disagree….I think that was a rather crude and inaccurate display of the prowess of us deceased…”

Matthew gazed with mounting horror at the spot, a foot above the table, as a handsome man in his fifties slowly materialized. He had a well kempt, black moustache, wore a double breasted suit and a tall top hat. Only his pale shade of skin and the fact that he was standing a foot above the table, proved his ghostliness.

“Don’t you agree my dear Laura?” The ghost of James Claudwick asked, turning to look at a young lady who was materializing next to him.

Laura Claudwick, shook her head, shaking her long auburn hair over her face. “Pitiful performance indeed. I’m surprise those young ones fell for it!” She looked over Matthew’s shoulder and waved, “Oh, look dear! Sarah and John have come too!”

Matthew, who was already convulsing by this time, turned around. A boy and girl, not older than seventeen, gazed at him with sad smiles.

“Boys in my time never did such pitiful replications.” John said sadly, shaking his head.

His sister, Sarah, looked at Matthew with a naughty glint in her eyes, “Why don’t we teach this little boy what we ghosts actually do to people we dislike? What do you say, Father, Mother?”

Matthew began to whimper as the Claudwick family closed into him from all sides. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his bladder gave way. The four ghosts towered over his covering form, glaring down at him.

“I agree Sarah dear,” James said, giving Matthew an evil grin, “also, it has been a long time since I’ve tormented a mortal.”

**********

Neighbours of 211, Church street said that they heard inhumane screams for hours that night. The next morning, a few brave men entered the house to try and discover the source of the noise.

They found the devastated dining room of the house, with twelve candles on the table. But there was no body, no blood, and no trace of a fight of any sort. So it was concluded that the spirits were not able to rest last night because some fool had brought candles into their resting place. The house was emptied of candles and the men went on their way, eager to get out of the haunted house and begin with their work.

