The little boy was always falling sick. He would lie for days, struggling to breathe.

His parents lay awake at night beside him, fearing each laboured breath he took would be his last.

And in those rare days on which he was able to sit up, all he wanted to do was to see the stars at night.

Before he got sick, each night he would put up a little tantrum, to get his father to take him out to see the night sky.

His eyes big with wonder, he would then point to the stars in the sky while his father, in his gruff voice, would tell him the stories of the star patterns.

Of Orion, the hunter with three stars in his belt and of the great bear.

He would then fall asleep, still in his father’s strong arms, perhaps dreaming about the day he would visit the stars.

* * * * * *

Now his father could no longer take the boy out at night, with the boy being as sick as he was.

But still, when he was well enough to stay awake, the boy would fuss, wanting to see the stars.

Since the boy could not go out, the stars would have to be brought to him.

His father, with a brush in his hand, took to painting the star patterns on the ceiling above the boy’s bed.

With painstaking, precise strokes, he laboured in love, drawing with a special ink which glowed in the dark the stars so loved by his little son.

At night, when it was dark, the boy would see the shining stars in the sky and laugh with wonder.

His sickness forgotten, he would sleep peacefully, again perhaps dreaming about the stars.

His father, with eyes full of tears would watch over the boy, watching his little chest rise and fall with each breath.

“Don’t leave me son,” the father would whisper to the sleeping boy. “Stay with me, don’t leave me for the stars.”

* * * * * *

The man looked out of the observation panel of the space station and marvelled at the beauty of the glorious sight of the earth before him, its beauty taking his breath away however many times he saw it.

He glanced down at the framed photo on the surface of the table which stood next to the observation panel.

His colleagues would ask him if it was a photo of the night sky. He would smile and nod.

But it was not.

It was a photo of the ceiling of his bedroom when he was a child; a photo of his father’s painting.

A photo of a father’s great love for his son; as great as the number of stars in the night sky.

The man stood from his seat and went to the space station’s most powerful telescope.

He adjusted it and looked upon the star.

The star he had named after his late father.

As tears blurred his vision he whispered, “I see you in the stars father, I see you in the stars.”

(Dedicated to my father. I will see you in the stars.)

#shortstory #prose #father #parent

Home is where you belong.

But what if you don’t belong anywhere?

* * * * * *

You imagine that you are a warrior.

The last line of defence against a demon hoard.

The survival of the world rests on your shoulders.

So you must fight the demons and win.

Day-in, day-out.

You bleed, you tire.

You are exhausted, you barely have the strength to lift your sword.

But you must fight.

You can’t let the demons win.

So you fight a war with no hope of winning.

No hope of end.

You are at war forever, a soldier eternal.

Sometimes play-acting can help.

After all, warrior sounds better than mental patient.

* * * * * *

Some days are bad.

Others are worse.

You count in your head.

The number of people who will actually give a shit at your funeral.

On better days, the count can be six or seven.

On the worst days the count is just one.

But you know that you have to still fight on. You must. For that count of one.

So you soldier on.

The warrior fights the demons alone, day after day.

But he prays each day, to a god that he barely believes in.

For an angel who can drive the demons away.

But those prayers go unanswered.

And the warrior loses hope.

* * * * * *

One day, the battle is more vicious than it has ever been before.

The exhaustion of the fighting leaves the warrior numb, wounded beyond repair.

He knows that he is at the end of the line.

That it’s the end.

At that very moment the sky opens up and a beam of light shines through.

God has answered his prayers.

With an angel, whose brilliance and light drives the demons away, back to the dark pits where they belong.

The warrior is saved.

* * * * * *

Finally, the warrior is home.

With the help of the angel, the warrior recovers.

His wounds are healed.

He is almost whole.

And he knows now that with an angel by his side, his demons are no longer as powerful as they were.

He hopes, he believes.

He is a fool.

* * * * * *

Demons are cunning.

They are not so easily defeated.

They are patient, they persevere.

They chip away slowly as much as they can at the warrior while avoiding the angel’s halo.

And the warrior does the rest for them.

In his frustration at not being whole, the warrior forgets how broken he used to be.

He lashes out at his only protection.

His angel.

The angel, wounded and hurt by the warrior’s uncalled for cruelty, retreats back to heaven.

And warrior is left on his own, to fight his demons once more alone.

* * * * * *

The warrior despairs.

Now he understands the true depth of darkness – the complete and total power of the demons.

He understands that he doesn’t deserve angels or their light.

