It was loud when I met her and I didn’t catch her name. She talked with her eyes, her face, her body. We danced until our feet felt as if they were on fire. It had been a long time since I danced like that, so much so that I had wanted to thank her for existing, for being born and making all of those steps that brought her to the club tonight. I felt stupid. Absolutely and frighteningly stupidly happy.
I must had been smiling to reflect my feelings because she was about to break away and leave when her eyes caught my face. Something in it made her paused in her tracks, already her body turning halfway from me. The lights in the nightclub changed and a flash of brightness swept past us. I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling, my lips grinning ear to ear. She looked at me and then she broke into a laughter that I could not hear. The music boomed and swelled and all I could hear was the sound of my own heart beats.
She reached out and took my hand in hers and led us outside, through the throng of dancers and revellers, and then out into the night. My ears were ringing in the sudden quiet but the beats of my heart were almost deafening. Her hand was hot and firm. I didn’t want to interrupt our heat with words so I gripped back and followed.
We walked a fair distance along the beach until the copse of coconut trees became denser and then we went around some bushes and shed our clothes rapidly. In the dark, it was difficult but we somehow managed. She sounded impatient and there was a sound of a ripping fabric. We didn’t let it bother us. Urgently, we were at each other’s face with rapid, warm breaths and almost immediately after, our bodies were dancing together again, though connected now and to the rhythm of our own music.
The sounds of morning birds woke me up. I felt the chill of dawn’s air upon my skin. Groggily, I sat up. I was still at the beach, behind the bushes. The waves were coming and going, there was sand everywhere. I dumbly noticed my clothes and started to collect them through a process of auto-pilot. Then, I remembered the night and I remembered her. I looked up and she was there, smiling at me as she held her own torn clothes to her chest with her hand.
I didn’t realize she was blonde. In the club, it had been difficult to see. She talked with her eyes, her face, her body. I knew acutely that she was saying that it had been pleasant. And that it was good-bye.
I did the only thing I could.
I thanked her for existing, for being born, and for making all those steps that brought her here.
Esther was born into a small village of people who believed in reincarnations. When she was five, an adult overheard her talking to her friends about her previous life. Soon after, the priests came and took her away from her family. She was brought into the temple, where they asked her a number of questions. It was the first time in Esther’s life to have people paying supreme attention to her. Within her family, she was the sixth child out of eleven, and she was often forgotten or neglected. She was happy to comply with the priests’ interests and supplied them various details and answers.
A few priests thought that some of her stories did not add up, but they chalked it up to the soul’s confusion of having to transfer over to this new vessel. More than ever, their religion was dying and people were losing belief in reincarnations. Their instincts told them that they needed this child as much as the child needed them. When she turned six years old, they crowned her a ‘Saint’ in front of the whole village.
Saint Esther grew up magnificently. She was adorable as a child, pure as a teenager, and charming as a young woman. Her eyes were a little vacant, staring at distant things that no one else could discern, but the head priest explained it well.
“She is already seeing into her next life. She is proof of our faith.”
The people accepted this and worshipped her duly.
One day, Saint Esther asked her caretaker priest, “I would like to marry.”
The priest was taken by surprise. “But, Saint Esther, you are our Saint. You can’t belong to a mortal man!”
She laughed, a little mad, “I’ve only been making things up. Don’t be daft. I do not remember anything about past life or some such horrid nonsense.”
The next day Saint Esther’s blessings were cancelled at the town. People clamoured.
“Where is Saint Esther? I would like to listen to her stories about her lives!”
“She who remembers! She who sees!”
“Who am I going to be in my next life?!”
The priests were silent. Eventually, one of them stepped forward and announced, “Saint Esther is very ill. Please pray for her. Be faithful. With your prayers, she may recover.”
Even as they withdrew into the temple, the beginning of a chanting prayer could be heard. The people were faithful.
