What I want to be…

I got this as a topic for a writeup, in school. I like what I wrote, and whenever that happens it comes up on this blog. I haven’t been active lately, what with getting the hang of a new school, going to 11th (really, CBSE should try and smoothen down the quadruple-or-so jump in syllabus between 10th and 11th. That is not how you challenge students), and basically trying to mentally accept that I’m gonna have a lot more work now. Anyway, moving on…

The Writeup

What do I want to be? I don’t really know. It’s not something I’ve devoted much thought to. Sure, people (read: nearly everyone) has asked me what I want to be when I grow up, and my standard reply is “software engineer.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the whole truth either. Really, all I wan to do is something -anything- I love doing. Additionally, whatever I do should pay well. It isn’t exactly a positive thing, but the world runs on money and there isn’t much you can do about it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to end up being a ruthless (dollar) billionaire who loves what he does. But neither am I going to be content with earning a lakh (hundred thousand) of rupees a month for the rest of the foreseeable future. I want to stay a rupee millionaire. Preferably with a few options to grow, and not just monetarily. A successful startup would be nice too. If I don’t have something to work for, then what will I do? In my opinion, life is only going to be worth living if you have something to work for. Something that will get you to punch the wall in frustration. Repeatedly. Something that you can spend weeks sweating over.

In short, I want to do what I will enjoy doing, earn money (more than I need, less than Mukesh Ambani) and always have a challenge to beat.

The Livingstone Estate

And another one! Another of those short stories that everyone who visits this blog seems to love reading, and that I love writing. I daresay this one is rough around the edges, but it was the best I could do without copying from my own stories. And a hearty thanks to the Random First Line Generator for providing me the starting point of this story. Find it at http://writingexercises.co.uk/firstlinegenerator.php.

The Livingstone Estate

In the Livingstone estate, flies were a sign of a death, and this morning there were a lot of them. They swarmed around the windows, and eventually found their way down to the body where it lay, cold and unmoving. The residents weren’t surprised in the least. Deaths were common, as disease was rampant. The estate was not so much of what it sounded, but rather more of a collection of run-down rooms in a mansion that had outlived its glory.

Most of 2090 London was like this. Houses, buildings, offices, even Underground stations inhabited to the limit. The city was a mess of people in the street, or pretty much anywhere with flat ground to sleep on. Overpopulation had reached its limit. Birth and death rates were nearly equal now. No-one bothered with hospitals. Antibiotics had been outdated long ago. A small bout of cold had the potential to spell death for thousands, yet the remaining population would give birth to thousands more. No hope remained for this city, no chance of restoring it to its former grandiose.

Decades of neglecting the looming threat that global warming and other significant environmental issues posed had reduced the world to a global graveyard. The common when-will-the-living-outnumber-the-dead paradox was no more one, being more of a universal fact. All nuclear weapons had been spontaneously destroyed by –what remained of– each government in accordance with a treaty. No-one was willing to risk the lives of literally millions of people that could live in the smallest percentage of the world’s surface area. Population even affected the distribution of money, with no more dollar millionaires. Printing more notes was more than each country’s capacity as they had not the necessary gold.

A global catastrophe was imminent and more likely than not it would be not because of war, or strife, or drought, or flood, but by epidemics, viruses that could spread faster than wildfire and deal more than ten times the damage. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. No one had a good life. The Earth was the only planet ever to hold or have held life in the known universe. Wouldn’t it be better if that title remained? Free from the oppression and danger known as humanity, life could thrive again. The few species that had not been hunted extinct for money or food could still have a chance of surviving. The only reminder of the humans that would have one inhabited the planet would be the tons of plastic they left behind. Yet even that could be overcome in a relatively short amount of time, geologically speaking.

And even if visible life died out, it would be nearly impossible to wipe out the billions of microbial organisms that inhabited the tiniest granule of dirt and would thrive on the inevitable billions upon billions of bodies that would cover the Earth. Life just can’t be wiped out. It just has to, and will, survive.

Doomsday

Here’s a new one. I wrote this a couple months ago, for my exam, and I really like it. Enjoy!

Doomsday

He could see the smoke rising from the factory and spreading over the town. It had been doing so for the past two days and would continue to do so for two more, till it had covered the city. The presence of a greenish tinge to the foul substance betrayed the presence of chemicals not usually present in common factory smoke from a few years ago.

It was 2116, and the world was dying. Everyone knew that, yet denial made it seem that the unavoidable truth could be delayed further. Yet, alas, nature – or what was left of it – does not conform to the whims of mankind. The Boole-Hasbergen Law formulated five years ago, confirmed it and even predicted the date. It was frighteningly close, approaching fast, and no-one could stop it.

