The Battle

And inevitably, it dawned upon me that my enemy was close. I could feel it, breathing down my neck, absolute and inevitable.
I look up and there it is, the monstrosity, staring me in the face. And in a fit of rage I pounce, only to get a response matching, and perhaps surpassing my own vigour.
We wrestle, like mad, rabid dogs, like we were battling for the first time, and the truth could not be farther. We fought, and fought and and we fought some more, until it was all over.
I got up, dusted myself and walked away, ready and perhaps a little bit wiser for the next time. Monday had been dealt with.

A Mother Too.

She taught me everything I know and scared dad away whenever he was angry with me.

She worried about what I ate, she kept nagging about it and made me look like fool if I retorted back.

She cuddled me at night, when I was afraid of all the noises the bugs made.

She was killed by those gun people, and taken away, when I was only a cub.

I miss her warmth, her care,her fur; I miss my mother.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

All in God's Work

God: So, how's it going?

Apprentice: Same old same old. Strife, war, peace at places. Nothing out of the ordinary.

God: Hmm, something I expected, but really hoped it wouldn't come to.

Apprentice: Really, you actually don't know the course this world will take?

God: No. I can only observe. I never even knew that human beings would come into existence, let alone their fate. So what I set into motion was a domino effect, a chain of events if you will, culminating into the state of Earth as it is today.

Apprentice: So, you don't have a bearing on what happens everyday?

God: No. But in a way, I'm the biggest causal effect that the universe ever had. So, a major reason of what is happening today is me. But that is because I triggered the genesis of it all.

Apprentice: So are human beings fools to be praying to you, preaching your name?

God: The design of the universe facilitated the emergence of a dominant organism. I never thought it'd be those monkeys, but look where they stand now.Yet, the more profound realities of this universe remain quite unknown to them.They are only at a nascent stage of self-realization.It will take time for them to truly understand what my and their existence means.So if they do not self-destruct, they are in the right path to do so.
So, they shall struggle to know what I truly am, they mistake me for their caretaker and ultimate savior, but time will come when they realize that I'm just a creator, a being, who didn't even expect their existence a few billion years ago. But ultimately, they should get there, ultimately they shall realize that I'm as perplexed, as normal and as 'humane' as they are. Only stronger.

Apprentice: Hmm, food for thought...

God: Enough for today, let's get t work. This universe won't make itself. 

The Nature of Our Being

"And ladies and gentlemen, it is done. The Final Front have defeated The Reign! The word monarch has fallen.", veteran central T.V. anchor Rajon Gulliver announced.

"This is the end of an era. The class society has been defeated, the slaves rejoice at the Center Arch as we speak. This is landmark news, isn't it Edna?"

Edna, the co-anchor, reciprocated the beaming, glee-filled radiance that his fellow anchor was portraying,
"It definitely is Rajon. It is the day people were waiting for. Liberation from the hierarchical society we are living in. And a hope for a classless world, the far fetched dream of an Utopia that finally seems possible..."

"I'm sorry Edna, I'll have to cut you there, we have the Commander Latheos, live from the Center Arch. Commander, it is over, 20 years of bloody war, and now it is all over."

"Yes, happiest days of our lives! Now we can go forward with Project Regen. A perfect world is
waiting for us!"

"Yes Commander, indeed it is. Say, Commander, just for our young viewers and for the uninitiated,
I doubt there are any, please repeat our grand plans for the ultimate renaissance."

"It will an honour. In search of a classless society and a world where everyone is an equal, we take some drastic but necessary steps. First, we give up all technology, in order to come clean with nature and pay
her our tribute, for we have wronged her. Next, and more importantly, we all take the Red Pill, that will be provided to each person by Final Front representatives. This pill will take us into a deep sleep and we wake up with no memory of this wretched present.We wake as free men, equal men. And then it is done."
"The clocks shall be reset and man shall be reborn.This will be the corner stone of our Utopia,  and we shall call it Earth."