Within the dark chambers of the inner temple, the priests were in distress. Anguished, they turned to the priest that asked the villagers to pray for Esther.
“What did you tell them?”
“That she is unwell.” The priest replied. Though young, this priest was ambitious and his eyes were aglow with a strange fire. “She is, you know, unwell.” He continued.
The rest of them considered this. A few started to nod.
“Yes, that’s right. She is unwell.”
Once agreed upon, saying such things out loud, it felt less like an opinion and more like the truth. They repeated it again.
“She is unwell.”
It was true. She was unwell.
They turned once more to the young, ambitious priest with the strange glow in his eyes. “How shall we treat her?”
The priest smiled.
Saint Esther reappeared. The people were jubilant. She was no longer talkative, but her gaze remained. Vacantly staring into the distance, Saint Esther sat amongst her worshippers benevolently. They told her many of their worries, confident that she would bless them with better lives next time if she had heard how much they are struggling in this one. A small drool dripped from the corner of her idle mouth. The young priest quickly produced a handkerchief and wiped it away gently.
The people thought it was rather strange, but Saint Esther’s face was smiling still. They offered their praises and they went home.
Saint Esther was guided back into the temple once the mass was over. Seated on a soft day-bed, she smiled benevolently as the young priest fed her another dose of opium. Her eyes dilated, she laid her body down to continue to stare vacantly at the ceiling of her room. A face of perfect serenity. A state of detachment from everything.
The young priest sighed.
“I have yet to increase the dose again. She will not last very long.” He stood up, staring down at the wasting body of Esther. He turned around to his kin and proclaimed, “We will need another Saint.”
The houses were old and cramped together in this forgotten area of
the city. Buildings built on top of one another, leaving a labyrinth of
narrow alley ways that smelled and felt of perpetual neglect. Gloom was a
permanent cloak, cast by all the houses that tried to look away from
the webwork of these dark pathways where the sun struggled to reach the
grounds. Here, the hired killer waited today.
His target was a wealthy man who had a sick fetish with flaunting his wealth at the poorest of the poor. He was due to come around to the slum tonight, as he always did whenever he had had a bad day, and the news was full with very incriminating news on his target during the day. He would need his pick-me-up. He’d come today. And Death would collect.
Her mascara was running and Jess was way past point of caring.
It was supposed to be a normal day. She had forgotten the time that her other life was secret and unusual. She had forgotten that she was not like everyone else. She had forgotten to sleep with one eye opened.
Ten long years of peace and normalcy. Ten blissful years. Days after days after days of waking up to a mundane routine, of going to work, of doing groceries, of paying bills. She had even started to care about which celebrity was dating which other celebrity.
And then, out of the blue, the past shot out a long arm and dragged her back into the dark.
“You can’t walk away from what you’ve done.” It whispered.
“You can’t walk away from what you are.” It screamed.
Jess wanted to say that she had ‘reasons’. That somehow her needs justified her crimes, but really, no one cared. Once you’ve stolen something from someone, once you’ve hurt someone, lied to them, took from them, no one cared about your excuses.
And now the injured party caught up to her and demanded “justice”. They meant … vengeance.
She had no choice but to fight back.
“You. You are a vile thing. Release the vessel, demon.”
Demons cannot walk the Earth without a flesh container, and animals make boorish vehicles. But she had forgotten she was one.
“Leave me alone.” She growled. “I don’t want to have to harm another.”
But this man who had used to love the woman called ‘Jess’ was blinded by ten years of obsessive and righteous wrath. He was never going to listen to her.
“Don’t you put that on me, you wretch.” He spat, throwing some grotesque phrases in Latin that was an attack upon her. A string of powerful words designed to expel her from her coils. He had been prepared. He had studied and rehearsed and armed himself well. He roared with great anger.
But it was not her first rodeo.
Immediately, she made to harm the body she was riding in and the man stopped. One fraction of a second was plenty of time. When he was not armed with his holy babbling, she rushed at him and cut his arteries opened at his neck with a small switchblade knife she had in her purse.