The world was in tatters. Water was only for the filthy rich, and all food was little more than synthetically prepared nutrients in colourful packaging. The world was one large city. Most oceans were little more than lakes, and forests were virtually non-existent, and rapidly increasing population consumed whatever resources remained.

Diseases were common, and most were deadly, as science could not keep up with bacteria as it mutated to counter each new antibiotic. Life at home was tough. On the streets, it was deadly. Each man, woman and child had to fend for themselves, and dead bodies were found every day, eaten away by scavengers and sometimes the poorest of the poor. There was no government, as each one fell to terrorist attack or was besieged by the needs of the poor.

Nothing could stop the end of the world. This was how humanity would leave the Earth. This would be its legacy, with none to remember it. Earth, corrupted by nuclear waste, ravaged by war, torn apart by endless mining, would continue to orbit the Sun. Another plant, one in billions of billions, would nearly be destroyed.

Yet, as humanity was wiped off the planet, other forms of life would survive. Life would pull through, as it had for billions of years. This only marked the end of an aeon, and the beginning of a new one. Something would remain.

All was not lost.

Allegory Of Death – My Poem!

Hi, everyone! I just composed a poem, for an activity in school, and I liked it so I thought I’d upload it here, for everyone to see. It’s the first good poem I’ve made, as far as I remember. I hope you’ll like it.

Allegory Of Death

The spirit stood in front of me

Reciting allegory

He held with him my life, my fate,

Knew all my loves, my life, my hates.

He held me in iron bands;

Unable to move, anxious, I stood wringing my hands

Answer his riddles I should,

Or else my life end, it would.

Of the answer I searched, I thought

Despairing over what I had wrought.

Suddenly I knew what to say

From misery I had found a way.

I spoke, waited,

My breath baited.

He smiled, raised his arms

I was released; I thought he meant no harm.

I walked, slowly, ahead

Suddenly, a blade appeared, me it did behead.

In my last moments I thought of my life,

I thought, what was the meaning of all this strife?

The Fall of an Empire – Another short story

Hi! Nice to see you. I know, I havent published for a while, but I am now. Here is a (slightly longer) short story for you to enjoy. Hope you like it!

The Fall of an Empire

The five of them gathered in the room, seating themselves at the five corners of the table. The pentagonal piece of furniture, like all other furniture in the bare room, was dark mahogany. The room was lit by five candles, arranged in a pentagon in the five corners of the pentagon-shaped room. The layout was of utmost importance, as the equality of the furniture symbolised the equality of the five members of this empire. Even a slight variation in the arrangement would signal a tipping of the scales, something that couldn’t be tolerated and resulted in the immediate eviction of the incriminating member.

None of their actions were seen, nor their speech heard, for each of them had a scrambler in the breast pocket of their shirt. Secrecy was of utmost importance. The scrambler, custom made and pentagonal in shape, would interfere with any digital field in a 100-metre radius. This device was the size of one’s palm, and could pass a metal detection test with ease.

Security was prioritised, and each member went through a rigorous test to enter the room. This room was entirely soundproofed, with metal reinforced walls and roof, and had the capacity to sustain a bomb blast large enough to blow a 2-storey building to smithereens.

Running the largest criminal empire in the world required such measures, and more. Anything that could make money didn’t escape their radar. The five together had contacts worldwide, in every major organisation. A company could be brought down with a few phone calls, results within a week. Immense power was in their hands.

Yet, despite all of this, one of them had been compromised, one of them had talked. That was why they were here. They all entered at a predefined time, accurate to the minute. They all drove themselves, using a map if necessary. GPS can be tracked. Chauffeurs are unreliable.

There was only one way to know who the traitor was. Sixth Sense. Sixth Sense was a system of indigenously and ingeniously developed sensors embedded directly into each member’s pharynx, eyeball, and ear. They were implanted through surgery, and logged whatever the user spoke, saw or heard to a memory chip embedded in the heart. Data was backed up weekly to a central database. Each sensor and chip, once implanted, could never be removed while the user was alive, and would burn automatically when their heart stopped. All four pieces were bound with near unbreakable cords to the users nearest major artery. In addition, when anything was broken, they all would send a short electric pule to the nearest nerve cluster, effectively rendering the person useless. It all ran on a frequency unblocked by the scrambler.

Right now, each chip was uploading its contents, and collective viewing would decide who betrayed them all.