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

A Mother After All

A mother's love is like no other . Everyone knows that. But no one knows it better than I do.Here's why:

The Tomb of Leeza is a beautiful place, with a bloodied past. A mother is said to have been buried alive by the King, who then took her son away and gave it to his queen, who was without a child. It is said that the king had the mother's thumbs chopped off and and then had her locked in a small room. Without her thumbs, the mother could never escape. Later, the king built this gigantic tomb around that little chamber, as a remembrance of the mother's 'sacrifice'.
Me and some pals took a trip to the place once.It was beautiful and scenic to a point that you felt as if it was hiding something. The blue sky, the lush green grass, and of course, the huge red soil colored tomb. We explored  the chambers in the tomb and stumbled upon the center room. And it was eerie. Dark, dingy and signs of struggle all over. The place reeked of fear and horror. One felt bad for the poor woman, who had her child taken away and was then buried alive.
Our group decided to take off as the place was creepy to death. One by one we made our way out, but just as I was about to get out (I was the last one.), the stick keeping the door open gave away and the heavy brick door slammed shut.
I shuddered with fear. I was in the tomb, alone. My friends tried hard but could not move the door an inch. They said it would take time to bring help, but I knew that no help would come till tomorrow. I braced myself for a night alone.
Time went by. More than anything, the grim environs was what scared me the most. I kept myself busy with dirt-drawing and sleeping.
It was then, perhaps well past midnight, that I heard a faint cry. I curled up in the deepest corner of the room and kept still. The cries grew louder and louder till a point where I felt scared, but also sorry. I was so moved that I began to cry, not out of fear, but out of pity. The cries subsided to soft sobs. I wished I could console her. I cried myself to sleep.Sun rays woke me up the next morning.I was in the company my friends, who were staring down at me earnestly The local police had helped them to open the door. The horror on their faces was palpable. Something was off. I told them the whole story, but to my surprise, no one made fun of me.
Back home,when I looked at a mirror, I realized why my friends were so grim. My cheeks had blood streaks over them and my hair was frizzy. No,it was't mine. It was as if someone who had bloody hands, had wiped my tears and patted my head.

Ways of Life

*June 15th, 1982*
"Tumko Dekha toh yeh khayal aaya.
The new Jagjit Singh gem set the mood at the Chai shop, when I saw her again.
My word! Isn't she just breathtaking?
She stood at the Bus Depot, flawless, serene, simple. I gawked at her until Mahesh Bhai reminded me that my Irani tea was going cold. But what else could I do? She was beyond any other girl. Mahesh Bhai deduces that either I have Alzheimer's or I'm in love. I too think that the Alzheimer's thing is true, love sounds too crazy.I should talk to her, maybe."

*Dec 28th, 2014*
"Manisha looks in truly positive spirits as she chases down a big butterfly. She is a little princess, with her soft golden locks freely flowing. Her mother would approve, she loved her curls as well.It's a fine day at the park.
I see her in our daughter.
I sit back and listen to some music. Jagjit Singh. And it takes me back...
How I truly miss her, and how I break down at times. But I would never part with those wonderful 20 years we had. Right from the days of the bus depot till the marriage. Those are the days that keep me going. Even after she was diagnosed with leukemia, we had so much love. Some sweet talks, those late night book readings, and love that grew stronger each day.
Yes,love it was. Mahesh Bhai was wrong after all.

Zindagi dhoop, tum ghanaa Sayaa. "

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Fool Metal Jacket

It was a trap! Or was it?
I have been holed up in there for three long days now, cornered and nowhere to go.  I need to go out and get some supplies. And there it was in front of me. Days worth of stuff. How did it come to this?

We were doing good. We had infiltrated most of the area. And our grasp on each sector was growing strong.We had planned this. Thoroughly. Our recces were rigorous and maneuvers were relentlessly practiced. Little did we anticipate what came next.
Somehow, the enemy got to us.All our plans lie in waste. Our intricate underground sub-system had failed us. All my comrades died or went missing. It was the new chemical warfare tactics those scoundrels had been using.  And it's contagious too. Those inhuman bastards sully their own name. Where has the honour in war gone?

And now this. I'm short of supplies and risk has to be taken.I have to take this chance. I have to tread slowly, else I'll be caught.

SNAP!

My tail was caught in the hook!
Can't believe I fell for a rattrap.Once again, cheese is our undoing.


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Delirium

Dangerous wouldn't even begin to describe the situation that he was in.
Minutes ago, he was cozy in his bed, reading Robert Ludlum on a Friday night. When suddenly, he heard these groaning noises that scared the hell out of him. As the noises grew louder and closer, fear took over and he hid inside the closet and waited. He waited till the groans died down.
He sat down and tried to relax, trying to convince himself that nothing was wrong, that it was just a mouse. It is ironic how death strikes you when you least expect it to.
A GROAN reverberated. He stiffened, and shuddered in fear.
This time, it was from inside the closet.