The man’s eyes went wide with shock. Then his body fell with a thump upon the carpeted floor.
“Kyle.” A memory of her vessel’s. That was the name of the dead sack of meat. This body once had loved Kyle. When it was alive. Jess felt wetness on her face. Her eyes were crying. She laughed and wiped the tears away, ruining her mascara.
It was not time to be crying. This fool of a human being had now ruined this life. She had to move now. She had to leave her job, her apartment, her town.
It was supposed to be a normal day.
Quickly, she packed lightly and dragged her small luggage out on its wheels. The city at night ignored her running face and her dishevelled outfit. Bathed in neon lights and darkness, she walked through the throng of people enjoying their evening merriments.
Idly, she wondered if her favourite actor was going to tweet news about his upcoming rumoured movie as she disappeared amongst the crowd.
We’ve published our first book at Amazon Kindle last week !
It’s available as an ebook at the moment and will also be available as
paperback soon (hopefully) : D
The book is titled Mr. Purwood’s Secret Barking and it
follows a young doctor who was called out to a house visit to investigate a
curious case! Doctor Connuru Alston Ket lives in a small town called
Cattingwood, where it is mostly peaceful and harmonious. Mostly.
However, on one strange occasion, a close friend of his
started to suddenly bark! Why would a perfectly respectable cat person suddenly
be barking? And would Connuru be able to help his friend? Pick up a copy to
find out the answers : D
This is a short novel of only six chapters, perfect for a length of a brief commute, and each chapter is accompanied with our original ink illustrations (like this one in this post!). We look forward to hearing your feedback about our work, and we hope that you will join us for more adventures with our characters in the future!
A little bit of Christmas. That’s all that Tom had wanted.
Tom wanted a little bit of Christmas.
All the shopping centres were full with decorations, colours and
brightness, laughter, jingles, wish lists and sales. Christmas was in
season. Formless tension seeped under the chatter, behind price tags and
advertisements, into people’s brains and mouths. Christmas was here.
“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?”
“I don’t know what to get for my mom… She has everything!”
“The new iPhone is so nice.”
Tom fidgeted quietly. Hunger was gnawing at his stomach. Two kids
burst out of a car in the parking lot, laughing and happy. One of them
squealed as he grabbed one of his dad’s legs.
“Then, after, we get pizzas??”
“Anything you want, champ.” His dad ruffled his hair affectionately before they all disappeared into the mall.
There was a sharp and unpleasant feeling in Tom’s chest and it was
not only hunger any more. He did not doubt that pizzas would be swell
but he wanted everything else, too. Why was he Tom? Why was he not the
kid in the car?
Another kid emerged from behind the automatic doors, happiness almost
uncontainable spilling forth from his smiling face, hugging a box of a
new toy with both arms.
“Thank you, mommy! Thank you, daddy!”
The mother exchanged a look with the father, tenderness in their eyes and they squeezed each other’s hand warmly.
Tom had nothing but what he wore on him. He sniffled quietly,
watching and wanting. Watching. And, wanting. Slowly, something turned
inside of his heart. At first it was a throw-away thought that formed
when he watched one of the kids stumbled awkwardly. This one had been
carrying a little bag with Christmas tarts and cookies inside and
everything tumbled out onto the pavement.
“Oh! Careful!”
The adult rushed over to the now crying child and checked him thoroughly. They were not concerned about the cookies and cakes.
“Don’t cry, silly… shush now. We can always buy more. Come, can you stand?”
Sensing he was not in actual troubles, the child got up to his feet,
mewling weakly. There was a tear on his jeans that exposed his bleeding
knee. Tom watched as the adult fussed over this little wound, bringing
the child away into their car with as much care as possible. Tom idly
scratched at the scabbing injuries on his forearm. He did not even
remember how he had gotten some of his cuts and bruises, but when you
were living without a roof, these kinds of things… happened.