That he is too broken even for angels to heal.

That demons are what he deserves.

That the eternal battle is his destiny.

The demon hoard comes rushing at him.

He drops his swords and surrenders.

* * * * * *

The demons over power the warrior.

The demons take over.

The warrior starts smiling, laughing.

The irony of it is just too much for him.

His entire life, he searched and craved for understanding, to belong, for a home.

He feels it – the anxiety, the fear, the self-loathing and misery – filling his mind, taking over his entire being.

Home is where you belong.

He is with his demons.

He is finally home.

#shortstory #dark

Knock, knock, knock,

I hear them knocking away,

Sometimes gently, sometimes bold,

Tapping constantly at my door.

I wish they would go away,

But no.

They whisper to me,

“Let us in; come play with us my friend,”

“With us you are not alone.”

But I know,

That if I let them in,

It is the end,

And I will be no more.

I tell them to go away,

And try to ignore.

But when the days are cruel, dark and cold,

And blood flows from fresh cuts still sore,

I hear their knocking all the more.

They are knocking hard at the door today,

Loudly, because they know.

That I now have no one left to hear me,

No one to talk to,

And am all alone.

How bad can it be?

To open the door and let them in,

I ask myself.

At least they know me,

At least they have always been there at my door,

Where no one else has been.

Why am I pretending,

When the end has always been,

Predictable, inevitable and known?

Resigned but relieved at the decision made,

I finally open the door for them,

For the demons,

Who were knocking at my door.

#poem #poetry #dark #darkpoetry

Demons can take many forms.

They can take the form of sharp tongues that lash at you, cutting deeper with words than one could with a knife.

They can take the form of a reflection in the mirror that constantly whispers in your ear your worst mistakes, your deepest fears and your worst failures.

They can take the form of a scornful voice in your head, the one that strips you bare to your core and laughs at you, repeating ceaselessly that you will never be enough.

They can take the form of a cloud constantly hanging over you, leaving you in darkness and taunting you with the images of others, those with no clouds above them, laughing effortlessly in the light.

You know demons in all their forms.

And yet, you have never seen the form of an angel.

So you pray to a god, one you struggle to and barely believe in, for an angel.

For an angel who can shed light on the darkness of your mind; one who can help cast your demons away.

Those prayers go unanswered.

* * * * * * * * * *

Her voice is kind.

Tired of waiting for angels, for the first time in your life, you decide to trust someone. A friend.

It’s not easy.

Because your demons are what shapes you. Giving the key to your hell to anyone else is terrifying, to show them the real, shriveled, damaged version of you, the one which you have hidden behind a mask for so long.

You tell her everything.

About all your demons, in all their myriad forms.

She listens. She understands.

She talks. She helps.

She shows you that your demons are not as big as you thought they were, she makes you understand that the everyone else too carries their demons in their heads.

That you’re not alone; that you’re not the only one afflicted with them.

That your demons have grown in the darkness of your mind, fed by your own fear, your insecurities.

She talks about herself, about her own demons.

She puts herself down, refusing to accept the version of her that you see; a gentle, kind-hearted, generous soul, who had made mistakes but who had become so much more because of them.

You try to show her that she is as close to perfection as anything under the sky could ever be.

That she is perfect not because she is not flawed, but because those flaws have made her even stronger, better, more understanding, kinder.

She refuses to accept it but you have finally found what you had been looking for.

You smile.

Your prayers have finally been answered.

* * * * * * * * * *

Angels are ethereal beings of beauty.

They are magnificent, with perfection beyond what the human mind can comprehend.

Or at least so, you thought.

Because you only imagined angels in their heavenly form.

But angels also exist in earthly form, they walk among us.

In their earthly form, an angel can take the form of a friend, a kind voice, a generous heart and a beautiful, understanding smile.

So now you no longer fear your demons as you once did.

Because you now know the forms of both demons and angels, not demons alone.

You know that angels exist, that you have been blessed with their light.

With angels by your side, your demons are no longer as formidable as they once were.

You now have faith in angels.

(Dedicated to the angel who I am blessed and fortunate to call my friend, who helps me fight my demons day after day. Thank you.)

He imagines that he is dead.

And counts the number of people who will cry, who will mourn him, at his funeral.

There was a time, not so long ago when even in the darkest of moments the count would come up to at least two or three.

Even in the worse moments, the count would be one.

So he would soldier on, survive those dark moments.

But now the count is zero.

* * * * * * *

It's as if his life shattered into two in that moment.

Before and after.

