Lights. Camera. RCNM.

“Snap!” It was the only sound heard on that deserted road as I stepped on the twig fallen on the road. Paying no attention to it, I began running again. Did I mention that I was running late for work at 10 PM in the night? Only my erratic and unpredictable boss could keep a meeting at a time like that. And as usual, I missed the bus so I had no option but to walk. Finally I stopped outside the entrance of a graveyard. I don’t believe in ghosts or supernatural creatures, but the thought of running through a graveyard at night still made me hesitant. I knew I had no choice as it was the only shortcut to my workplace. I took a deep breath and entered the graveyard. The place’s eeriness was increased by the presence of branches of the trees rising like dying arms, with the full moon covered by a dark cloud like shroud. The signs of Christ seemed almost alive and there was no sound heard except heavy breathing. Just when I thought it couldn’t get scarier, “i...

“The poor bastard never saw it coming.” He spoke these words sitting on the kerb with his head in his hands.  I didn't know what to tell him. I’d been watching all along. I was at the sink rinsing my coffee cup when he left at 7:30, as usual. And as soon as the garage door closed, I saw their curtains disappear. Well, that caught my eye.  She was ripping them down. I knew then something was wrong, this being mid-December and no time for spring cleaning. I stood for awhile, peeking between the blinds.  I like to know what’s going on in my neighbourhood. She stood at the bare window for a minute or two, staring wide-eyed at the neglected lawn, naked trees, and the cement-coloured sky.  I raised my hand up just in case she looked but she didn't–she saw the dog, his dog, big stupid thing licking himself on the front lawn like it was the only thing to do. She took the things he never liked: the pillow she’d embroidere...

“I think this is the last stop, mate.” Someone tapped on my shoulders. I could not feel my legs. I stumbled and fell in the compartment; he tried to pick me up.  “Get your hands off me.” I glared at him.   “You are too drunk. Where are you going?” I did not listen. I just tiptoed around the compartment and got off the train. Something was eating me from inside, slowly poisoning every part of me that ever felt alive. I was dragging my feet on the roads. I could hear vehicles honking, drivers shouting, and the madness that this city is.  Crawling, I made my way to the graveyard while tightly holding a white frock and a broken doll to my chest. It was almost midnight. Leafs were ruffling with breeze and there was no sign of any living being. I opened the gate, tearing through the silence of the night. I slowly started walking towards her. She was beautiful too, just like this frock. She was so precious…my sister, Ilina. She had big eyes ...

"A tragic situation exists precisely when virtue does not triumph but when it is still felt that man is nobler than the forces which destroy him." - George Orwell The universe we live in is built up of opposing forces which counterbalance each other and exist in a state of volatile equilibrium. Yin and yang, light and dark, virtue and vice - the conflict is eternal.  This is why not every story can have a happy ending. Smiles can become tears, dreams can turn into nightmares and life can translate into death in the blink of an eye. This is known as tragedy.  One wrong step, one false judgment, one fatal mistake can bring an end to the flawed existence of life. This is tragedy. It is well established that misery and death can help man achieve a philosophical zenith. It is part and parcel of life, yet so unnerving and unbelievable. Hence, tragic stories often break right through the cluster of one's thoughts and pierce right into the heart.  ...

As young boys we were all very fascinated by the creepy ghost stories. Every camping trip from our school had this one occasion when some guy would narrate us a ghost story or some other scary incident which he either recalled or made up. We would all huddle around him and listen to him carefully, trying to soak in the supernatural aura created by the story. It was all in good humor, only, not on that night. The night was rife and we were all set for a story. Our bus was about to leave in the next hour on our our journey back home. We had early dinners during our camping trips and hence we were all stuffed. We all huddled up in a small tent and a torch was passed on to the guy who was going to narrate the incident. He began his story, ironically in the way all fairytales begin.  " Once upon a time, there was a small village of poor farmers. They were harassed by the local landlord for money. The landlord used his influence and muscle power to acquire more land. H...