Archives: Short Stories

It was the year 2040. Michael was stepping out for dinner. There were drones in the air, scanning for deviants as usual. There was no shock or disgust in the eyes of the people on the street, only fear. The times had changed.

Since the dependence on technology had increased since the Pandemic 20’s, AI had taken over. Now, in the name of safety, there was virtually nothing anyone could hide. Gone were the days that humanity picked who governed them. Powerful creations of humans had taken over, and machine had deemed man unfit for anything but subjugation.

Humanity had rulers now. Cold hearted machines with no room for compassion. They ruled with ones and zeroes. Guilty or innocent. Dead or alive. There was no space for the human element of grey, only the mechanical view of black and white.

Michael remembered how quickly it had all gone to shit. As a teenager he remembered how actively he used to post in favour of human rights on social media. Those were simpler times; he had a voice. As soon as the Pandemic 20’s came to an end, AI that had no source of origin, had taken over.

Within a few days, there was a surge in assassinations. It was genocidal. But almost instantly, crime came to a halt. The glaciers stopped melting. The world economy was toppling because industry giants were dead, but the planet was blossoming.

Back then Michael was fresh out of college, hoping to effect change in the world through literature and free speech, but he found that those he spoke for had been executed and his ability to speak freely had been taken away by the drone.

He stepped into his favourite diner and ordered his usual; a chicken steak with potato fries. It was a simple meal, unlike the high-tech meal plans people relied on nowadays. There was no comfort in food, no pleasure in taste for most people. It was simply about sustenance. But he ate his steak with great pleasure, in open defiance to the other patrons who were eating in such a monotonous way.

He paid his bill, and walked out, into the alleyway next to the diner. He made sure to avoid the drones, because what he was about to do was definitely deviant in this new world.

As the wave of technological supremacy had hit the planet, seemingly law-abiding citizens had started forming secret groups. To rebel and revel in the operation of human free will. They spoke aloud, painted, wrote words, and created art that pushed the boundaries of human thought.

Much like the pioneers of an art field, there was a certain amount of ire that these secret groups inspired in the minds of those who had surrendered to the machines. These groups were prosecuted for their free-thinking, banished and executed by the AI citing the heretics as anti-life. Michael, a seemingly normal and law-abiding plumbing technician, was one of these heretics.

Michael found the alleyway door that he was looking for and stepped into the Brotherhood’s cave. Cave makes it sound dense and primal; it was anything but. There was an old man, in his 70s teaching youngsters about the twisted works of Van Gogh. A beautiful woman was singing old country music that had been banned as it seemed nihilistic and self-sabotaging. In reality, the song was simply about the singer’s heartache and her longing for the love of her life.

The painting the old man was discussing was Starry Night, a painting considered vandalism because it supposedly presented an unrealistic image of the night sky. Surrounded by the art, by the beauty of the human mind, Michael felt at home. No matter how deviant, or dangerous this creative spirit is, it still comes from the human mind. It was born with humans and it lives within humans. Michael couldn’t fathom a world where this spirit was broken by thoughtless machines that knew nothing of life.

Michael sat at his table, with several books filled with poems, stories, and speeches he dreamt of delivering. There was an old-school click pen which had liquid ink coming out of it to engrave the papyrus with words that his free mind would write.

Art in Michael’s opinion, was best done in the olden era, with a pen and paper. He began to write, pouring out his emotions. The words read: “The new normal is no more. The Uprising is here.” He smiled, for he knew that revolution was afoot. Creativity was afoot. Art, for all the attempts of logical machines to squash it, was waking up from its slumber.

As the lights turned from red to white, I had this familiar thought: there was definitely some element missing in me. Like, when God created me, he most likely forgot to add the ‘happy’ chemical. Or was I simply cursed with feeling lonely and isolated for the rest of my life?

I sighed and crossed the street. There was a dessert shop downtown called ‘Glace’, very far from where I lived but it promised the best chocolate and peanut butter donuts in the city. I had taken two different subways and walked for at least twenty-five minutes cumulatively to reach this place. As I rounded into the corner of the street, I saw a long queue outside the store. Ugh, great! I went to take my spot amid a bunch of expensive-looking dogs and inexpensive-looking kids. It’s funny how people cared more about their dogs than their own flesh-and-blood, but I suppose that’s what the world had come to.

Twenty minutes later, I managed to enter Glace. Ten minutes later, I had in my hands two boxes of donuts worth a week’s rent. All mine. I had expected to feel happier somehow, but I just felt tired after a quarter day’s commute. I noticed I had been eating a lot of desserts lately. As if any amount of sugar could replace the warmth of a meaningful life, but I suppose it came pretty close. I crossed the street to make my way towards the subway back home. On my way towards the inevitable, I made the mistake of locking eyes with a homeless man. Oh no! Oh, God no!