One moment they were laughing together but the next she is lying in a pool of blood on the road, motionless.

Someone is screaming. It takes him a while to realize that it's him.

But even then he had some hope.

Right up to the moment in the hospital when his friend comes back after talking to the doctor and shakes his head slowly.

And his life splits into two.

* * * * * * *

They left home with so much joy that day, planning the trip for a month.

And they never came back home, not even him.

Because home had ceased to exist.

Home was with her and she was gone.

He just came back to an empty painful shell, memories lurking at him from every corner.

He discovers the great irony of loss - that the happiest memories can become the most painful.

* * * * * * *

At first his friends, his colleagues are understanding.

When he is short of money, they help him pay to keep her on life support, hoping against hope for a miracle.

For her to wake up, open her brown eyes and give him that sleepy smile she wore on her face every morning.

But days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months.

They run of patience.

They refuse to give more money and tells him to move on.

But he can't.

They just don't understand.

She was not just his love, his friend, his partner.

Everyone has their anchor in life; a belief in a god, a job, a spouse or a partner, a child or a friend who keeps them tethered to the world.

She was his.

Without her he was not just alone but lost and adrift.

They wouldn't understand that you don't choose what makes you, or what breaks you.

* * * * * * *

He borrows money from banks, from anyone, everyone.

But by the end of few months he still runs out of money.

He loses his friends, who stop taking his calls and answering his messages after he starts badgering them for money.

In the end, he is the only one at her funeral.

He doesn't even have money left for a proper tombstone.

* * * * * * *

They tell you that the funerals are the worst part of it.

But they are not.

The worst part is the night after the funeral, after it's all done.

That night you bury the one you loved.

You cry till your whole body aches, with only your sodden miserable pillow for company.

* * * * * * *

The worst nightmares are not the ones you see in your sleep.

The worst nightmares are the ones you wake up to.

He sees her in his dreams, happy, carefree, loving.

He wakes up and she is gone.

And he loses her all over again, night after night.

Finally, he starts to drink himself to sleep.

* * * * * * *

With the debt piled up and mortgage unpaid, he is forced to the street.

He barely cares anymore.

Packing up their stuff is a depressing experience for him.

In the end, all that is left of one's life is clothes, books, few photo albums and bits and pieces scattered around.

He wonders whether this is what life always amounts to in the end.

* * * * * * *

Even in his drunken haze he notices people's contempt for the homeless.

He knows that it goes beyond the dirt on his clothes.

It's almost as if people need to build a barrier of contempt to convince themselves that the homeless are not human but a different species.

He understands.

It's their defense mechanism.

It fills people with horror to even comprehend that they could possibly end up homeless themselves.

It's easier to deal with via pretense, via labelling.

He pities them, perhaps as much as himself.

* * * * * * *

Many times he comes close to ending it.

But he can't bring himself to.

Because of her.

She would have wanted him to move on, for him to be happy.

He becomes Orpheus mourning his Eurydice.

* * * * * * *

That day evening he sees a little boy on the street with his bicycle chain undone.

The kid struggles with it for few minutes and is dejected, almost in tears.

So he goes up to him and offers to help.

The boy hands him the bicycle without question and he adjusts the chain and hands it back.

The boy has a huge smile on his face.

He fishes about his pockets and hands him a red lollipop, a thank you present, before peddling away.

That moment, he knows that he has to end it.

Not because he is miserable, but because he is finally happy.

He had found a moment of joy in the midst of misery.

She wanted him to be happy and he was.

The only way he could stay happy was to end with a happy ending, to be with her again.

* * * * * * *

The night is unbearably cold but he barely feels the cold as he unbuttons his jacket and lays out on the cold floor, using his jacket as a pillow.

He is happy as he takes the final few sips and throws away the bottle.

He lies down and waits for the winter to take him, to be with her again at last.

For the first time after her death, he looks up to the sky and smiles.

He starts a countdown in his head, counting the moments till they would be together again and sucks on the red lollipop.

#prose #challengeofthemonth #shortstory

What would you do if you were forced to choose between two options; one which is terrible and goes against everything you believe and one which is only slightly better but still requires you to compromise on many of your most fundamental beliefs?

How do you make such an impossible choice?

Many years ago I read the book Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith. In the book a Russian detective, Arkady Renko is questioning a witness to a murder, Irina Asanova who is from Siberia, one of the coldest parts of Russia. She tells him a story about the ‘Siberian Dilemma’.

She tells him that if you fall into a river or lake in Siberia in winter, you only have two choices.