The sun was starting to set somewhere beyond the shopping centres and
buildings. Tom shivered a little. As the light of the day went, more
shoppers came and went. Having nothing else to do but watch, Tom had
started to imagine them getting into situations with escalating
misfortune.
Their bags were torn and the toys inside got all broken up as they
smashed onto the ground. The kids fell and broke their legs. Their cars
pulled away from the parking lot and got run over by a truck. There was a
shooter in the shopping malls, opening fire at everyone.
He was making a pistol firing motion with his hands when an old woman
walked by. She had a lame leg and was not able to walk properly. When
she saw him doing the firearm movements at the shoppers, her eyes were
alarmed. Tom dropped his hands shamefully, wishing that the old hag
would go away.
But her leg was bad and she was struggling terribly with her cane.
Tom watched her for a minute or two. Her bag was drooping now to one
side, almost falling away from her. He got up and caught it before the
contents spilled out.
The grandmother gasped. She was thankful, her clouded eyes lit up with warmth.
“Thank you.”
Tom shrugged. He helped her get to the bus stop. She was anxious to
catch her bus on time because she knew she would take a lot of time to
walk. She told him her route’s number and he checked it against the
little information schedule for Christmas period.
“Ten minutes.”
“Wonderful!” The old woman smiled. “I am going to visit my grandchildren.”
“They should have picked you up.”
She said nothing in reply but took out a snow globe with a tiny
Christmas tree inside it. “I am sorry I have nothing better to give you.
This was a freebie they gave me at the shops. Merry Christmas, young
man!”
Tom had no use for such a trinket but he received it anyway. It was
her eyes and her face. She squeezed his forearm warmly with her old
person’s hand, which was soft and frail. She was not a woman of means.
Tom felt through her a reminiscent of being loved. He took the snow
globe and walked back to his spot near the charity bin at one of the
exits of the shopping centre.
Later that night, when everything was closed and quiet, he would go through the bin for anything he could use or sell.
But for now, he sat down with his tiny Christmas tree inside the snow globe.
A few hundred years in the future, humans would be able to
engineer synthetic humans. These new humanoids feel and think like
humans, however they are engineered to be superior than us, in terms of
intelligence, strength, and aesthetics.
This is the story of Claire, a synthetic human, with Mother, the engineer who created her. Today is her first birthday.
“Mummy? Am I ugly?”
“Of course not, you are pretty as an angel.”
“But my hands are red and veiny.” Claire has seen others who are artificially created, they have unblemished skins.
“There was a malfunction in the laboratory when you were born. And your
hands are not ugly, on the contrary, they make you special.” Mother sits
beside her. “Your hands are the sole reason why you get to stay here
with me. All of my other children are out there in the world, purchased
and owned by humans who want to be served and loved without questions.
Yet these humans refuse to accept any kind of imperfections.”
Claire mulls about this for some time. Despite their age, synthetic
humans are built to be precociously intelligent. At length she looks up
again at her Mother, this time with a bright smile. “I don’t mind my
hands anymore if I get to stay with you forever—they’re imperfectly
perfect! I love you, mummy.”
Mother embraces her warmly. “I love you very much, my dear. Happy birthday.”
When you are born in a small village, life is pretty simple. If you are an adult, you put food on the table for your family and if you are a child, you help the adults put food on the table for your family. Pretty straightforward.
Runa’s village is one such place. Small and plain, it lives by the sea, where the fishes are plenty and the weather is good all year around. Life starts early in the morning when the sun rises, and for children, ends pretty early also near when the sun goes to bed. Runa’s family is a typical one. Two healthy and happy parents, and children numbering more than the fingers on one hand. Runa is the sixth child in her home, and the second girl.
Growing up, Runa watches the people in her village. Everyone has a job. Something they do bring value to the village. Runa’s father is a builder and he builds and repairs people’s houses. Runa’s mother is a teacher and she teaches the children how to count and she teaches them who they are also, their stories, their ancestors, where they come from.
