De - Scribe....

Hometown for immigrants

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Fri, 27 Jul 2018 08:17:00 +0000

I have had this blog for over a decade now.

This place has probably been the reason that led me to become a writer in the first place. Did I start writing seriously for the first time in this blog? Maybe not. But I have written and lived my life through words. And a lot of them are inscribed upon this blog.

I do not honestly remember what made me take up writing on this blog. This was not my first blog (and perhaps won't be the last). But it has always been a trusty friend, every time I have wanted to come back to it. The last time I returned to the blog was nearly a year ago. It was with the promise to write more, write stories and tales. But it never happened.

I feel that I harbour the notion that a lot of writers have, across the globe - that I am not really a writer. I haven't written as much as I should have. Or would be willing to. The ideas and words have come in spurts and short bursts, but never like a steady, flowing stream. When it did, I managed to churn out a short story. And in the offhand case, even a novel. While it is not a published piece of work, I am moderately proud of it. Purely because it saw completion. Completion comes rare to me, unless and until I drag myself over the finish line.

I strongly feel that every single time I have tried to pressure myself or promised myself to get back to writing in earnest, I have failed. So this time around, I shall avoid it and simply see if I can do this.

I haven't written a story in months. And the fact has been nagging at me. I look for remedies in reading, endless errands that I manage to run, just to avoid writing. And I do not believe that there is a lack of inspiration. Or ideas for that matter. I often find it difficult to take things to a fruitful closure. And this (probably) is a reflection of my life as well. Sticking to a line of action has always been troublesome for me. Validation or looking for it, has also been something that has often driven me to do certain things, and even led to achievements. I remember how, when I finally started to get some traction on this blog, I realized that there was more that could be done. I could write stories. Move people with what they were reading. And I kept doing it for a long time, years even. A whole selection of my writings from this blog would become 'Cold Feet' - my first work in print, published by an Indy press that would shut shop in the future. And after Cold Feet would come 'Revenge', a novella that would be created within a week of writing while being at work in Hindustan Times. The short stories would continue being created, one at a time, in short spurts of creativity. One of them would find space in a UK Anthology of Horror Stories. Two others would find a place of pride in two Indian anthologies. One carelessly doodled comic strip would also end up being featured in a short comic by Amar Chitra Katha. Even this would shut shop in a few editions time. The fate of magazines, publishing houses, or much rather, anything associated with the written word seems to be imminent death. And that is a depressing thought.

Which makes one wonder. Isn't all of Everything headed the same way? A world that will eventually collapse on itself sometime in the future?

When I started writing this post, I was mulling over how people move from small towns to bigger cities and capitals for higher studies or to find jobs. I am a part of the same bandwagon. When I moved to Delhi in 2003, I was a small town boy at heart. Fifteen years later, I am still the same. The wonders of a big city never cease to amaze me. I still walk around, open-mouthed, if I end up going into a plush building at Cyber Hub or walk through the high-sheen corridors of a DLF Emporio, the air heavy with exotic scents. But that is not what I wanted to talk about.

When I return to my hometown once in a while, I look around, trying to connect back to places that I grew up in. The alleys (where I went shopping), my school (doesn't look as big anymore) and endless other places. But there is a strong sense of time being stagnant. I have seen flyovers and buildings crop up around me in Delhi over the years. The city has been evolving over time and it is easy to spot. When I go back home, it seems little has changed. But, this is not true. There are multiplexes there and big malls, just like in Delhi. The consumerist beast has spread its jaws far and wide. Perhaps, there is some secret circuitry that refuses to let me see the change that has happened in my city. It still feels the same. Or maybe that's how it will always feel. A city, built on the foundation of my memories of it.

Which is what this blog feels like to me. It is like the hometown for immigrants, a place where you come back years later and feel that nothing has changed. But things have. Almost all the blogs I followed back then have shut down. Blogspot isn't what it was anymore. Hell, I don't even know if blogging is the same anymore.

But, hey. I can still blog. In this place which feels like home.

But will this turn into something that has a pattern, a form? Something I can hope and bank my writing career upon? I do not know. And like everything else, I am worried about leaving this garble of thoughts and ideas incomplete once again. I started writing this yesterday and couldn't finish it, so it definitely needs to be completed. Baby steps. This is like flexing of muscles or the time I tried to take up running. Maybe my writing muscle will grow over time. It is critical that I put a Finis at the end of this. So I will pretend that this is an end and stop right here.

A new beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 29 Nov 2017 17:19:00 +0000

A writer, during his lifetime, shall have many ends.

Each end will spell the culmination of a chapter in his life - an affliction, a period of happiness, the short sojourn of a love well spent. Each of these will leave small marks, dimples on a moon face, scarring it, disfiguring it for a lifetime. Each will tell their own remarkable tale of love, hate, angst, loneliness, boredom, intrigue, jealousy or plain heartbreak. But all of them would add up, fishes of a school, to become the same moon face that would be looked at and be wondered at by everyone gazing at it. How lovely is that moon that casts its light upon our vast, desolate lands! How, in spite of the marks upon your skin, you continue to be a beacon of beauty for bards to quote and poets to write of. How corrupted yet fulfilling. How marked, yet virginal.

The writer shall rise from each end, borne upon the shoulders of his unfinished narratives and decaying, half-baked characters, a looming presence upon the horizon. He shall land upon the empty shores of white prose, and sow the seeds of new narratives. Marking plot after plot with his mighty pen, he shall continue demarcating small pastures for growing different tales. He shall then proceed to water it with the blood of creativity, the sweat of his diminishing wit and the tears of his failed attempts at literary glory.

And you, the reader shall be witness, yet again. The witness to this new beginning. A fresh sprout, the tender sapling of a newly forming story. A tale so tasty, so magical in imaginings that it shall make your flesh goose-up like a freshly dried-up lake bed.

Prepare, for the spring of stories is about to begin. Scribblers Inc is back.

A tale of tales

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 18:15:00 +0000

Let me tell you a story, for two reasons. The first is that time is running out and clearly, time is always of the essence. The second is, it’s the only thing I can do, with any sort of passable merit. So let me get on with it.

There once lived a small boy in a city. The boy still lives but he is no longer a boy. He is a man now, and he attends to manly duties as they might come to one, with time. But once, he was a boy and he had dreams. These dreams were passed on to him through books; rows and rows upon them, all arranged neatly like the prayer lines during his morning assembly. And all he learnt from them, as time passed, was to have a wish; a wish to write the words and worlds that were written in them. Like the words that flowed out of those books, down through his mind like so many quiet gurgling rivers, he wanted his name attached to them. He wanted his own stories to flow out of his nib and make hundreds of mouths around the world turn into little ‘o’s in wonder. Was he able to do it? You bet he was. But the 'o's on peoples faces continued to elude him.

So he struggled in school to tell his tales. He scribbled them on answer sheets. He penned them down in numerous exercise books. On a few occasions, he even tried to pass them on in the maths paper. But like butter on butterpaper on a hot summer day, it didn’t stick. But the boy did not want to give up so easily. His parents mounted pressure on him. ‘Be a doctor’, ‘be an engineer’, they said. They brought down young lads, their late adolescent pimples still showing, engineers who had just started out and fledgling doctors who would be practicing in a few years’ time. But that little boy stood his ground, an oak that refused to be bowed down by winds.

Time passed on. And it let its rot set in the boy’s dreams. It decayed and turned, bits of it quietly slipping away. But one thing remained; a little gift that the books had given him. It was his sense of wonder, one that led him down the road towards an unending thirst for knowledge. It carved out the job of a copywriter for him…one that let him earn his daily bread and not let his spark of creativity die. That boy (nay, a man now!) still often seeks a quiet moment off his work. He uncaps his pen carefully and crafts his tales for anyone who cares to hear. He still dreams that withered dream of pursuing the Creative Writing Programme at UEA in the UK and set out to complete the dream that the little boy had dreamed so long ago. And someday, by jove, he will.

This story, as you might have guessed, is mine. When I read about this contest, I almost wished that the top prize would be a scholarship to a Master’s Programme in Creative Writing in the UK. Not getting rewards have never stopped the writer in me. I saw this as a chance of telling a story that I have never had the courage to put down in words. I do not know if what I have written here will ever come true. However, I do know, that this contest has made me pick up the proverbial pen yet again and put down my thoughts into words. I has made me start spinning my yarns and interweave them into a tapestry of lore. And for that, I am thankful.