*Save*

He fixed his glasses. Very nice. Very nice indeed. He patted himself on the back, for the great creepy-pasta he had just written. Small, but packs a punch, he thought. Now he can go and pee. He had been holding it in, in his excitement.
Great stories come in the creepiest of situations. His parents being away and the whole house being dark was the ultimate stage. As he returned from the washroom,  he noticed something weird. The notepad application looked blank. His entire story was gone.
Well, except for one line. As he neared his PC, the line grew clearer, until he could read the line clearly.

'NICE STORY.', it said.

*Save*

She finished her story amidst the constant  rattling of trees in the monstrous storm outside. Her penchant for darker themes had bested her again. She grew restless. As much as she enjoyed horror stories, she inadvertently became aware of her surroundings once she has written or read one. She put her dairy on the table top and tried to sleep. She tried hard, but to no avail.
The hand stroking her hair made it difficult. Especially 'cause she was alone in the house that night.

*Save*

He was happy with his layered horror story. This would be a hit in the blogosphere, he thought. Just then, he heard a strange noise coming from the backyard. Amused by how real life can sometime mimic stories, he headed out to check upon the miscreant, probably a mouse. He never came back...

I found this story on his PC, unpublished.Prior to his disappearance, he had gone insane, went on writing weird stories. And he always talked about this figure that stalked him.A figure no one else could see.
We should never have gone to the graveyard that night...

Charlie, if you see this story or stumble upon it on the internet,come back, or give a call man. It's been 8 years now...

Waltz with the Devil

Hello My Friends,
This is an account of the most peculiar incident to have ever happened to me. And I'm pretty sure, that no other human being would have had an experience like this.
Oh, how rude of me to not introduce myself. I'm.... well, let's just call me Narrator for the time being. Now without further ado, let's begin our story:
The thing about me is that, I'm not like those other perverts. Neither do I lust over the female body, nor do I crave the basic human need, as many of my deranged fellow beings do. No.
I'm just a great admirer of the female form. It's symmetry, it's grace, indeed the Almighty did a fine job. And every time I come across one that has astounding aesthetics, I like to preserve it. I like to glorify the Gods' work. Pay a homage, if you will.
And preserving them in amber was only natural. Brings the best out of them. An envious collection I have. Someday, I may show it to the world.
Anyway, one fine day, your humble narrator was on one of his usual recces, to Jim's bar, albeit a little late in the day. 2 a.m. to be precise. Jim's was the local watering hole and I usually find my goddesses there. I really didn't have much hope for that day really. Firstly, it was very late, and from what I'd heard, Jim just lets the tap run for the regulars.So, if anything, free beer was in the offing. I entered the dimly lit bar, and found no one. But to my surprise, the karaoke machine was playing.It was a grim setting. Even for a cold man like your narrator, the atmosphere was a bit unnerving. That's when I saw her. In the dim neon lights, I could make out, a woman, sitting at the end of the table. And boy, was she pretty. I didn't even think twice before I slid a chair was sitting next to her.

"Hey, come here often?"

"Used to. Just a passing traveler today. What about you?"

"Regular. Got off late from work. Well, a pretty lady like you shouldn't be hanging around so late in the night. Lot of pervs out there."

"Well. A handsome man like you shouldn't either. Ladies are wild these days..."

"Ha ha. I like you. But seriously, aren't you scared? It is really late and this is not exactly a people friendly place..."

"Nah... it's okay. Also, I wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting a man like you if I wasn't a bit adventurous."

"Ha ha.Well put. Excuse me, I'll be back from the loo."

"Sure."

And that friends, was the last of that lady, that your humble narrator saw.
I made the loo excuse to get out of there. That's because something did not feel right. I knew the moves that I make to get a woman to come with me. That night, for the first time, I felt that the moves were being put on me. I was tempted to play along, I really was. But I managed to control my urge, and left. Our little waltz was over.
But the shocking part, my friends, came the next day. I walked into the bar at lunch, to see a bunch of people gawking at the local newspaper. Intrigued, I asked a by stander about all the commotion. He replied, "It's about this woman, who goes around killing men. Yeah, she takes them home, and mutilates them.She was reportedly seen around our town.Stay safe man."

After the crowd cleared, I took the copy in my hand to take a look at this distinguished lady myself.
Well. What do you know....