When Runa is very young, she thinks she will grow up like her older sister, Nira, who is beautiful and graceful. Nira is not very good at anything but she tries very hard and she is kind. She dances. She does not dance very good but she always gives her best. Nira also weave baskets. Nira’s baskets are not very good and often fall apart in a matter of weeks but they sell quite well. Nira fishes but never catches anything bigger than her thumb but Nira is very beautiful and people are kind to her.
Runa thinks it is nice to have people be kind to you by default, but people does not treat the two sisters the same way. Runa is born big-boned and a little plain and Runa has to do everything twice as hard as Nira to get the same level of rewards. Runa has to be the best weaver to make the same sales as Nira. Runa has to dance absolutely perfectly to get the same applause as Nira. Runa has to become the village’s best fisher to even get people to praise her.
This is very upsetting to Runa.
One day, a very handsome and wealthy man from the next village proposes to their parents and they accept this. Nira is going to be married off and Runa feels a little happy that she will no longer be around. She goes to congratulate her sister but Nira is crying her eyes out at the back of their tiny house. Runa doesn’t get it. What could Nira be upset about! Her life is so easy!
Runa comes to slap some sense into her sister! But Nira looks up at her before she can do it and mistakes her raised hand as in a gesture for a hug, so she lunges at Runa and hugs her terribly!
“Oooof!” Runa goes.
“Oh, if only I was like you, Runa!” Nira wails.
“Whuh?” Runa goes.
“I don’t want to be married off! I wish I was like you, someone who is very good at things that can stand on her own two feet!” Nira exclaims!
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat!” Runa goes!
“Please, teach me how to do something so I can be the best at it! Then they won’t think I have to be dependent on some one else!” Nira begs.
Runa feels dizzy. She pushes her sister away and she says, “You are crazy! You have the best life!”
It is now Nira who stares at her sister as if she has a funny face.
“That’s crazy! I have the worst life! I am no good at anything! How can you think I have the best life!”
The both of them think the other is crazy.
Later on, Nira runs away. Who knows where she goes, no one can say. The parents apologize a lot to the parents of the groom-to-be from the neighbouring village. They send many gifts to make up for their shame. Runa is sometimes sent off to give them her best catch or her best basket.
They ask Runa, “Where is your sister!”
Runa shrugs, “Not here.”
She goes back home after she gives away her best fish or basket. She looks at the horizon sometimes, when no one is looking and she wonders the same question. People misses Nira very much. The flower of their village. Runa misses Nira too, but she does not let it show because she will get into troubles if people finds out that she helps her sister run away.
Runa doesn’t know where Nira is, but she knows one thing: She is at a place where she can own her own destiny.
It
was still snowing in February, up in Maine, and my plane was delayed
for 2 hours. I was tired, I was upset and I was anxious. We had a fight
before my plane took off and the last thing I texted her was a rude and
angry message. And now I was anxious that I had ruined it all. She had
wanted me to take time off from work. Her intentions came from a good
place, I knew that. She was worried that I was going to burn out in this
job, with all these traveling, with all these long hours. But my boss
was a slave driver, and asking for leave was never an easy thing. She
knew that, too. Or she should have known that, by now.
I had snapped at her. I texted that I was doing this for both of us,
adding a little snide remark that it must have been nice for her to be a
stay at home person. That must have stung. That must have hurt.
I wanted to cry and take it all back. I would not be able to be who I
am, to get where I’d gotten, without her by my side. I was being
selfish and stupid and awful. And now, at the early hours in the
morning, I was afraid to go home to my own bed.
Suddenly, a voice called out to me, and there she was, standing in
the snow just outside of the arrival gate. She must have been standing a
while since there was snow on her, but her smile was warm and full with
love. I must have flown to her arms. She hugged me back. I said how
sorry I was, about three thousand times.