Stories, in their purest meaning, stand for something which is not based in facts. By that argument, this is a story and not one at the same time. That little boy is still waiting out there, to create his own shelves filled with books carrying his words. And as I write this, he is smiling.

(Written for the #knowledgeisgreat contest. Learn more about it at knowledgeisgreat.in)

Thinkshop - the future of buying

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 11 Sep 2013 14:54:00 +0000

Technology is changing as we speak, and so are all our experiences associated with it. Fiction is turning to design, to technology, to reality everyday. With better gadgets, better cars, better technology, the number of steps that lead us to buy something is getting smaller and smaller.
Shopping started from shops, graduated to malls and finally, post-graduated to online shopping. Current online shopping experiences like E-Bay give you everything that you could possibly need out of a store and often, more. You can browse through the entire catalog of products without leaving the comfort of your chair and even order it from there! One would like to believe that this is the pinnacle of shopping experiences that one can achieve. However, when I think about how shopping would be in the future, I see a very 'human' trend that would eventually be driving technology by the time we reach 2030; instinct.

Here's a glimpse of a 'possible' future.

Its the 11th of September, 2030. Your intelliclock, synced to your bio-cycle informs the body that it is 7 o'clock in the morning and time to wake up. The next three hours are spent doing the daily chores that SMARTHUMAN(SH) has programmed for you. You do not have office today. What will you do? Do you think? Not really. SH tells you that its time to THINKSHOP. You agree, realizing that there was something that you needed to buy but can't recall what. Oh well, Thinkshop would surely be able to help you out with that!

You slowly go and sink into the comfortable couch and pull on the helmet. As soon as the grooves on it fit to the side of your ears, a familiar voice greets you: "Welcome back to Thinkshop- shop it before you think it!" Your face breaks into a smile and you sink into the extremely soothing music that you find yourself enjoying. A quick status bar saying 'stand by...identifying preferences' flashes for a while and then disappears. Your room starts breaking up into little particles, disappearing, melting, as a bright white light floods your vision. "People in the past used to think this was how life after death looked like" you laugh to yourself, while everything around you disappears, completely immersing you in a white wash of brilliant light...

"Hey! Haven't seen you in a while!" Angeline croons, dressed in short black skirt and a spotless white shirt. She is your 'VHelp' or virtual sales help who takes you through your shopping experience. She is designed according to your chosen avatar, right down to the color of her hair, but more on that later. Right now she is jumpy with excitement, her eyes twinkling with what she has in store for you.

"What is it? Did you..." you begin, but she cuts you off, her patience having worn thin.

"You won't believe what I found for you...it's the FITSHIRT you have been wanting for so long! It's in the exact shade you have been looking for too; a midnight blue, with a hint of turquoise and a whiff of mauve so subtle that you won't know it if I didn't tell you!" You think about it while the shirt appears in front of you. You realize that you never told her about it but its the exact shirt that you would buy if you were buying one. No wonder they call it thinkshop!

You smile and the shirt disappears. It has been billed already, detecting your 'smile value' as a confirmation. Before you know, a complimenting pair of trousers, a pair of custom sneakers, a holiday in Greece and tickets to the finals of IPL 2030 have also been booked, where the double teams of MadhyaGuj Pegasus are playing HyderaKol Gryphons.

You would have to learn to smile less.

As you think about ending the session, Angeline throws her trump card. "Leaving already?" she sings, her voice making imaginary butterflies fly right out of your stomach and through your ears. "I will make you an offer you can't refuse, pumpkin..." Everything blanks out; your newly bought clothes, shoes and everything else fades into the background. Then a little puddle of black starts forming, bubbling, expanding, little wisps of smoke rising from it.

"Oh no!" you cry out.

"Oh yes, my sugarlove" Angeline whispers, her honey voice landing softly in your ears.

The pool has become several feet wide. A red bump appears in the middle and then grows bigger. It continues to grow. A shiny roof followed by crystal clear glass windows follow.

"Oh sweet virtual Jesus" you mumble.

Standing in front of you is the Grand Elysium 3000, the car you have been eyeing for a while now. Its spectacular interiors and smooth body lines seem to be calling out to you. As your mind goes into a tizzy, the autostart activates and the car roars to life. It rolls slowly, a hunter stalking its prey, and slides to a stop in front of you, it's door opening invitingly.

"I can't buy this now. It's too expensive. I don't have this sort of money!" you speak, almost pleading to Angeline. She continues to smile.

"Yes you can. Your annual bonus just got credited. You haven't done too bad it seems" she says, her smile lighting up the highway of your heart. You smile back and the car disappears. You realize a moment later, but she is already swishing back into the whiteness with a "see you later honey". The familiar 'we loved having you here! You think...you shop!" dies down as your room comes back into focus. You take off the helmet, uttering a happy sigh of consumer satisfaction. Yet, you feel like you needed something that you didn't buy. What was it? What didn't Thinkshop tell you this time?

"Toothpaste!" you scream to yourself, as the birds outside your window continue to chirp and your aerofone lights up with 'Shopper journey terminated. Thank you for shopping at Thinkshop! Visit us soon!'

(written for 'the future of shopping' contest at Indiblogger. Learn more about it here: bit.ly/eBayCheck_Extention )

The Launch

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 06:15:00 +0000

It gives me the greatest pleasure to announce the grand opening of my new headquarters www.mithunmukherjee.in!! Time to flock over there folks! :)

Quick Update!

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 19:09:00 +0000

Hiya folks!!

Will be at IIT Delhi on 24th September (TODAY!!) at 3.30 pm for the book launch of Seven Deadly Sins by Serene Woods publication, a compilation of winning short stories judged by me. My books Revenge and Cold Feet would also be up for sale as well. Be there for your signed copies! :)

Halfthought

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Am I a writer?

Is a writer like one of the thousand scattered, among the sea dream that we pass off as the sky?

As the cosmos, or the milky way?

What defines you?

What combines you,

As a human being or a multi celled organism

Trying to be what you probably wouldn’t even be

In your waking lives?

The City

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 11:43:00 +0000

I am the ruins of a forgotten city.

A city which is now a half baked jigsaw of broken down monuments.

You may call these monuments buildings,

for they once were built on the foundations of character and a vague semblance of humanity.

There are building of tears,

Arches of guilt,

Unending pathways of remorse

Blind-turns of faith, hope and agony.

I am still alive.

The city is still alive.

Alive and dead in the same moment of space time.

There are crumbling bricks of men and decaying concrete women.

They were complete once, now , only pictures.

Installations in a gallery which no one visits.

Flickering images and broken dialogue on television sets

Soaps with anonymous actors, playing out unknown stories,

Broadcasted on channels which don’t exist.

I hear music.

The city has music.

Jarring, itching notes created on a violin

Made out of broken furniture and high tension wires.

It goes on and on, like the unending leak lying unrepaired

At the house which plays the soaps.

The city is empty and full.

Loud and quiet.

I am the city that you cross, looking out of train windows

Visiting places that you think you know.

Tab saves the day...

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 18:20:00 +0000

Jack was a sick kid.

Here, sick does not stand for someone who has a sadistic bent of mind or has thoughts so vile, that the society doesn’t see fit to interact with him. It means that he was one of those frail kids who are mostly on some sort of pills to cure one ailment, while the other ailment is secretly sneaking up on them, dragging them back to sickness, not breaking the ‘vicious cycle of sick kids’. In fact, he was so sick that his pill popping in school got him a nickname; Tablet.

For the longest time, Jack tried to get rid of the name, tried to fight it. He ran past kids in corridors, bumped into them at the canteen. It was not only his classmates anymore. Somehow, the name had leaked out of his classroom and slushing across the school corridors, soaked the entire school into a jeering, teasing frenzy. Tablet Tablet Tablet. In the dark corner behind the school building. Tablet tablet. In the last cubicle of the washroom, scrawled across the back of the door.

TabletTabletTabletTablet.

This was before a single day changed his life.

Jack the introvert spent a lot of time on his computer. He had been following the date for the Samsung Galaxy Tab 750 launch, just the way an expectant kid waits for Christmas. And then finally, whump! The day was there. It was the tenth of August, 2011, the LIVE Webcast of the Samsung Galaxy Tab 750 launch. Jack watched it like it was the last programme before Doomsday.