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

A Writer's Weapons

Yesterday, I came across this very intriguing Japanese folk story.
It was about this person. His neighbours and people across the street were always afraid of him, because of a very peculiar thing that happened every day. As a perplexed neighbour describes, "Every night after the Shyuske returns from the fields, a terrific, blood curdling scream bellows out of his house. Every night at exactly 12. Whenever we ask him about it, he just stares at us in utter silence and with dead cold eyes. We have stopped asking now." . Weird Indeed.
Shyuske's cousin Kintaro visits him one time, and on his first day, he comes across this story from the village people (village people. Really?). That night, after dinner, Kintaro anxiously waited for the clock to strike 12, to understand what really happens to his brother. Precisely at 12, Kintaro saw something very weird. All of a sudden, his brother started making these weird, loud noises standing by the window and after a while he stopped and went to  bed.
The next morning, curious Kintaro asked his brother about the events of the previous night, to which Shyuske smiled and replied, "The last owner of this house told me how this was a bad neighborhood. Most of these people living here are into bad things. They harassed the poor guy a lot. But I have to live here because this is closest place to the fields. So I came up with this plan. They will not fear police, but no one dares to mess with the supernatural."

What a great story. Opinions will vary from school to school but what struck my fancy was Shyuske's intent. He was absolutely clear about what he wanted to do and left no stone unturned to find a way and implement it to the tee. For me, this is very essential to writing. A writer with clear intent writes the cleanest stories. Intent gives purpose and direction to writing. It helps the reader to latch on to your train of thoughts and see things from your perspective.The next story is also very interesting and has actually happened.

There was once a man who chewed paan (beetle leaves) everyday. He would always have a paan in his mouth.And there was one more thing that he'd do.
Everyday, while on his way to work,the man would spit out the remaining paan on a giant stone. He kept doing this for years and gradually the stone turned red from all the paan spit.
One fine day, our protagonist was on his way to work when he saw a huge crowd in front of the stone. To his utter surprise, people were actually worshiping the stone! They thought it was a blessing from some deity. Men were donating wads of money, women had brought their children along to seek blessings of the lord.
The man was bemused. He did not have the heart to reveal the truth.

What this story shows us is, packing is important.It's just not a great concept, but the way you write it, that makes for a good read. What would 'The Fog Horn' be, but only a great idea, if it wasn't for Ray Bradbury's piercing documentary. 'The Raven' would be a drab poem, without Edgar Allan Poe's grim and dark portrayal of themes. The relic that people were worshiping was just a stone, but the red colour made it a reincarnation of god himself. That's how strong proper packaging can be.

So there you go. Intent in writing, and proper portrayal of your intent. Those are two of the greatest of writers' weapons. Armed with these, you can create magic in the greatest theater there is- the human brain.

Oh, and the first story, I just made that up. Wanted to make my intent clear.

Pulp Fiction of a Different Kind

The CashBack
Meher was elated. Finally, it was her turn at the payment counter. She had never expected the line at the Mall to be so long! She cursed her roommate for giving her that cashback slip for the store. "No cashback is worth this!", she thought.
She dumped all her stuff in the counter and waited for the clerk to pack it up.

"That will be 600.", said the clerk.

Meher: "It's okay, I have this 50% cashback slip."

Clerk: "Okay, let me see. I'm sorry Ma'am. This slip seems to have expired. This won't count."

Meher: "What! Hey, this expired just yesterday. Come on, you can make an exception, can't you?"

Clerk: "I'm sorry Ma'am. You have to pay 600/-"

Meher: "Mister, I have been standing in this godforsaken queue for over an hour, waiting for this damn cashback. Hell, I don't even like this top all that much!"

Clerk: "Please calm down ma'am. I'm only stating the rules."

Meher: "You and your dumb rules. I want my cashback!"

Clerk(whispering): "Man, what a cheapo..."

Meher: "What did you say! I'm not giving a bloody buck for this top and I'm talking to the manager! Give me my stuff!"
And with that, Meher marched off to the manager's cabin. She had waited too long to give up on her cashback offer.

The Coupon
Rita was standing in the line. She sighed. It was like wasting five precious minutes of your life! Waiting in a Mall counter line is absolutely the worst kind of boredom. She was brought back to earth by yelling of some kind. Apparently, this lady in the front of the line was going Hail Mary on the poor clerk, all because of a cashback slip.
"Wow, that girl sure does love a good fight, doesn't she?", Rita thought to herself. She wasn't the fighting type.
She took a glance at her purse. It was there. The "Buy One Get One coupon". "I'll show the coupon, but if the guy disagrees, I'm gonna leave.", she thought to herself. After twenty minutes of drama at the counter and then some, finally it was Rita's turn. She put her stuff down and slowly slid forward the coupon towards the clerk.
The clerk took a hard look at the coupon, and then a look at her, and then said, "You may take a second pair of jeans Ma'am."
Rita was glad she didn't have to go through an ordeal like that other girl.Thank God for a valid coupon!