One is to stay in the water; in which case you would have few minutes to live before you freeze to death.

The other is to get out of the water; in which case you freeze to death almost immediately.

All you have are two impossible choices.

Both with terrible outcomes.

I now understand the Siberian Dilemma. My situation is not too dissimilar.

Let’s say one option is a person who promised so much to you but in the end who ended up disappointing you in every way possible. One who on the day of revelation showed the despicable and untrustworthy character hidden beneath layers of charm. The other is likely a disappointment waiting to happen, if history is any indication of the future.

Both options will end up disappointing you.

What do you do then?

Should you choose the lesser of the two evils?

I can only choose (hopefully) the lesser of the two evils; to remain in the water and at least buy a few minutes of time before inevitably freezing to death.

It’s my turn now and they are reading out my name.

I go up, cast my vote and leave the polling station.

Outside there is still a long queue of voters; victims waiting patiently in line to vote in their next perpetrator.

#shortstory #prose #adin

Note from Chief Editor, Diana Jones

Hello Folks!

Welcome to the September 2060 edition of 'Life, Style & Stuff'.

You would be happy to note that your favorite (and to the best of our knowledge the only) print magazine in the country has managed to hang on for one more month at least, to put out this edition.

Without subscriptions from you folks we would have long been out of business, so first a big thank you from the entire team to our readers! (And to those of you who don't have a regular subscription, take the hint and get that subscription now!!)

Getting onto this month's edition we do have a bunch of interesting stuff for you, which I will get into.

But first a little teaser about our main article for this month.

Our writer, Frank Logan did an interview with the only eligible person in the entire country who rejected the partially government-funded program extending superpowers to those who couldn't afford them on their own.

So why do you think he was not interested in getting superpowers?

Religious reasons?

Skepticism about the technology or the corporation behind it?

I will let you make your own guesses.

To find out the actual reason for his decision turn to page 12.

'The ultimate hero', in a world of superheroes

By Frank Logan

If you met Matthew Wayne on the road chances are that you won't give him a second glance. Probably because you wouldn't consider him to be unusual.

He looks like any lean, tall guy in his mid-forties with tousled hair. He trains dogs for a living.

But he has a secret. He has an extraordinary superpower.

In fact, he has a greater superpower than any other person in the entire country.

So what is his superpower?

Nothing.

He has no superpower.

In fact he was the only eligible person in the entire country who rejected partially government-funded medical procedures which would have given him superpowers.

Now you're confused.

If he has no superpower, then why am I telling you that he has the most extraordinary superpower, especially considering that now there are millions of people with superpowers around the country?

It won't be a brief explanation. Bear with me.

Genesis International started commercially offering treatment giving superpowers to people more than five years ago. Initially the treatment was very expensive and only billionaires could afford it.

But things changed and it became more affordable, at least if you were reasonably rich. That meant that there were lots of people who could fly, whose skin could withstand bullets or fire, who could outrun cheetahs or whose brain capacity could perhaps rival supercomputers.

But there was a lot of opposition against the idea initially.

Technology sceptics, religious groups and even concerned citizens banded together and protested. One major reason for these protests was the fear that superpowers would lead to the ultimate form of inequality. That the rich would be far superior than the masses both physically and mentally.

The government, lobbied by Genesis, came up with a solution.

Mostly using money raised via a special tax on the rich, the government would partially fund the cost of undergoing procedures which would give any citizen at least modest superpowers. Any adult without a criminal record and healthy enough mentally and physically to undergo the procedure would be eligible.

All the resistance to Genesis crumbled away with people lining up to get superpowers. For some it was just for the experience or for fun, but for others it was a need. You won't get any promotions in office if you had the worst memory and mental capacity in office.

So everyone wanted superpowers.

Everyone except Matthew Wayne.

Before I met him I thought he would have rejected superpowers because he was opposed to the idea, because he was religious or because he had doubts about the technology or about the company doing it.

But it was none of those.

When I asked him the question his answer was, "Son, I don't hate people with superpowers or having superpowers. I just don't want or need them."

"How things are now is good enough for me."

I spent a lot of time thinking about what he said before I understood him.

For him, it was never about rejecting superpowers.

It was about choosing to be human.

And then, I understood.

In his own way, Matthew Wayne already had superpowers.

His identity, his capacity for self-acceptance, his silent confidence.

He was the only person in the entire country who was able to come to terms with his limitations, accept them - not with anger or resentment - and be able to live with them.