As the webcast slowly went on, the circuits inside Jack were going through a change that he wasn’t personally aware of. All the negativity was suddenly fizzling out like it never existed. He had been running a slight temperature, being the ‘sick boy’ that he was, but that was slowly turning into history, with every single second passing on screen. It was as if, the webcast was like a placebo not only for his illness; it was the answer that he was looking for, all his life. He never noticed his father enter the room and stand behind him. He never noticed him smiling and giving an almost invisible nod to himself. He never saw the satisfaction playing on his face, having finally found a way out for his son. All he saw was the dreamy image of the tablet in the webcast. He slept a peaceful sleep. Jack the tablet was soon going to spring a surprise not only to the people around him but also to himself, as he would soon find out.

The next morning was going to be the best morning he had had in a long time. The sun shone in through his window and he half opened an eye to look. Time for school. He raised his hand to the dresser beside his bed to get his glasses. Strangely, his hand touched something sleek and rectangular. Something he hadn’t expected. Something which Couldn’t have been there. When he opened his eyes, he held up the rectangular thing.

There was nothing else he could ask for...

As he settled into his seat in computer class in the last period, he fished out the Samsung tablet and connected it to the wi fi. The kids around him took their notes in the laptops that they carried, eyeing him with furtive glances, exchanging words which Jack no longer cared about. There was a smile playing on his lips. As he sent in the assignment of the day, executed on his sleek new device, he saw the teacher give him a strange look and saying nothing. As the day closed, he heard a mean voice in the back hissing “tablet”... he turned back slightly and curling the right side of his lip in a knowing grin replied “exactly”...

As school got over, he was sitting right outside his school gates, browsing through his favourite e-books that he had recently transferred to the device. “Hey, fancy!” he heard a voice croon right near him, and his heart splashed right into his stomach. “Um...sorry, I only know your name as, uh , tablet”, she fumbled sheepishly. Jack was feeling large hearted, so he replied ‘Its Jack. You are Jenn right? Football star Ned’s girlfriend?’

“Was!” she said rolling her eyes “he thinks he owns me or something, so I got rid of that jerk. You mind coming along for a coffee?” she said.

Jack’s heart, which was finally returning to its original position, fell right back with a louder splash this time. “Sure” he said and got up to dust the backside of his pants. As he tried to stuff back the tab, he heard “Can I see it?” from her. ‘Umhmm’ he replied handing it to her, as they walked to the cafe, not hand-in-hand. Not yet.

Afternoon soon stretched into late evening, as they chattered their hearts out. She was a huge reader, the last thing that he expected. He showed her his e-book collection, going from one title to another. Jenn continued squealing with happiness as she handled the tab, her fingers flowing smoothly over the amazing touch screen. In the meantime, he had somehow managed to quickly text his dad about not worrying, that he Just might be late. Eventually, it was time to leave the place as the sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the first stars were coming out.

“Lets hit Ollie’s!” she sang, her eyes twinkling like the prettiest diamonds Jack had ever seen. Jack wasn’t a pub hopper, so he tried to chicken out, “no not happening! I gotta get home, its too late anyways...my dad...”

“Just this time. I promise it would be fun” her voice like the most beautiful melody Jack’s ears would catch. This was turning more difficult that he imagined. ‘Sure’ he said relenting, now headed to a pub, for the first time in his life.

Ollie’s turned out better than he had expected. Since they had checked in early evening, the place was just warming up. Few scattered high school kids occupied a few stools while others were occupied with people he would rather not want to have anything to do with.

The minutes of his Blockbuster Life Movie sped past him. He couldn’t believe that he, Jack the tablet, could actually have so much of fun in a single day, let alone a lifetime. He had his tab snug inside his backpack. Two beers down, his body felt light, like a kite. He was at peace. But then, just like every Blockbuster, it was time for the twist.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and a voice boomed behind him ‘Someone let Jack out of the box today hmm?’ A few stray voices sniggered. He did not need telling it was Ned, the football star, the one who had received atleast six detentions in the last year itself, out of which atleast four were for beating up guys. That, ofcourse, was the official count.

Jenn looked behind him and said “I wouldn’t do that if I were you Ned”, motioning Jack secretly to move. Ned came and stood leaning on their table, going red in the face only slightly before hitting back at her “Tablet? Seriously? You must be seriously out of your mind!” A few more laughs followed. Jack signalled the guy at the bar for the cheque.

“I am not. I can prove it to you that Jack here is more intelligent than all of you guys combined” she said colouring visibly. In fact, he can take money off you to clear the bill here, right this moment!” she said. A loud roar of laugh went up from his cronies, and Jack suddenly started wishing he could melt into the sofa he was sitting on.

Ned silenced the laughing hyenas behind him with a raised arm. He then turned towards Jack. His next words were like a death knell. He whispered, his face level with Jack, breathing right into his face,

“Sure. What do you have on your mind Jack?”

Jack’s mind raced like it was one of those hulking supercomputers he had googled so many times on the internet. He slowly slid his hand, out of Ned’s sight into his side, where the tab now lay, and closed his fingers around his new best friend, the Samsung Tab. Right then, a moment of inspiration struck him. He spoke

“Alright Ned, here’s what we do. I ask you a question. If you answer it, I will give you five bucks. But in case you don’t, you would have to give me fifty bucks. Deal?” He fervently hoped his head wouldn’t turn into a mashed potato.

‘Sure tablet, bring it on. But if I or my friends answer it, you are gonna give me much more than five bucks’ Ned retorted, steaming a little. People around the pub were starting to look now. Jack gave a slight nod.

Jack’s mind raced as thought about every question he had ever read. His mind went into a tizzy. Before he knew what he was saying, he blurted,

“What goes up a mountain on four legs and comes down on three?”

Ned’s face looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him. His cronies slowly started backing up, half step at a time, knocking they were soon going to be hauled up for the answer. But Ned did no such thing. Instead he screamed, “That’s bullshit” and swung his right arm at Jack’s face. Jack closed his eyes for impact. The punch never came. When he opened his eyes, Jenn was holding his hand and he looked like he had seen a ghost. Jenn spoke

“Why don’t you stop behaving like an animal for once, and put down the money if you don’t know the answer?” Jenn glowered. Jack made a mental note of taking tips on bravado from her later.

Ned, knowing that he was stuck square, fished into his pocket and came out with the fifty. The cheque was there as well. He boomed ‘I don’t know the answer.’

Jack fished into his pocket and slung his bag. When his hand came out, he had his palm balled up around something. Holding the Samsung tab in one hand, he said ‘I would take the tab now, gentle men.’ No one said anything. He picked up the fifty and gave it to the waiter. The waiter quickly gave him the change and disappeared from the scene. A big hand belonging to an equally big Ned, blocked his way.

“I don’t know the answer” he said through gritted teeth, his face a big tomato, on the verge of exploding.

Ned calmly took his hand and closed it around the object that he had been holding. Ned opened it to discover a fiver.

‘Neither do I!’ Jack screamed behind him, as he heard laughter coming from Ned’s friends, and his efforts at quietening them down. A few strangers smiled at him. His right hand was inside his pocket, fiddling with the change that had come back from the waiter. He felt fingers close around his left. The most delicate and beautiful fingers that he could ever imagine holding. Life was good. As he walked out, a single thought crossed his mind,

‘I took care of the tab. Or maybe, the Tab took care of me...”

A road less travelled...

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 10:24:00 +0000

Thirty minutes.

Thirty straight minutes at a jam. The car running, devouring fuel like it was a monster out of a children’s fairy tale, with just a huge mouth and nothing else. There was a limit to how much a man could take. It was time to make a difference. It was time to break the cycle and he was the one who would do it.

He gave one last look at the huge snake infront of him, made completely of cars, gorging on invaluable fossil fuel like a blood hungry leech. He closed his eyes and gripped the steering wheel. Concentrate. You can do this.

A hum, like a TV channel which isnt broadcasting, makes, started to go up. It increased in volume and soon enveloped his car. People around him were looking from their cars now. With a huge boom and a big ball of yellow light, the top of the car flew off. Glass fragmented on all sides, littering the road and the cars around in a shower of diamonds. Rohit, the struggling corporate, was suddenly not struggling to reach his office on time. He had become Rohit, the flying corporate, guardian of the fossil fuels. As he flapped his huge, white, angel like wings, taking to the skies, dazzling in the golden light of the sun, speeding like a bullet towards his office, he thought to himself, “that should solve it!”