The Bargain
Rahul was exhausted. Today was not going well. As if it isn't bad enough that he is working part-time at this stupid mall, people also yell at him for stuff he can't do anything about!
He couldn't believe that people could fight tooth and nail for a cashback! And all this arguing and reasoning had left him feeling tired.
And now this. A pretty lady, not a loudmouth like the last one, standing in front of her, with a coupon, which was also past it's expiration date.
"Just my luck.", Rahul sighed.
He thought hard, but decided against fighting over it. He let her use the coupon. "The last thing I need is another yelling match.", he thought. He will handle his manager later.

Finally, his shift was over. His TV and bean bag were calling him.A glass of beer, some snacks.Heaven. Then, suddenly;
*Tak Tana Na Na Tandoori Nights Tandoori Nights*
His cellphone rang, breaking his chain of thoughts.It was Riya.

--CLICK--
"Hi Jaanu, when are you coming back! I have great news!"

"What is it?"

"GFY Mall has this great offer, 50% discount plus Get One Free offer. It's a total bargain! Come back soon and we'll go. Our two month anniversary is close anyway."

"Ufff..."

"Did you say something jaan?"

"Na na, I'll see in an hour. Be ready."
--CLICK--

Rahul sighed, "Just my luck."

This post is a part of the Shop, only to Save More! Activity by GoPaisa.com in association with BlogAdda.com.

Odd Job

I still have nightmares. Some days, I'm stifled with such nauseating feeling, that I almost throw up and I barely eat. I need to get this off my chest so here it goes:

I was 14, young, and had newly discovered that money buys trading cards and other cool stuff.
That summer, me and my pals were gunning for bikes. So all of us were running around the neighborhood, searching for odd jobs. You know, lawns that needed mowing, cars that needed washing, that kind of stuff.
That's when I stumbled upon this poster, about a house on 8th, that needed painting.
"50 bucks for a paint job", it said. I immediately picked up my bike, and stormed down to the place before any of my friends could.
I reached the address to find a little house, weed growing all around. I distinctly remember the house, those curd covered screens, pale yellow window panes, and that weird smell. That hint of a stench that doesn't chase you away, but in retrospect always warned you about a terrifying little secret that lay hidden in it's confines.
I met Mr.Stevens, the owner. Well met will be a strong word. He appeared out of nowhere and scared the shit out of me...
Next few days were routine, Mr.Stevens with is hammer and nail, and me with a bucket of red paint and that huge brush he gave me. The only odd thing about the job was that brilliantly red paint and how Mr.Stevens would never let me leave his sight.Anyways, he was an old man, and the pay was good, so I did not complain. We would talk about baseball and how it took ages to paint a wall. He had his quirks but the old man was just fine.
We got along, I got over the smell, and we did the entire place in a week. And that was the last I saw of him.

Everything was done and dusted and I got on with my life, until that day.
That fine Monday, around 2 weeks after the summer holidays were over, me and the gang noticed a big crowd outside Mr.Steven's house. And there was police. We were too scared to enquire ourselves, and got the hell out of there.
Later I found out, that they had arrested Mr.Stevens for multiple homicide.Police found almost 30 people, all in his basement.
Oh, I almost forgot, on the last day of my job at Mr.Steven's, in my haste, I brought back the paint brush to my place. I had been meaning to return it, but never had the chance. Its still there in our garage. I never could return it, and I never had the courage to see it again.

Why so?

You see, the police report also said that Mr. Stevens killed all those people for a reason.

 He drew their blood, and used it to paint his house.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Ninth of November

F: "Hi, Ryan.. You there?"

R: "Yeah. Please stop calling, I'm in class and moreover I don't want to talk to you."

F:"Listen Son..."

R:"You'd lost your chance to talk when you left us...So please stop."

F: "I know, but hear me out...take care of Mom."

R:"What??"

F:"Take care of Mom and do good in College. Never worry about the money.I have taken care of it."

R: "What are you saying?? You're making me nervous."

F:"Listen...turn on CNN."

R: "Wait.... okay it's on now.What on earth is happening!"

F:"I'm in one of those planes."

R: "Dad... stop kidding. This isn't funny."

F:"I've gotta go. They're taking away our phones. We don't have much time anyway... Listen, be calm and do good in life. And be a better person than your Dad. :) . Okay?"