He was dressed in at least three layers despite the rather warm fall afternoon, and carrying around a sack presumably filled with his belongings. I guess humans didn’t need much for living, yet we filled our lives with home furnishings and fancy soap dispensers. I continued walking towards the subway station, wondering who was worse off – me or this man with few needs. I concluded it must be him. At least I had two boxes of dessert in my manicured hands. As I was about to step inside the subway, the homeless man stopped me and said, “Miss, you have anything for me?”

His words stopped me in my tracks. He sounded so… polished. I suppose as a foreigner I was not used to homeless people speaking fluent English. But there was something about him that made me want to avoid him and look at him at the same time. Perhaps he was the first person to notice me all day. Perhaps he made me feel guilty for spending forty dollars on empty calories. For whatever reason, I couldn’t move.

I squinted for whole two seconds and then turned towards my left to look at him. He stared right back at me. Meaningfully. His eyes were a deep blue. It stirred something inside me. Oh God, what was I doing? I noticed two fat tears making their way into the corners of my eyes. My nose felt hot. I sniffled. The homeless man was now uncomfortable. Great, that served him right! How dare he! I dug my right hand inside my bag for spare change, only to realize I didn’t have any. Well, who really carried around cash in 2021? I only had me, my eyes now brimming with tears, and two bags of desserts meant to fill me up.

Without thinking more, I took out one box of donuts and handed it to him. “Have a great day,” I murmured and raced straight ahead without meeting his eyes. As my feet hurried down the stairs, I realized I felt lighter than I was seconds ago. A smile escaped my lips as I swiped my metro card.

I never saw the homeless man again. But that day, that day he saw me. The only one who did.

Ring Ring

“Mommy, I have a question.”

“Yes?” Mary asks her 8-year-old daughter.

Mary was just tucking her little angel into bed.

“Why aren’t there any ring ring jokes?” Her daughter asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well there are knock knock jokes, right? So why not ring ring? Doors have doorbells.”

“Hm, that’s a good point.” Mary says.

“Wanna hear a ring ring joke?” Her daughter asks excitedly. “It works just like a knock knock joke.”

“Sure.”

“Ring ring.” Her daughter says.

“Who’s there?”

“Grandma.”

Mary hesitates before replying. Mary’s late mother was abusive towards her and her siblings.

After a few moments Mary does manage to reply, “Grandma who?”

“The grandma who’s standing right behind you.” Her daughter laughs.

Mary slowly turns around and comes face to face with her own mother. But her mother does not look human, her mother is now as hideous and demented on the outside as she was on the inside.

Mary recognizes the phone in her mother’s hand.

A sturdy old phone from the early 2000s, the very same phone Mary used to hit her mother on the head. A fatal blow. Mary had no choice, she was defending herself and her brother.

“Ring ring.” Grandma smiles before smashing Mary’s head with the phone.

“Do you think when pens were invented, people missed quills?” she asked.

“Hmm?” came the reply. “Wait. What did you say? I wasn’t paying attention.” He inquired, looking up from his phone.

As much as she had wanted his opinion, Ashna felt no urge to repeat herself. Before she could reconsider that thought, however, Aman’s attention had already drifted back to the screen. After all, those gym selfies weren’t going to edit themselves.

Finding herself left alone with her thoughts, she chose to feed the question her mind had so abruptly posed in front of her. How would’ve people reacted when they found out they no longer needed to go dip-dip with each word? Would it have come as a welcome change or would they have regarded this as a threat to their culture? Did people continue using a quill just because it was what they had used to write their first word?

Perhaps, she entertained this thought because she had missed primitive ways of expression or at least as primitive as she remembered them to be. Ashna never harboured dreams of becoming a writer, but she loved writing nevertheless. What she believed to be rather strange was that her creative juices flowed more freely on a piece of paper instead of her tablet or computer. The beauty of ink drying on parchment was quite unmatched in her opinion.

She did picture herself sitting in front of a typewriter though, watching her story emerge from a slot, as the machine let out a bullet-like cry with each letter she punched in. But, that was as far as she was willing to let technology invade her narratives.

Thinking of technology, her mind surreptitiously led her into a new realm as she now began to wonder how paperbacks offered so much more solace than a Kindle.

The latter was definitely better in more ways than one, being a one-stop shop for a plethora of books and environmentally more beneficial, but it still couldn’t hold a candle to an actual book.

You could flip through the pages of a novel and chart the adventures it had been on. Each yellowing leaf bound to that book narrated a story of its own, sometimes through a chai stain or maybe through a hidden note for unrequited love.