A rude honk slapped him right back into his car and he discovered the jam had cleared. He changed gears, urging his car to move forward. There had to be a better alternative than taking to the skies with imaginary wings.

Swimming in his pool of thoughts, he was now standing right outside Swati’s house. He saw her come out of the door, just in time, about to take her car. Swati had joined his office last week and he had been wondering how to get chatty with her.

“Swati!” he called, attracting her attention. She stood wondering for a while and slowly came towards his car. “Rohit right?” she said. His turn.

“Yeah!” he said, trying to play it smart. “I go through the same route everyday to office and I was seeing that you take your own car to office too...I was wondering you know, the rising costs of petrol and everything...”

“I know! Isnt it crazy?” she retorted, cutting him short. “I was anyways planning to dump this fuel guzzler and get the Fiat upgrade offer soon...its where you buy the car and if you are lucky, you upgrade to the Fiat Multijet diesel technology for the price of a petrol car. That should happen soon enough.”

“Great idea! In the meantime, why don’t you fly with me? I mean, in my car?” Rohit stammered, trying real hard to get the daydream out of his head. He thought he blew it, but he was in for a pleasant surprise.

“You are a funny guy” Swati giggled. “Only on one condition though...” she continued “ we split the cost. That way, we both save” she finished, moving towards the passenger door.

“Sure! Whatever you say!” Rohit scrambled to get the passenger door, almost strangling himself with the seat belt in the process. She smiled again, and nodding her head sideways, sat beside him. Buckling herself into safety, she finally turned towards him and with a twinkle in her eye said,

“What are you waiting for? Lets Fly!”

Sweet timing!

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 13:12:00 +0000

You know what they say about 'sweet timing' right? I would assume that you do, so I am not going to repeat it for you. What I am going to tell you instead is how my latest fascination with webcomic making suddenly had a happy collision with an App from Intel. Yes, Apps and webcomics CAN collide. If you don't believe me, read on.
I am a gadget/software freak by nature; you could say that. But, I had not gotten addicted to using apps as a rule. Very recently, I started doing webcomics on Facebook, by the name of BOING! which have been running nice and smooth and getting a more than decent response from the readers. And just as this is going on, WHAM! An app by the name of "Comics Creator" from Intel hits me flat on my face and throws me off balance. I mean, as General Tapioca from Tintin would say...CARAMBA!

So what is this app again? To put it simply, its the El Dorado of Comic Strip creation. Not only does it provide you a Gazillion characters across close to a dozen types of illustrations, it has a bevy of other features, which make comic strip making look like child's play. While you can drag and drop characters and add from a huge chunk of speech bubbles, there are a host of smart features which let you do SO much more, without being a pro at Photoshop or other design softwares.

To begin with, there is a multiple selection of the kind of strip that you want. Once this is decided, you can go ahead and choose your characters. As I mentioned earlier, there is a huge cache of pre-made characters available, which only means that if you have a Claw instead of a hand in the field of drawing, like in my case, you can rest assured that your comic strip will not look anything short of dazzling. Once this is figured, choose your speech bubbles and you are set! There is also the option of choosing from a bunch of four fonts and innumberable colors to fill in the background.

Incase you want to make a guest appearance in your own strip, its possible! CLICK your own picture and put it in the strip! Yes its possible, and YES, I am going to do it in a short while as soon as I get over the characters. There is also a selection of backgrounds, vehicles and ohmygodsomuch of other little details that you can add to your strip. The app also gives you the freedom to choose from multiple drawing style to mash your style up and create endless oppurtunities.

Oh and the PREVIEW! For every single step, you can click on the preview and it shows Exactly how your comic strip is going to look. Once you are done, click on the button, and you would be given a slick JPG of the final strip! There is also your own place, where you can draw with colours, doodle, yap yap yap. I know I am rambling. But trust me on this, if you were a comic strip enthusiast like me, and using the App, you would know what I was talking about. It promises a LOT more enhancements in the near future, so I am WATCHING out for those, for sure. And here are my littel works of art that I did, with the comics creator...TADA! :D

One little thing that I would like is, if I could just drag and drop my OWN characters in here? THAT would be something. I am sure in a few more enhancements, theres going to be so much more juice into this already meaty app. Oh, and wait for the punchline...it aint come yet.

This App if free...

This blog is an entry to the "My Favorite PC App" contest. Check out numerous apps for PC/Netbooks available at the Intel AppUp Center. If you are looking for an opportunity to build and monetize your applications, check out the Intel® Atom™ Developer Program.

BOING!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 05:31:00 +0000

Why no stories?
Errm...uh..
Why no updates?
Well, I was about to...
Did you stop writing?
No...ofcourse not! See the...
Have you taken up farming?
NO! Right now I am BOING! :D

That was the conversation between me and my blog a while back. And incase you are wondering what the BOING business is about, then you are in for a surprise; its my BRAND NEW COMIC STRIP! :D :D

Its just about five strips old and been getting pretty decent response. If you want to check it out, This is where it is!! :) And here are two of the strips, just to get that curiosity going! :D

Please feel free to share the strips on your Facebook Profiles and Do tell me how you guys like it! :D

[POOF!]

Revelations

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 11:43:00 +0000

The Clarity of Night contest is on, and as always, yours truly has sent in an entry. Only this time around, it is unlike anything that I have ever written.

Its not dark.

Its not scary.

It doesn't chill.

Then WTF does it do???

Its a simple story. I would rather let it talk for itself. Check it out here and please tell me how you like it?

I am trying to put in fresh fiction on my own blog as well. Hope to come up with something which is worth the effort, atleast to me.

Cya!

Update!

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 13:02:00 +0000

My Shocketry fever seems to be finally dying down, so you guys wouldn't have to look at any poetry coming from me for a while (unless you Really want it, in which case you could let me know in the comments. It was a joke. Haha. ) I am working on a short right now, which should be up in a bit (I Promise!). In the meantime, I thought I should update you guys about whats going on here.

The blog has been featuring at teabreak.pk for a while.

Also, the blogpost on Shocketry managed to get featured as a chosen post on "best web pages for poetry" for the 9th of July at the Paper presentation website, paper.li . See, I told you its a cool idea right? :)

I have been toying with the idea of playing with parallel narratives and somehow combine them with distortions in time. I have done both before and have been toying with the idea of clubbing them together to deliver some superawesomeness. If you guys have some cool brainwaves, I am all for it. Also, the guest blogging thing...um....anyone?

Shocketry Reboot: The Bite

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 11:38:00 +0000

And so it was

That once, a boy

Not knowing what to do

Just closed his eyes

And made a wish

And hoped that it came true

‘Every word I say,

Must turn for real

And behave the way they mean

No dilly or dally,

Nor silly or sally

As real as could be seen!

It was all fun

With the moon and sun

And Stars and day and night

Then he felt a chomp

Not quite the romp

It was the word called BITE

Up and down

He scampered hard

With Bite holding his bum

Come rain or wind

Or Sun shine in

They were now the best of chums!

So the boy wrote a book

And christened it

“I’ll call you Bible cuz I can!”

Then he named the bite,

More out of spite

“Now on, I’ll call you MAN!”

(pic: Helix nebula, nicknamed "The Eye of God")

[Okay okay, I shall get back to writing fiction soon! Incase you are new here, this is a part of Shocketry which started last week here. Two people followed suit and did their own shocketry here and here. Have you earned your shocketry badge yet? Also, I am looking forward to collaborate on fiction stories here or on Your blog. Any takers? ]

The birth of "Shocketry" and other important things...

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 10:32:00 +0000

Ola Amigos!! There is a lot of news updates this time. All of ‘em are good, for a change. Or let’s say I am keeping the morose stuff out of this place. Why would you want to ruin the mood at a Dark Fiction blog isn’t it? That was a joke I just said. Just so you know.

So the updates. The Facebook Page has zoomed past the 200 Likes mark. The blog here has also upped to 200 plus followers. What could I say but THANK YOU. I could have hugged each one of personally. No, seriously. Thank you.

I coined a new form of poetry. It’s called Shocketry or Shocking Poetry. I define Shocketry as nothing but Shocking Poetry. You could have your own definition. It could always be a good shock or a bad shock, the only condition being, it MUST have shock value! Your boyfriend growing horns. Your motorbike turning into a turtle. The school teacher turning into an octopus. Anything. Wild! Anyways, ‘nuff said. Here is my first attempt at it.