Matthew Lawrence was never seen after that night.

~~~

Just an Ordinary Coward

The world was at war. Chaos was a day to day affair. Six tribes, six elemental tribes, fought viciously to take over the land. Each tribe employed its strengths, its unique weapons and almost all its manpower to grab the title of the supreme ruler of the land.

The six key tribes were derived from the six key elements. Fire, Water, Wind, Ice, Earth and Energy. Two smaller tribes existed as well, two tribes which played little part in the war and suffered most of the consequences: they were the Nulls and then there were the Whites. The Nulls, as the name suggested, were those with absolutely no magical strength. They had suffered all the effects of the world war. But what they had lost in terms of magic, they had gained in terms of physical strength and swordsmanship. The Nulls were brave fighters and often signed pacts with the tribes to fight for them.

The second non-elemental group were the Whites. The Whites were a small clan who did not associate themselves with any elemental clan. They were the few people who had complete mastery of ALL SIX elements, making them the most powerful tribe. But the Whites did not believe in warfare. They only wanted peace. They lived in a small, nomadic colony, moving away from death and destruction.

It all started when Emperor Fraser died. He was the last of the dynasty of White rulers, who had administered the land well. He had adequate representatives from each of the tribes, and everybody dwelt in peace and harmony. The citizens were happy. The tribes were happy. But unfortunately, Fraser did not leave an heir to his throne. He was unmarried and had no children. So chaos broke across the empire. Each of the tribal generals fought fiercely for the title of emperor.

The capital city of the empire was reduced to dust. Violent revolts, bloody civil wars and loud protests eventually resulted in the destruction of the city. Each of the six tribes, too, left the city. Each one journeyed back to their native land. Their natural habitat. The Nulls were forced to settle in camps, open to attacks from the other tribes. The Whites of the empire were mercilessly slaughtered, and their numbers were drastically reduced, so drastically that they had to flee for their lives. They had to leave the luxuries of a city life and go into the wilderness.

And so the war broke out. Each tribe attacking the other tribe for dominance. A few shaky alliances were formed. But they broke down within a few years. The war lasted over thousands of years. Nobody showed any sign of weakness, which is why the gods decided to intervene.

The world did not have actual “gods”- The “gods” where nothing more than one man from each tribe, who had developed his powers to an extreme level, allowing him to dwell in another dimension. Another unique fact about the gods was that they did not quarrel amongst themselves on the basis of tribes. These “gods” watched over the affairs of the world, intervening when they thought necessary. They had watched the war grow stronger and more dangerous and had decided to stop the war before it went out of hand.

The gods, after much discussion and debate, decided to introduce one “Saviour” to the world. They charted and planned the course of the saviour’s life. They decided what weapons to hand to him and when. They carefully chose out his parents and decided that he should be one from a nomadic camp of Nulls. Another thing that the gods confirmed was that nobody would know that the youth was the key to peace until he was of age.

And so, one quiet evening, in one of the Nomadic camps of Nulls, the hero was born.

**********

It was a dusty afternoon. Strong winds blew along the flat plain, blowing up walls of dust into the air. The makeshift camp was pitched beside the disturbed surface of the vast lake. Large waves crashed onto the shore, a murky brown in colour because of the dust. The tents in the camp flapped dangerously, threatening to fly off into the wilderness.

Somewhere at the edge of the makeshift camp of the null’s camp, a teenager was shouting wildly to a herd of cows, trying to herd them back into the safety of the camp. But the cows paid no attention to their young master- they continued munching on grass, oblivious to the rising storm. The youth tried one more time to call the cows over the wind, but there was no response. Giving up, the cowherd ran towards the closest tent-right at the edge of the camp.

Tom Carson pulled open the front of the tent and entered. It was empty. Softly swearing under his breath, Tom slid back out of his tent and stomped off down towards the centre of the settlement, the storm rising as fast as his temper. Mumbling to himself, he entered the village pub, which was easily the largest structure-it was built out of wood and not canvas.

“Mom? Dad?” he called out, as he edged his way through the crowded pub. After a few minutes search, he found his parents sitting at the counter, listening, enchanted, to a man with a long, white beard. On seeing Tom’s curious face, the old man smiled and said something to his parents. Both his mother and father turned around, looked at him, and smiled warmly.

“Come Tom, let us head to our tent,” his mother said softly, putting an arm around her son, “Professor Tranus has something to tell you.” She gestured at the old man(who was clearly not one from the village), who smiled and nodded at Tom.

Tom Carson stared at the three faces in front of him, his eyes wide. He shook his head a couple of times. He blinked a few times and looked at the faces again. No difference. They all still smiled warmly at him.

“No. it can’t be.” Tom said clearly to the bearded face of Tranus.

“That was my first impulse as well, but after checking, double checking and triple checking, I have concluded that the message that I have received was correct. You ARE the one destined to end the war.”

“No.” repeated Tom. “Such a person would be much more talented than me. He would be the squire’s son, not a cowherd boy! He would be a child with talent, a prodigy! It’s not me!” He saw Tranus open his mouth, about to retaliate. “NO!” Tom shouted, and a crack of thunder from outside reinforced his voice. Before anybody could say anything, Tom left the pub.

He walked quickly in the rain, outside the village, towards the cows, which were still grazing, blissfully unaware of the wild storm.

My temper has been a little short of late, Tom grumpily thought, as he climbed up the nearest tree facing the cattle. Tom wedged himself between two sturdy branches and began to think seriously.

Before he thought too much, he heard a soft flutter of wings over the rushing of the rain and a soft voice called in his ear “Feeling a bit surly?” Tom turned to look. On his shoulder was what could be described as a small pixie. His entire body was feathery, with a feathery wing on each side of his body. His small body tapered down to a single, scaly leg which ended with a talon, much like that of a bird. He had a small toothy mouth at the front of his face below a single, large eye.

Tom called him ‘Jynx’, his private friend. Jynx described himself to be a Cyclops fairy-a fairy with a single eye. Tom met Jynx during his travels with the village, and after befriending him, allowed the little fairy to travel with him. Jynx always visited him when he was alone, tending to the cows, for his parents didn’t know of his existence.

“Have you brought any food?” Jynx asked Tom excitedly. Tom shook his head,

Jynx’s sharp toothed grin faded a little bit. Nevertheless, the little fairy perched himself on his friend’s shoulder and asked in a gentle voice, “What’s up Tom? I sense you are upset, angry, scared and irritated.”

Tom sighed and looked at the little fairy on his shoulder. “Some guy arrived today, some professor guy. He claims that it’s my duty to end the war, to fight for peace. To create a new empire.”

Jynx sensed the youth’s fear in his voice. He cooed softly, trying to comfort him, “but you have known this as well? So what is wrong? For the past four weeks you have played around with your magical talent, despite the fact that you are born to those without magic.”

“You don’t understand the whole thing, do you Jynx? I can do this,” Tom snapped his finger, a small flame appeared at the tip of his index finger. He blew it off, and continued, “But will I able to fight? To kill? To conquer? To blow up troops and cast mighty spells? I doubt it.”

“It sounds more like fear than lack of skills” Jynx quietly retorted, gazing shrewdly at his friend. Tom turned to look at Jynx.

“No! You don’t understand Jynx. Humans are not so simple.” Tom said, his voice pained, “I do not have skills to wield swords and bows and kill people. I am just an ordinary person!!”

Jynx gazed at Tom for a few seconds, “So you would rather let the world suffer than learn a few, maybe difficult, skills?”

Tom said nothing, but he simply glowered at Jynx for trapping him in such a way. He shook his head, showering water on Jynx, “I am NOT going to change the world. I am NO hero.”

Saying so, Tom deftly slid down from his branch and landed on the ground. He tried to call the cows yet again, but they didn’t listen, and he set off back towards his tent, hoping to be firm with his parents and Mr Tranus. As he strode towards the tent, the rain began to cease, just like his temper.

Somewhere above him, a bird of prey was planning on ambushing the boy and began to dive. As he adjusted his weight and began to plummet, there was a strong wind, blowing him off course. But the defiant hawk persevered. His figure resembled an arrowhead as he flew closer and closer to Tom’s head, his speed increasing every second. All of a sudden, there was a flash of lightning. Within half a second, with a loud crack, a bolt of lightning hit the hawk from behind, the hawk was fried to a crisp and dropped to the ground like a stone. Tom was oblivious to this.

Tom slid into the tent to see his parents and their guest, still waiting patiently for him. Tom didn’t meet any of their eyes, he felt shameful. But nevertheless, when Tranus quietly asked him what he had decided, he defiantly shook his head.

“So, you’re NOT interested in training with me? Not interested in freeing the world?” Tranus asked quietly, “your parents have given consent that you may travel and learn with me. They also agree that you are one of extraordinary skill. What say, Tom?”

Tom shook his head yet again. “For the last time, sir, I am just and ORDINARY cowherd.” The thunder outside roared with consent. The tent flapped in the wind, threatening to cave in if the listeners dared to defy the speaker.