Who in their right mind could even compare an eReader to a book? Taking a whiff of Kindle will never take you back to that moment, before the first day of school when you sat covering your textbooks with brown paper. How was it possible that no two books exuded the same scent? Was it because they lived different lives from the tales they were compelled to tell?

Just as she was about to dive deeper into this whirlpool of emotions, her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the doorbell.

“It’s Here!” She heard Aman exclaim as he sprang up and dashed towards the door. It only took him a few minutes to reappear, but not without a bounce in his step.

Propping himself next to her, he handed her the package which was evidently the reason behind his proud smile.

“Belated happy birthday, baby. I know how much you love to read. So I bought you a Kindle. Now we can finally give those battered books away and make space for something more useful.”

She loved cuddles, especially when she got to be the smaller spoon. And right now, the way her boyfriend’s arms consumed her, made her feel so secure. The warmth in his embrace brought a dreamy smile to her face.

“Wait a minute!” She opened her eyes only to realize she’d been single for four years.

She turned her head slowly.

The light seeping in through the window revealed a silhouette bearing no semblance to the human form. It lay next to her while holding her in a tight grasp.

“Ah, what the hell!” she sighed; then hugged it back tightly and murmured, “Good Night.”

It awkwardly whispered back, “Umm… I’m not looking for anything serious.”

With chaotic work schedules, they’ve hardly had time to meet. Today they spent all day together – they went to the beach, had pizza, and now they’re at home watching TV. Eventually she falls asleep on his shoulder, which is still sore because her sister fell asleep on it last night.

“I’m not looking for anything serious.” He twirls her hair as they lie next to each other in bed.

She turns away from him. She’s just another fool that he likes to fool around with.

“Can’t we just enjoy what we have?” He asks.

How could she have fallen for him so hard? She blames his smile. She hates that she can never resist him, even when she’s mad at him.

“Come here.” He pulls her into his arms.

After they make love he falls asleep, even though her hair is covering half his face.

She moves ever so slowly, careful not to wake him up, and gently lifts her hair off his face.

But then she thinks, ‘Why should he sleep so peacefully after breaking my heart?’

She carefully ties her long lustrous hair around his neck, forming a loose knot. She grasps each end of her hair firmly and pulls as hard as she can. He wakes up in a panic.

He tries to resist, wildly moving his arms and legs, but it’s no use.

“I’ll miss you.” Are the last words he hears.

“Ritesh! Stop crying. Be a man.”

All his life, Ritesh was taught to be a man by his father. His father was an army officer who also used to train the new recruits at camp. For him, having strength and suppressing emotions was being a man. He followed the same mantra in his life, taught recruiters the same and expected his son, Ritesh to do the same.

Ritesh although was a sharp kid, he lacked physical strength. He often used to fall down while walking and Ritesh’s father never picked him up. In his mind, he was ‘training’ Ritesh to be strong and independent. Ritesh was so scared of his father that whenever he went back to his battalion, Ritesh used to dance happily as he could do whatever he wanted in his father’s absence.

Years passed and Ritesh grew up to be an adult but his fear was more than ever. Now, Ritesh could make his own decisions but it always clashed with his father’s decisions. Apart from the usual altercations, sometimes things would take terrible turns leading to tussles between the father son duo.

Ritesh, tired of the usual dramas and his father’s ego, ran away from home but it didn’t make things any better. Instead, he soon realised that the world was filled with people like his father. They all were filthy and spoke too much. Ritesh’s neighbour, his landlord, the annoying kid on the street, and the outside world. They all had annoying, useless things to discuss about and shared a common thing. Their gaze! The gaze of mockery just like his father’s. This was the triggering point for Ritesh.

He locked himself up in the container he rented and cried. He scratched his hands, legs, body in anger and pulled some of his hairs out. He screamed in aggression, tore his clothes, and fell on the ground. Ritesh layed on the floor for a while, reflecting on his actions until there was a knock on the door.

It was the annoying kid from the street who always pranked Ritesh by knocking on his door and running away. This time, he did the same. Ritesh stood up, opened the door silently and waited for the kid to knock again. Just when the kid came running, Ritesh smashed a brick on his head. The kid fell down. Ritesh covered his mouth and tied his hands with his clothes and dragged him inside the container.

He then quickly turned on the stove, put a container and filled it halfway through with water. Just when the water started to simmer, Ritesh threw the kid’s body inside. Just like his father used to throw chickens alive, inside the boiling water when he was a kid.
Hide quoted text

From afar, he could see the tiny bubbles of water on the surface and the kid’s legs popping out for help. The kid kept resisting and splashing the water with his legs but after a while, it all ended.

Ritesh went back to see what he did but it was too late now. The kid’s body was now floating on the surface.