The Pumpkin’s Revenge

It was dark as night

And Jack sat down

On the night before Halloween.

With knife and pumpkin on his lap

All ‘ready’, if you know what I mean!

For years together,

Jack always made

Lanterns Big and Small

And during Halloween, Jack o’ Lanterns shone

In the houses, one and all...

So on this night

Without a fright

Jack poised his knife on top

Before the blade could make the cut

He heard a grave voice say “STOP!”

“No more lanterns!”

The pumpkin said,

“We have taken this all too long!”

And before Jack knew, the pumpkin broke

Into a pumpkin song!

The song now over,

And Jack quite frozen

The result was very strange

Jack spoke not a word, nor did any gesture

For both seemed out of range

Next morning when

the villagers came

to take their lanterns home

It seemed just like any other Halloween

The way the years had known.

“This one looks like Uncle Jack!”

A child squealed looking at his piece

The villagers giggled

and praised crafty Jack, saying

“I think we should pay his fees!”

Jack now hangs

Outside a door

With a candle in his head

And if the poem scared you bad,

Make sure you don’t wet your bed!

[It was first published here and the blogger folks liked it! A real cool blogger took the cue and did her own Shocketry! Read her Shocketry here. In case you find the Idea interesting , don't hesitate to do your own shocketry. Yes, I am pretty obsessed with how cool this can become. Infact, I even made a "Shocketry Writer" badge for you guys to pin up on your blog! :D

Feel free to copy the badge from below and put it on your site and put my link. Let me know in the comments section if you did any shocketry so I could put your link in my blog. See you soon!]

Presenting the SHOCKETRY BADGE:

Quick Update!

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 07:09:00 +0000

It is time for a quick update!!
Yes, dont give me that weird look. You thought only News Channels could do that?

There has been a lot of action in my life of late (NO! Not what you are thinking! Real, Physical Action! Ok you know what, forget about it. :| )

First, there was an accident. Not like the Genesis/Bible types. This happened on the road.
I was pillion on my bike and escaped unhurt. The guy who was biking got six stitches. Yeah, well.

This happened before the Actual first accident mentioned above. So you could call this the Zero Accident.

My guitar got a hairline crack. Yes. Hairline. I am almost dying.

A stupid B-grade CGI Hollywood flick later, which I couldnt even finish (COVENANT!), I am a little wiser.
I will stick to the basics. I am getting back to the Matrix Trilogy. Again. Good ol'.

There was Purani Dilli cuisine too, but thats okay; part of my life mostly now. Atleast, thats what I would like to believe.

More importantly, I have started writing at The Writer's Lounge too. An older story called Room For Rent now features there, as my first post. Go read it here. New short story coming up soon. There is also a lot of activity happening here . Thats my Facebook Page. Yes, I am famous enough to have my OWN facebook page. Join it! :D

'Middle'some Mayhem

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 12:25:00 +0000

A few days back, I sat down to watch 'Children of Men', but
something rather interesting happened. This is how I summarized it on a facebook status update.

"So, the movie starts...people run around, shoot blam blam blam, Michael Caine dies in about 5 minutes (??), more shooting running, another guy dies, run around, shoot, boom, everyone else dies, hero heroine get on to a boat, Clive Owen dies...all in under sixty minutes!! And then I realise, I have been watching Disc 2 of the movie. :| *facepalm* "

This however did not prevent me from watching Disc 1 of the movie. As a result, what
happened was, I was lead to a point in the movie, after which, I knew what was going
to happen. And then I thought, HEY....

Cliffhanger

“If you kill me, I become Immortal!!” he shouted, his voice trying to rise over the wind as it blew in great gusts around them. His fingers were slipping.

"Convenient! How FUCKIN' Convinient! You really don’t expect me to fall for it, do you?" he barked, looking down upon the guy hanging with one hand. Beyond him lay the dark expanse of an open gorge. You couldn’t see the bottom; not even if you squinted.

“Enough with the puns George; just pull me up and we can figure this out. What I am trying to tell you is, if you let me go, I die, and then I come back again!” he bellowed, making an unsuccessful attempt at hooking his left hand to a ledge. If he couldn’t get a grip, there was a good chance he was going to fall straight down.

Getting stuck with your once-a-friend-now-an-enemy on the side of the cliff wasn’t just bad. It was fucked up.

The man standing on top of the gorge arched his right eyebrow and paused for a bit.

“What are you talking about? Don’t give me that entire time travel thing again Greg. You already disappeared because of it for months and I had to fill in your shoes. I have been beaten, stabbed at, hell, even dragged around the marketplace by the people you owed money to! Give me one good reason why I should save you?”

“Because if you don’t, you shall get old right here and die! And I would remain this way till you were gone! Now pull me up before this gets out of hand!” he said, holding on with his last efforts.

“What do you mean?” George said, still reluctant at pulling him up. He had had enough of punishment for something he never did, and wanted to get over with it.

“The time machine got built! I have programmed it to take me back in time to the point when I meet you on top of the cliff, and that happens in another three minutes! When you get me back up, I can reach down in my pocket and turn it off! Otherwise it would happen yet again!” he screamed, his voice dying out slowly, his strength ebbing.

“Wait...what? Are you trying to tell me this already happened before?” George said, a look of surprise creeping up on to his face.

“Yes...and if you don’t pull me up, it’s going to happen again! So PLEASE PULL ME UP! There is hardly any time!”

George straightened up and grinned. He added “you are not going to get me this time. Enough of your bullshit, you hear? ENOUGH!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he stamped hard on his fingers. A fading echo later, there was no sign of another man there.

He peeped over the cliff face and looked down into nothingness. He was most probably dead. George could now lead his life in peace. He turned around and looked into the face of a man he had just killed.

“Cripes! You are dead!” George said eyes as big as marbles.

“What are you talking about George? I just came as promised; to meet you at the cliff face after the completion of the stipulated year. Now, I know you have faced a lot of trouble for the money I borrowed off the lenders...”

“NO!! YOU ARE DEAD! I JUST KILLED YOU!” George screamed, spittle flying into Greg’s face. He was almost bawling.

“What’s up with you? Look at your watch! It’s four o’ clock, the time I promised to meet you! How could you kill me if you never met me?” Greg, incredulous, questioned.

George slowly looked at his watch. It was indeed four o’ clock. He suddenly felt himself going mad. It felt real, like a sensation.

“It’s all done George, I have made the time machine! All our problems are solved! We can go back and start over a new life!” he said, brimming with anticipation, and took a step forward.

“No it wouldn’t!! Martha is dead because of you, you bastard!” George screamed and lunged at Greg. Greg suddenly swung through the air and found himself hanging from the side of the rock face. Somewhere in his head, it felt like déjà vu. He thanked his stars at having set his time machine.

“If you kill me, I become immortal!” Greg screamed at the growing night, which grew darker, swallowing everything around, swallowing them, growing rapidly, till it became a big empty expanse of an empty universe...

Rainy-Nonrainy-Ron Nainy

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 10:29:00 +0000

The weather is acting silly.
I am bored with office work.
I am thinking of starting another blog.
I need to write more.
I am watching too many movies.
Need.New.Guitar.

A box full of surprises

Nina always knew her sister was up to something fishy. She had pulled her out of dusty cupboards, the attic, and once out of the big flour sack, as white as a fresh snowflake. Nina's sister needed to mend her ways or she was getting it from her.

The lights went out that night.

As Nina hobbled around on her knees in the darkness, hoping to find a match, she could hear her sister groping around furiously as well.

'Stop the racket sister!'
"I lost something!"
'Cant you wait for the light to come back on?'
"No! I kept something in a matchbox, and now I cant find it; please don't open it if you do!"
'I wont, I promise! I just hope its not one of your crawlies!'

Nina's hand finally closed around what felt like a matchbox. She shook it. Thud. Thud. A little scratching.

'I think I found it.'
"DON'T OPEN IT!!"

The people from the asylum came and took Nina's sister away in the morning.

No one heard the the repeated soft thumps coming from an unnoticed matchbox.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Part Three: Dessert

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 08:08:00 +0000

[Big sorry to all the people who had to wait so long for the third part to come up. I have been plain lazy and I am actively looking for a cure. In the meantime, Dessert, and also something that I originally didn't have in mind; a Part Four!!]