R: "But Dad.. "

5 minutes later...

R: "k..."

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

The Friend Upstairs

I walk these white halls, following this man, who somehow understands my language.

 My short life has been filled with questions, the most intriguing of them walking right in front of me.

 A man who not just understood my urge for hunger or play, but who also could talk to me.

I do not understand, a moment ago, I was a stones throw away from a speeding vehicle, and now I'm in these serene surroundings, and with this equally quaint man.

 Confused, I asked,"Who are you?", to which the tall,thin man with long hair and similarly long beard smiled and said, "Just a friend."

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

GODS

Aman was a 12th std. student in Delhi. He led a normal life, except for the fact that he could lift a truck with his right pinky.

Yes, Aman was a superhero. He saved women, banks, kittens, the president and did his chemistry projects.

That day had been particularly taxing on him. He usually sprains his wrist when he lifts a dozen cars at a time. Aman dragged himself to his room and dozed off instantly.

That night, he had a dream. Not one of the horrible ones, in which you are a mute spectator, but the rare ones, which you feel are under your control. Aman flew past cities, past the Himalayas, and into a, dark, deep tunnel, leading into a cave.

There he saw, an old, frail, breaded man stooped, and chained so heavily that he could hardly see a patch of skin, except for his head. The man looked up and Aman saw a face so featureless, yet screaming out for something, help, maybe, Aman thought. His eyes were sea blue, swollen and very dry.

With a weak, but probing voice, the man spoke, "So, finally, you've come."

Aman was confused, "You know me? How come...But I don't.Who are you?."

"You see Aman, this world, this universe is all about balance. Everything you see is always at balancing its negative self. "

"Mountains are there to balance the craters and trenches, air to counter water, hatred for love, good for bad. So when you earned those amazing powers, you terribly shook the balance of the creators great work."

All this was over-whelming for Aman, "Wait. I save the day and I'm blamed for it? What balance is this now, eh?"

"You used your power to help mankind and not otherwise, those are your values and your good nature. But you are a superhuman and there needed to be a counter-force for you too. And that force, is me."

"Yes, I'm weak, frail, these chains are the burdens of hopes and aspirations of all man and animal kind. I take their misfortunes, their pain and suffering."

Aman,"But I thought I do that."

"You wipe off their tears, I keep them. All the pain and suffering don't vanish, they come to me."

Aman, "So, why call me here?"

"Because the time has come. We must switch places. It is your turn to be the hope-keeper now." And the man raises his hand towards Aman.

Aman reluctantly puts his hand forward,"But who are you? And how do you know me?"

"I..., We, are the creator's two most trusted men. Commonly known as GODS."

As both touch each others' hands. A SNAP.

Adam wakes up with a start. He gingerly walks up to his balcony and flies out into the Manhattan skyline for his early morning vigil.

The Fact About Fiction

The world has seen a lot of talented fiction writers. Their ideas were new, appealing and gave a new meaning to their (and others') lives. But what was that one thing that made them so special?

There are hundreds of 'writers' guide' that keep incessantly gloating about doing things 'differently'. In fact, if something is stale, it is these rhetoric. But then, (I hate to sound repetitive) what was the thing that clicked for these brilliant minds?

We are born and brought up by our parents, and by the time we are capable of brewing intelligent thoughts, we develop what I like to call a 'cast'. The ideas that come into our mind must fit into this cast, lest it displease a section of our society. It is like writing for others, we are more interested to make our ideas and writings sound sensible rather then making them sound interesting. Sample this: You won't ask your neighbour if he or she likes beige or metallic interiors when you are painting your house, would you?

Of course, sounding somewhat logical is called for but your fantasy should follow your logic not the world's norms.

That's what these fiction writers did, they could shake off the constraints of trying to justify their writings and write for themselves, ending up with classics and bestsellers.

But, its easier said than done (as every cool and awesome thing on self-help blogs and books is). Even the best writers can never completely uproot what they go by in the real world. At a certain level it will influence one's writing. But such a touch is involuntary and is either unpalpable or pleasing.

You can go "Oh that's easy," but you'll know exactly how tough it can get, when you write. At the end of every line, you'll be asking yourself, "Oh, what will people say to that?". These kinds of thoughts are very hard to ignore. But, once the self-realization sets in you'll find such questions melting away. You'll want to know how YOU will react to a line, and that's when your imagination will really take over.

It's not Mr President's G8 speech, its your world that we are talking about, your playground. So go, play God.

Its all about realizing that only YOU can write a book that you will love to read.