He took a deep breath, laughed and spoke, “Be a man, kid. Be a man. Stop crying and die like a man!”

“Hey, you don’t look so good. Do you want to come over for some lemonade? Tylenol?” I asked him. We had met at the restaurant an hour ago. Our first date. I had found him on the dating app my friends at college had persuaded me endlessly to download and “get out there.” I secretly made a note to thank them.

He seemed like a good guy. In fact, I felt this was really going somewhere, when halfway through his butter garlic steak, he told me he felt sick and asked for the check. Although he was the one feeling ill, he insisted he dropped me home first. A gentleman.

“Yeah,” he nodded in response to my question. A faint smile spread across his perfectly handsome face. I felt a tingle inside me. “I would like some lemonade… yeah.”

I brought him upstairs to my apartment, mentally calculating how long I should have him in before politely asking him to leave.

My roommates would be back in a couple of hours, or so. A lemonade would take, what, all of five minutes to make, and a little more to finish. We could talk then, maybe, if he felt better.

Once we were inside, he took off his jacket and examined my hall. I could see the butt of his handgun inside his jacket. Then he gently removed his watch. “Pretty flowers,” he said. “Pretty… everything.”

“Thanks,” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Umm, do you like your lemonade sweet or tart, or both?”

He walked towards me, so close that I could feel his breath on my face. He ran a finger down the small of my back and said, “Fuck lemonade,” and kissed me hard. I felt his body close in on me, pushing me against the wall. I wondered if I had given him some sort of signal. Did lemonade mean something else? Did he think I wanted this? Should I ask him to stop –

“You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” He said, his fingers unzipping my jeans.

“I, umm,” I couldn’t breathe. What was happening? Wasn’t he unwell? “Umm, I thought you wanted…” Before I could finish my sentence, he kissed me again, his beard chaffing my chin. I felt his fingers down there, inside my underwear, pushing in hard and deep. It hurt. I had never been touched down there by a man before. By anyone. Was it supposed to hurt this much? I wanted to tell him to stop, but his tongue was deep inside my throat, moving around wildly like a deer in a forest, chased by a starving predator.

When he finally stopped kissing me, I managed a whisper, “This… this was great, but umm, I didn’t know this was going to happen. Uh, I don’t think….” Again, before I could finish, he put two of his fingers inside my mouth and said, “Taste yourself. Yes, I want you wet. Make yourself wet.” Was that what people did? Tasted… themselves? With horror, I realized that he had pulled down his pants with his other hand and was looking at me hungrily.

I tried to say no, but no words came out of my mouth. I stood, paralyzed, breathing like a maniac, as he maneuvered me around, and without warning, put his –

“Yes, just like that,” he said. Oh God, why couldn’t I speak? What was wrong with me? My breathing became faster, I was probably in the middle of a panic attack. “Stop pushing me away! Stop… resisting. You know you want me – I can feel it.” And that’s when I noticed that all this time, my hands were on his torso, trying to push him off me. But he was too strong. He didn’t budge an inch. He went deeper inside, and I felt a kind of pain I had never thought existed. I gave in.

Afterwards, he put on his clothes, kissed me on my forehead, and left, promising to call. He never called. I didn’t expect him to. I deleted the app. I had never saved his number. Why would I? It was only the one date.

I bled for two days and couldn’t walk for a week.

It took me three months and multiple pain management pills until I could finally fall sleep. For someone who slept soundly eight hours a night, insomnia affected me worse than I thought it would. I would lie awake, dreading someone would come inside my apartment and attack me down there with a knife. Was that how penetrative sex felt? Like, someone stabbing you with a knife over and over again? My gynecologist – whose appointment I could get only after groveling to the health clinic front desk for several weeks – assured me repeatedly it did not. But how could I believe someone who wasn’t there inside my body when it happened?

My phone beeped. Speak of the devil.

I opened the email from my gynecologist. My results were out. I was pregnant. My phone beeped again. Roe v Wade had been overturned. Abortion was now illegal in my state.

But my date was free.

I hopped into a taxi and told the driver, “Follow that car!”

I saw my fiancé get in a car with another woman. I asked the driver to speed up thinking I could follow them and see who the woman was.

The car in front of us took a few turns and stopped at the gas station. I jumped out of the taxi and rushed to the car. I prepared for the worst, prepared to catch him cheating on me, and eager to see who the woman was.

As I grabbed the door, my fiancé looked at me in shock. The woman sitting next to him thought she saw a ghost. Turns out I was more shocked than both of them. Because the woman sitting next to my fiancé resting her head on his shoulder was my therapist who for the past 3 months counselled me for Pistanthrophobia, the fear of trusting one’s partner, and told me it was only an irrational fear.