Part Three: Dessert

There is a jazz band playing somewhere. I can hear the steady tinkle of the cymbals and the soft brush strokes over the snare, smartly doing a ball dance with the kick coming in at predefined intervals. I can feel a smoky room, waiters shuffling around picking up a glass here and laying down a gossip there. I could wager my life that I can hear a jazz band playing somewhere close by.

Uh.

You must have seen those big putty maps that lay out in the middle of the town centers or city centers or whatever you call them. They have little ridges, bumps and crevices, showing the forests, houses, roads, hills and just about everything else around the town. You avoid everyone’s eyes, make sure no one is looking and quickly run your hand over the surface. It always leaves you with a funny, tingly feeling at the tips of your fingers as you imagine yourself to be God, waving his hand over all creation, over river, hill, road, building and all else.

That just about sums up how my face feels. Except, I don’t feel God.

My eyes are mostly swollen shut; it feels like someone has put in one big pebble each on the inside of my eyelids. The rivers on my face all seem to be going down under. I don’t try to touch my nose; it makes me shudder just to think of what it might have become. There is a strong smell of vegetable fat, coming from my face. A few teeth roll around freely inside my mouth. Such a beautiful mess, this. A perfect facial barbecue.

Let me help you, he says and I feel something cover my face, whole. Pain, white hot, sets a thousand alarm bells ringing in my head. I feel faint. Through my half closed eyes, I can see him holding something big and square in his hands and grinning at it. It has dark brown edges and the center of it is a big patch of crimson. He has another of his twisted flowers in place now. His creative fulfillment.

That talkin’ bastard.

I am still struggling to stay conscious as he turns to me, the same grin pasted on his face. Thank you, he says. It’s been lovely knowing you, he says. I am really sorry, but there is food for only one. From the looks of it, you won’t need much food anytime soon. But yeah, thanks to you, I don’t think I would need to go and get fresh food supplies. So, thank you, he says. End of monologue. I catch him getting ready to swing the frying pan for one last time.

And I duck.

The pan resonates with a dull thud where my head had been half a second ago. The vibration of the pan is hard against his hands; he lets go. I see my chance and push him blindly. It’s my only chance. The idiot loves cooking over the fire.

It’s a shame he forgot to turn the gas off.

Like a sixteen wheeler out of control, I blunder across the room, tripping over things, clutching at whatever I can to prevent me falling over. He is screaming somewhere in the background; his voice is rather muffled. The pan managed to not only fry my face, but most of my hearing as well. I see a runny, shaky picture of a room in front of my eyes and try to maintain my consciousness. God-damn. This isn’t what I had asked for.

I have fallen down; managed to take about a total of thirty steps away from him. It’s strange he is not catching up on me. The screaming continues in the background. The house feels a little hot. Fuckin’ moron is bringing the house down.

His screams tell me the house is on fire. I see a blurry moving lump of yellow shaking flames try to douse itself with water from the tap. There are tongues of flame slowly starting to lick around me. From the place on the floor, all the things are playing out in front of me at over-the-head-level. Almost makes me feel like being in a planetarium, watching the Armageddon fold right out in front of my eyes.

He just can’t stop screaming. I think he is burnt up pretty bad. The smell of burning flesh starts to gel in comfortably with the crackling wood around the house. If you are me, you know the smell of burning flesh among a million other smells. Don’t ask me how I know this. Like I said once before, there are certain things you wouldn’t want to know.

The house is going to go up in smoke, that’s for sure. If I want to get out alive from this place, this is probably the only chance I would get. Either out looking like an ‘alive and kickin’ human version of a mashed potato with ketchup for a face or a dead roasted duck like him. I choose the former.

My vision is swimming. The entire room is being enacted out like a short psychedelic sequence from some drug movie. The fire is spreading in a yellow warm glow around me. In my mind’s eye, I can visualize the roses catching fire and wilting, curling into paper rose ashes. There is a speeded up video reel which is unfolding in some other corner of my head. This reel is showing faces being smashed against various places; walls, frying pans, the floor, the sink next to the stove, a chair and places that I can’t identify. A mélange of voices are echoing all around me; groans, thuds, sickening crunches and breaking glass. Elsewhere, I can imagine shelves full of strange objects; strange and twisted dolls, half eaten sandwiches, broken down Rubik’s cubes, mostly shred to pieces with disgust, catching fire. These are not imaginary. I remember seeing them to the room on the right. All of it must be having a bust time turning into a part of the burnt pile that the house is slowly but surely turning into. That place is a dead end. I have enough time to figure out the exit before the house comes down; but the challenge is I must find the door. With the kind of condition my face is in, looking through my own eyes feels like solving the most difficult quadratic equation at the moment. I continue my efforts at finding a way out, figuring that the fire and pain are my only enemies at the moment.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The wood splinters as something goes through it, inches above my head. He is getting better and closer. The chase is still on.

Sigh.

I picked up a little speed. The pain has turned into a dull throb by now but the room is much hotter. The headache, as expected is gone. Without it, I feel sharper, wittier, and almost ready to crack a funny line like a stand-up comedian. I turn only for a second to catch a glimpse of the guy who is after me.

For this, I really wish I was a writer. A good novelist could spend an entire chapter just on his face. It isn’t much different from mine I am sure; but when you don’t have a mirror to hold to yourself in a burning house, every other burnt up face you come across seems unique and pretty gruesome to you. The last bit, I made up, because from the looks of it, I am not going to become a writer. And talking about looks, I am sure neither of us is looking too hot at the moment.

All of his limbs seem to be in perfect order; except he is a little sluggish, just like me. Both of us are starting to feel a little exhausted with the game of ‘tag’ and want to give in. Giving in at this point means only one of us going out of the house. So that is surely not an option.

I duck and turn towards the other direction. I am still blundering through the house, as lost as a ship in sea storm with a broken compass. My knees hit against some upturned chair and then knock painfully against the edge of a table. It’s strange how things that you thought were buying for a bargain end up hurting you in the long run in more ways than one. But there is no way to know about it. Same goes for life too I guess.

I want to smirk at my own wisdom but I think my lower lip is in pretty bad shape. It’s mostly swollen to a small balloon and should have ideally been touching the tip of my nose; but it isn’t. I am pretty much scared to wonder about my facial topography; I would rather get out of the house alive at this point. My right foot clangs against something on the floor and my instinct immediately tells me what it is. It’s my trust worthy knife, the one I dropped when that pan came and hit my face like a jet.

Talk about sweet timing.

I bend and try to feel it like a blind man. My back creaks like a detuned violin in my inner ear. It’s a surprise that my inner ear works perfectly. In case you don’t know what the difference between an inner ear and the outer is, I could give you a simple example. The inner ear is the one where you hear your own voice and a ‘swoosh swoosh’ sound when your nose gets blocked. It also pops open from time to time and suddenly opens you up to a brand new audio factory that you never knew existed. The outer ear is the one which gets screwed when someone hits you flat with a frying pan.

Simple.

Clutching the knife with my left hand, I have found a doorknob; now only if it was connected to a door. I feel the round wooden surface, still cool among the burning wreckage around it. Slivers of wood on the other side of it cut into my hand but I don’t notice. I clutch it tighter, hoping it to connect to some invisible door and get me out of this burning inferno of things-gone-wrong.

My logic is still up for my rescue. Where there is a will, there is a way. Where there is a door knob, there is a door. I am beating across hot burning wood, hoping for a way out. The entire house is on fire. I hear beams and rafters crashing in the distance. Time is running out, burning, turning into ashes aiding the sweltering inferno gathering around me.

And then it happens; right out of the blue. My hand gets singed on burning wood and I claw at it. The skin on my palm is probably cheap CGI from some B-grade Hollywood flick, but this is real. There are bits of the door which are coming off. The stupid thing is stuck on hinges.

It rattles for a while before the bolt finally gives in with all the frenzied tugging. I quickly make an exit, choking, wheezing like an asthamatic, quickly shutting the door behind me.

Commercial Break. Just what I needed.

My lungs clutch greedily at the freely available oxygen. The house-that-was has almost become the-house-that-never-will-be. The drama is over. I cooked the bastard with his own recipe. It is done. Maybe a little overdone, but I am sure it tastes as good as the others did.

Am I the animal you are thinking that I am? Possibly. In a larger scheme of things, I would have to disagree with you. I admit the fact that when I set out to do what I did, I had no clue this was the guy would end up facing. I don’t know what he did with their bodies though. I still don’t. I just hope its not something as vile and disgusting as you are thinking. Or I am.