~~~

Master of the Trade

Mr Eggson Polkiss was one of the most controversial people in the history of the town. No one knew what he did for a living, but he was filthy rich. Some say he inherited it. Others say he stole it. The truth was, he had accumulated it after years of doing this and that. He used to appear in the papers once in a while, for taking up scenes in a movie, or producing movies. But the thing he was the most famous for were his controversial statements. Every now and then he would state something against someone, or strongly support some law. He once called the educators “Ambitious morons”. This created quite an uproar. Two weeks later, he commented that a bunch of rebellious students he once met “Show us how blissfully unaware our youths are of our splendid educational systems.” This made quite another racket. Especially when put against his previous remark....

All in all, Mr Polkiss was hated by many, and loved by many more. He was often used as a mascot for political campaigning. Today was one such event. Hundreds of people crowded the Main street of the city as they waited on either side of the street for the parade to begin. Millions of leaflets and banners for the Liberators' party crowded every possible surface. The main attraction of the parade was Mr Polkiss and the founder of the Liberators party.

In every large gathering, there were always a few people who absolutely despised the cause, yet, at the time of the event, they happened to find themselves amongst the eager crowds. They often arrived at these events just for the heck of it. Or just to show off to their friends. Bole Kirk was one of these people. No one actually knew why, but he had hated Eggson Polkiss from the moment he became famous. Bole had always thought that Eggson did not deserve the fame and attention and money that he got, he always felt that the money could have gone towards those who were more in need of it, such as himself.

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