In a world of superheroes, Matthew Wayne is the ultimate hero, the only one with an identity of his own.

#shortstory #prose #scifi #sci-fi #fantasy #future #futuristic #hero #heroes #superpower

Her parents opened the door immediately, on my first knock.

Two middle-aged people, stressed out and worried; the mother constantly biting her lower lip while the father kept on adjusting his spectacles without there being any need for that.

“We took her to so many doctors, to so many churches. So many pastors prayed and poured holy water on her. Then the ..................... condition seemed normal for few hours but it always keeps coming back.”

The wife dabs at tears falling down her face while the husband dutifully puts a hand on her shoulder, although he seems in as much need of consolation as her.

“Please, we don’t know what to do.”

“Can you do something for her?”

I promise the wife that I will do the best I can for their daughter.

* * * * * *

Being an exorcist is no easy job.

You never know what the hell you’re up against; whether it’s an agitated spirit, a horde of corrupted souls or a demon who has decided to take some poor soul for a spin.

Plus, this is my first sole exorcism.

I’ve seen it being done quite a few times and have helped to do it but I’ve never done it without an experienced exorcist by my side.

I wouldn’t have tried to do it by myself either but no one who can help is around and the girl’s condition seems to be worsening rapidly.

If whatever possessed her didn’t kill her, hunger, thirst or some physical affliction would.

They had not been able to feed her or even give her water for a day or two.

I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing as I entered her room.

If I screw up she would be dead. But if I did nothing the result will probably be the same.

Damned if you do.

Damned if you don’t.

* * * * * *

Her room felt ‘off’.

There was no cooling, yet the room was cold and the air itself felt charged.

The girl, a weak-looking tiny thing in her late teens, with bones nearly poking out of her skin lay in a disorderly tangle on the bed, sweating despite the cold.

She looked more dead than alive and the only signs of life were the slight heaving of her chest and incoherent mumbling from time to time.

She seemed completely oblivious to my presence with eyes staring vacantly at the blank wall in front of her.

This changed as soon as I took out from my pocket my book of incantations, a small, worn book with a plain black cover, which had seen better days.

The girl looked at me and gave a strange unsettling smile.

I gave a nod in her direction - it was time.

I opened the book and started reading.

And all hell broke loose.

* * * * * *

At the end of two hours her room was in tatters.

I myself nearly had my eyes scratched out and some buttons were missing from my shirt.

But the job was done.

The girl was sleeping peacefully, exhausted.

I stayed around for two more hours as a precaution but it was clear that the demon that had possessed her was gone.

The mother was sobbing - only this time it was tears of relief and gratitude.

As I left, the father threw his hands around me and thrust an envelope in my hand.

I protested, knowing that it was way more than my charge, but they were adamant.

They had their little girl back and for them no price was too high for their daughter.

As for me, I had just completed my first sole exorcism; I was officially an exorcist.

* * * * * *

It was the first of many exorcisms.

Over a decade, I did hundreds of exorcisms - mostly successful, some less so.

If all goes well, it’s red carpet treatment from the family of the possessed.

If not, it’s about managing to get out of the window and making a break for it before cops come banging on the door, trying to find out how a man can slash both wrists and stab his own eyes out, before bleeding to death.

At night, when all is quiet, I still hear the shrill screams of those I couldn’t save.

In my nightmares I again feel the blood spraying across my face or the dredded sound of the crack of a neck bent beyond its limit.

But unfortunately, that’s not the worst of it.

* * * * * *

In my first year as an exorcist, on my bedroom walls I started hanging photos, cards and letters sent by my successful 'patients' and their families.

When shit hits the ceiling, it helps to have some perspective; to see the good you’ve done, to see what you have achieved and the people you’ve managed to save.

The most visible spot was always for photos sent by the parents of Lisa, the teenage girl I saved through my first exorcism.

Her parents used to send me a big Christmas card every year, for five years.

Right until Lisa got addicted to drugs and ultimately died from a drug overdose.

The story was more or less the same for most of my other ‘success’ cases.

You see, I can dispel demons and corrupted souls from people, at least most of the time.

But in the end that’s not enough.

I am an exorcist, I can only chase back to hell demons and corrupted souls who find shelter within people.

But it’s not demons from hell that corrode people. It’s the demons within themselves.

And I have no cure against them.

I can't save people from themselves.

At night when the nightmares come, I wake up and look at my empty bedroom wall and think about demons, the ones that I can do nothing about.

The ones that matter.

#fantasy #demons #shorstory #dark #prose