He was a killer right? So am I, but that is beside the point. Contrary to my original intention, I actually ended up doing a philanthropic bit for humanity. Now there is one killer instead of two. Natural selection, as Darwin would say. Survival of the fittest.

Almost poetic.

There is no sound coming from behind me. The fire is dying down. The occasional crackling escapes the inferno-that-was, as a piece of wood gives way inside. There was a muffled explosion sometime back. His small cooking cylinder is no more. I pray to the Almighty, hoping that the bloke is done in.

I never find out when I slip into unconsciousness due to exhaustion.

Epilogue:Cheque

I don’t identify the creature sitting in front of me as I come back to my senses. At some point in its life, it might have been human. It now looks like a badly made human model, made out of cheap clay which never set after being completed. I can see places where it possibly got chipped; a bad imitation. He is not moving.

It’s not over .Why won’t it just get over!

The house behind me is a blackened pile of burnt wood. The sun is out again. It’s not as hot as it was yesterday. I can feel new places in my body, starting to protest the pain growing by the minute. My life is not going to go back to normal; not this moment on. There wouldn’t be afternoons searching for victims, trying to make my headache go away. Not after what happened. And with the creature sitting infront of me, this episode, is yet to come to an end.

He probably waited all night, sitting in front of me, waiting for me to come to senses. Kill only when you know he would feel it. Providing pain only when it could be experienced. Wait it out, like a patient hunt in the jungle. This guy played by the book. I almost feel a new respect for him, though I know that the end is near. Then he does something I never expect.

He gives me his right hand and pulls me up to my feet.

There are hundreds upon thousands of stories and tomes written on the lesson of humanity in humans. The word itself takes birth from ‘human’. It is a quality that is supposed to come like a shopping tag, attached to something new that you are buying at the supermarket; but to expect it from a serial killer? It would obviously be over expecting a bit, but after what I went through last night, I am not surprised. People have a change of heart all the time. Someone becomes a believer after coming out of a coma. Someone ends up going to the church when he becomes bankrupt. I start believing in miracles.

His face is dreadful to look at. I look away. Both of us slowly start walking down the hill, towards a new fate. He has had a change of heart. However hard it is for me to believe, I take refuge in the unbelievable. Hasn’t it been helpful so far?

The fingers of my left hand are aching. They have been gripping something very tightly inside my pocket; something that I failed to notice. I take it out only a bit. You need not need telling what it is.

I smile to myself and look at him. He doesn’t look and keeps on walking.

Sucker.

Another Brick In the Wall...

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Mon, 16 May 2011 10:45:00 +0000

One year and one month ago, this blog had seen the first

fruits of my writing endeavours; Cold Feet, my first book,

a collection of dark fiction shorts, had seen the light of the day.

The book got rave reviews from writers like Samit Basu(of Turbulence

and Gameworld Trilogy fame) and newspapers like Hindustan

Times, which carried a review of the book. Its time to lift the curtains

from my first Novelette and second book, REVENGE....

Options to order it coming soon. In case you want some particular detail about

this book or the previous one, feel free to contact me at insanemindfreak@gmail.com.

The Party, my dear friends, is now ON!!!!

P.S.- The final part to Three Course shall be updated by tomorrow hopefully. Watch out

for that one as well!

Part Two: Main Course

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 09:26:00 +0000

Ah Fuck.

Leave it to a headache to crash a party when you are just getting started. It starts like that irritating drip of water running in your bathroom in the middle of the night, grows into a motorcycle which lost its muffler somewhere and finally cavalcades into a mad elephant stomping through dense foliage. All of this is so cool when you are thinking about them inside your head, images falling face down, like a pack of cards in slow motion. But, in the real world, it’s crazy. Like a pin pricking the back of your neck, five times per second. A bundle of chalks dragging across an endless blackboard, right into eternity.

Uh.

The sun is still simmering, as we weave into deeper parts of the locality, passing useless information, one stranger to another. It’s mostly him that does the talking, the variety that I like. I am not too good at making stuff up and it’s not a good idea giving away what I have. Call it instinct.

He is from about three hundred miles west of here. Loves rock n’ roll, none of that country shit. Says it makes him want to puke his guts all over the guitar of the guy fingering the instrument. When you have a guitar, you treat it like a bitch; spank it a little, make it scream. Make the people around take notice. Make it feel like a real thing. Don’t stroke it and treat it like your pet dog. It won’t lick your face.

He likes farming. I like checkers. He thinks the politicians in the country should go eat shit. I think the buffaloes around here are thinner than the ones up country. He thinks marijuana should be declared the National plant of the country and then sinks into thinking if there is such a thing at all. I hate water colours. He thinks heaven sucks. I think my headache is growing worse.

Yada yada yada.

We make it to his house as he breaks into a monologue about how vegetable oil is less fattening in summers than in winters. For a moment he makes me think that he is the kind of guy who sell scuba gear to fishes. The guy who makes the flower smelling detergents and fucks up match-the-following. God help us all.

The house is a log cabin on the low hills that start on the end of the city limits, where the ground starts climbing a little. A friend of a friend was leaving town so he sold it to him. A bargain. The hills and the trees and the birds and the animals keep his spirits high. After all, what is man but an animal? An animal without a jungle?

I suddenly start believing in fairies and wish for a chainsaw.

The house inside is pretty unremarkable, except for the paintings. The whole cabin seems to be full of frames with strange twisted roses painted on them, all in red. At least that’s what I hope they are, because I am a little conservative to pass it off as modern art or something. A valley of flowers in hell.

You have found out my secret hobby, he says, as he catches me staring at the paintings. That’s the only style I do, the red blotches. They are a part of my creative fulfillment. Red, now that’s a real colour, he says. Not like sky blue, fleeting, always beyond reach. Not like black, making you wait till everything disappears or the whole bright day slowly slinks into the gutter holes, one painful hour at a time. Not like any of the other colours. Red. Raw and true. Like blood. I don’t like the way this man talks.

I crease my brow to show my disagreement, but he doesn’t notice. He is busy getting his new pan on the fire. He opens up a beer for me and another for himself; says it helps him focus while cooking. What’s on the menu? I ask, walking around the house checking out knick knacks here and there. I hear him laugh, but I never quite make out what he says.

I go and check the windows out, one at a time. There are a total of three; none of them look over the town. It would be weeks before someone came knocking at all. Even then, they might pass it off as some wild buffalo or other animal which bit the dust. I smile to myself. This is going to be easier than offering candy to a kid.

Back here, where the limit of habitation ends and the ground starts to rise, it gets dark quickly. I could always finish my work in the dying light of the sun, but I never tempt fate. I maybe itching to go, but patience never killed anyone. I don’t want to do something stupid and get the force running after me, trying to take me down, hook, line and sinker. I hate the Titanic anyways.

The headache is still there, except, it’s like someone hammering on an anvil inside my head. That’s how it all started in the first place. No pills would work, no amount of massage or balms or any of those fancy medical things that they now have, for everything from mucous to mutation. Some doctor called it migraine while another called it something else. Whatever they did, they never found a cure. So I decided to find one myself.

The first one was mostly by accident. We had gone up the trail back where the view from up there is probably the best in the neighborhood, and carried my headache with me. The person accompanying me was a postman, someone who had gone on the job recently, about two months back. We went through the trail, hacking at forest growth on the way, sharing things of little or no consequence between us, climbing all the time. My headache kept getting worse, as the sun kept getting low on the horizon. By dusk, we were at the top, overlooking a cliff face, thoroughly spent. I was almost blind with pain, without a clue to get back. We got up from the face of the cliff and decided to get back. The details of what happened next are mostly a blur. I think it had something to do with lose rocks and me pushing him away from me, because I couldn’t stand him next to me anymore, thanks to the raging pain. That pain makes me a little unsocial that ways. What I do remember though is, me coming downhill from there, whistling to myself, the pain totally gone. It was almost dark by then, and I should have been afraid of the wild animals which would be out by now, but no! I traipsed along rocks and grass, my tiny flashlight guiding me along the broken path, almost making me believe it was the sun on a bright spring morning.

I had the best sleep that night, better than I had in months.

Give them a chance and they would make you believe anything. They would tell you that there is no cure for cancer or you couldn’t possibly lick your elbow. There was no El Dorado and the dinosaurs were all but dead. Mona Lisa was an alien from outer space. I say, don’t trust their word. I cured my own headache. I have learnt it a little hard that way, but I have learnt it nonetheless. A lesson in life is a lesson. Is a lesson, is a lesson.

Needless to say, I left that town in a week or so, after the search for that postman started heating up. No one had seen us getting out of town, and he was a bachelor. I don’t need to spoon feed you the rest of details. It’s something you would get by without knowing.

The outside is almost dark. I have my trusted pen light to show me the way. I wouldn’t be expecting much of lighting on this side of the town. I can hear that guy calling. Whatever he seems to be cooking, is probably done. If you have ulterior motives about someone, do you share a bite with him? Do hidden agendas count as a deterrent towards ill practices in gastronomy? Whatever is on the fire smells like heaven. I could do with a bite. No sense in going back with a happy mood, no headache and empty stomach. But, first things first. Got to get the job done. I could always help myself to generous servings later.

He is standing with his back to me, sautéing the final bits of whatever he is cooking in the pan. He is still gibbering on. No wonder the guy doesn’t have company. The amount he talks could make your ears bleed. I guess I would be doing his acquaintances a big favour. I grip the handle of the knife tucked in my pocket tightly and go stand right behind him.

He is still cooking, making that huge blob (meat?) go round and round in boiling hot oil. And talking. The headache has turned into a steam engine, spilling molten coal and steam inside my head and rumbling on. A quick recap of the scenes from the past is running in front of my eyes in quick succession. The guy on the bus, heavily sedated, his wrist going drip, drip on the floor. The woman standing with her head inside the sink at the publish washroom, not knowing what hit her. Another, sitting quietly on the bed, his television running on full volume, never to be seen again with his living eyes. Relief in various packages, signed and delivered. Relief standing right in front of my eyes, frying food. The knife is in my hands now. Raw. Quiet. Waiting.

My eyes wander towards the paintings. Remember what I told you about me hating water colours? That tiny detail makes me linger just a little longer, drawing my attention towards them. The paintings stand, shoulder to shoulder, glowing softly in the light of bulb planted in the middle of the room. There is dullness in the paintings that attract me. I don’t find the red in them repulsive; there is almost a growing fondness towards it. There is a strange uniformity in the shapes of those objects, something that I am familiar with. Each of those paintings, varying in size, has features, features you wouldn’t associate with a rose or a tulip or any flower at all. And suddenly, the roses in the painting aren’t roses anymore.

Ohmysweetgod.

I never find out when the guy stopped talking. I stood too long. I did not care about getting the work done first, and chilling out later. I cannot afford mistakes. I could not afford mistakes. I fucked up. I probably looked like an idiot standing behind him, knife in hand. I lost my chance. I did not wrap up the Christmas present and now its back to bite me.

The last thing I see is a big black sun, rushing to meet my face. And then,

Crunch.

Three Course

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 07:30:00 +0000

Part One: Starters

The first part is the trickiest.

The sun is high up in the sky, on a simmer, slowly boiling the sinners down here on their way to hell. Me, I am an obedient one. No rebellion, no getting out of line. No being Joan-of-Arc on afternoon television commercials between the games. If you want to take them off so bad, go do something about it outside your living room popcorn bowl. Hell, go to the stadium for chrissake.

I am not watching the game on television. I am watching a man in the shop watching the television. He owns the place. This time of the afternoon, most of the places are empty. You can walk around the shop, pick things up, put them back, like you own the place. The owner is too busy watching the television to notice if you want to shoplift. Anything that you might want to pickup here would probably be worth dirt.

There are knick knacks on the shelves, stuff that was dictated by consumerism and customized for no one. Fruit smelling detergents. Flower flavoured disinfectants. City flavoured eating things. Someone had a wild roll at match-the-following and came up with zilch on the report card and a shelf full of things.

Rad.

I hang around for about half an hour and finally leave the shop with a bunch of mints. I feel tempted to filch something from right under the guy’s nose and I know that part doesn’t come under the close circuit camera. Figuring out a thief from a total of one person shouldn’t be too difficult. I let the matter rest. During this time, no one else comes into the shop. It’s been a thirty minute waste of time in the back alleys of a degenerate departmental. I get out and decide to move into another.

Exeunt.

If you have ever decided to wander around a nondescript locality in a sunny afternoon, especially if there was a game on, you would know two things for sure.

One, you don’t have anything much to do, or you have possibly exhausted all other means of passing time.

Two, anyone else who might be doing the same also doesn’t have much to do. He is possibly not even doing a job. Or having a family. Or decided to solar fry himself while the rest of the world was on its way to televised nirvana.

One of those afternoons, I struck upon a plan and put it into action, but more on that later. For starters, I need to find inspiration; and the kind I look for lies in one of these shops. The question is which one?

I find it in a shop selling utensils. My inspiration for the moment. My afternoon muse. I wish I knew the French word for it.

My muse is looking at Teflon coated frying pans and trying to figure out the size which would help him sort out his frying woes. Should he deep fry his way into hell or soft serve his guts so that they can find their way into a reality show based heaven, where every health conscious freak that ever lived cooks his balanced calories diet on a low flame at a fairy made oven? You get a shallow pan free if you buy that deep dish you have been looking for. Leave it to the manufacturing guys to help you find into the dirtiest, fattiest hell.

Always a short cut, never a highway.

I go and stand by him, passing a smile wide enough to let a truck pass through. Winning them over is important, and with the kind of timeline I am on, you got to be fast. If you dally your way around, your afternoon is wasted. Never let one pass you over, he might come around and bite you on your way back. Make a Christmas present out of every single one, nice and wrapped up.

When I am walking out with him from the shop, it’s already half time at the game on television. I find out that the guy is a bachelor, has moved into the neighborhood recently. Are there some good watering holes around here? Could he sight see maybe? The place he is working is really boring; hardly people to talk to. Maybe I could come along with him. He is pretty good at fried stuff, especially making it. Haha.

Sometimes it’s easier than you think. We head to his place. Even better. I make it a point to stay away from the close circuit cameras. Playing safe is a part of the game. My face would be pretty different if anyone comes looking for it. I would make sure that it is. On our way out, I spot a bunch of those fresh stainless steel carvers that are flooding the market. Steel, the favourite way a metal ever came to you. No gold or silver. Steel. Pure, shiny, raw and naked.

My prince in shining armor.

There are no cameras focused here so I quickly slip one as the guy goes about chattering, a little distance ahead of me. The shopkeeper is still head on into the game. He would not know if a nuke hit his shop and everything turned post-Jurassic in the blink of an eye. Television whores.

The starters fixed, I realize. Its time to order the main course.

[First part of a three part story. Stick around for the rest if you like it. Even if you dont, lemme know!]

So...

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 09:15:00 +0000

So.

I have never Ever begun a piece of writing/letter/story/poetry/epic on such a monosyllabic note.

So?

I haven’t done a lot of things before that I am trying out for the first time now. I haven’t job hunted ever, but I just did it a while back and scooped up a job. I haven’t ever given a surprise to my parents and I am past quarter life. Did too. A few other unmentionables, but you get the drift. You could call it blasphemy.

I call it perception. Point of view.

So?

I haven’t written on the blog in a while, and for longer, not written stories. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. I have written a novelette and it should be out before you guys can get this blog out of focus again. If you still haven’t bought the book you see on the side panel, do a favour to a starving author and he would bless you with more stories. Okay, I exaggerated for a bit there, but aren’t that all writers, pseudo or otherwise, about?

Enough with the trash talk already. If you are here for the first time, flip through the archieves and you would land up over a score of short stories. For free. Free highs. Free Kicks. Of late, that four letter discount into nothingness is the only thing that matters.

So?

Become a follower. Spread the word. Buy the book. Like the fan page on Facebook. Do my bidding or I would turn all of you into multi-coloured tadpoles. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to find out if I am lying or not.

All you story mongers, tale vultures and fable vixens, do not fret; the wait is finally over. I give you THREE COURSE. Feast.

Boredom

noreply@blogger.com (Scribblers Inc) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 05:50:00 +0000

I am sick of being sick,
stupid colours and party tricks
toddlers and walking sticks
dripping cuisines and toothpicks

I am tired of being wired...
jabbering boxes, green and tiered;glowing screens, undesired...
faces, steaming, hot, perspired

I am lonely of my self, and only
I dont want a jennifer conelly
to make my rhyme stick strong and conely
now If I was a poet..IF only... [I cant write...and I am running out of excuses...]