One of the five slowly reached for the closest of five pistols, unnoticed by the others, who sat with their eyes closed in dreamless slumber.

He reached the gun, expertly checked the magazine, removed the safety, and shot the first of the other four in a motion so well practised it seemed almost fluidic, effortless, and deadly. The bullet pierced the centre of the man’s head. He was about to shoot the next man, but noticed that they hadn’t even flinched. He checked their pulses, and suddenly the man’s left eyeball burst into flame. The same happened for the other three.

Then, he heard a beep, repeating over and over again, gradually increasing its tempo. It could only mean one thing – a bomb. He had to get out. He ran to the door – Iron reinforced – but it was locked. He couldn’t even shoot the latch.

And then all was still. Pain, searing pain enveloped him in its embrace, and then bliss as the life ebbed out of his burnt frame.

But all was not over, as a crack spread across the ceiling, the pentagonal room having contained a blast far bigger than it was intended to.

And slowly, seemingly ever so slowly, the roof crumbled, and covered the remains of the twisted glory of what once was the greatest criminal empire to ever have come into being.

ShortStories

My Short Stories

Hey! Nice to see you again. Good to know that you’re on my site! Anyhow, Here are a couple of my own stories that I wrote. I hope you like them. Feel free to write your reviews.

The Retirement Home Smuggler

A man of ninety-two years, short, very well preserved, who takes great care of his appearance is moving into an old people’s home today. His seventy year old wife has recently died and he is obliged to leave his home. After waiting several hours in the retirement home lobby, he gently smiles as he is told that his room is ready. As he slowly walks to the elevator he puts his hand in his pocket, confirming that an object the shape and size of a wallet is still with him. It is. He walks leisurely to the door of the elevator and the doors close, suspending him in a metal box in a one hundred metre high shaft.

At that moment, the man on the opposite roof knows that he has found his target. Whatever was going on here was far less innocent than it seemed. The old man went by the name of Jacob Whight. He was involved in an illegal smuggling operation, and the whole reason he was here was a well-made cover story. In reality he didn’t have a wife and wasn’t ninety two, but closer to forty. What he had in his pocket was in fact a wallet, but modified so as to shoot one tranquiliser dart and store more than its weight in gold.

He had purposefully chosen this home as it as it allowed for a neat system of piping and ledges that would facilitate a climb down but not up he would frame the scene to look like a murder and escape. He would change his disguise and cover story thereafter, as he would be instantly recognised by any respectable policeman or customs official. This was because his photo had been taken by a hidden camera on a man whom he had had an encounter with. It had involved a lot of big bangs and a lot of blood. Mainly his opponent’s.

The man on the roof, going by the code name of Wolf in the Special Operations division of the CIA, had been tracking Whight for a month and was determined to end one of the largest smuggling networks in the world.

Then pain, two seconds of blinding, obliterating pain as Wolf was shot. One of his ribs was shattered, a lung punctured and his left ventricle cut. As sure a death as any.

Behind him, a man rose, holding a sniper. Elongated barrel and loaded with one twenty calibre bullet, now shot. The man smiled with pleasure, a smile that had scared the most hardened of men.

The smile of Jacob Whight.

The Hiest

He had always been a favourite, an example to all those who knew him. Now, after what he had done, would they still feel the same? This was one of the thoughts buzzing through Jeremy Archer’s mind. And the most important one, he thought. Of course, this went without saying. To him, all that mattered was his money and his fame. Selfish, one may say, but it hardly mattered to him after owning one of the largest companies on the planet. His parents had died young; he had no wife or son, so the only person he cared for was himself. You may ask, what had he done? Simple answer really. He was running low on funds, and his investors were backing out, so he had decided to steal the Kohinoor, in London. And failed. Miserably. The police had been tipped off. One of his men had been bribed. All his men were arrested, and they dragged him along. He would get out soon enough. He could pretend that he had been framed. His lawyers would do the rest. He wasn’t scared, really. He had been in such situations umpteen times. And yet the London court couldn’t manage to hold anything against him. Being the head of the second largest consumer electronics manufacturer in the world did involve sacrifices.

He was jerked back to the present, as the policeman escorting hum gave him a particularly painful jab in the back. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his back, “is that how you treat your V.I.Ps? Very Important Prisoners.” He added, noticing the guard’s befuddled expression. “You’re all the same for us, VIP or not. Now you get in your cell and stop wisecracking.” Jeremy walked in with a sigh. He would really have to get out of here soon.

It was all on the headlines the next day. “Multi-millionaire humiliated,” “Businessman put to shame,” Businessman? Jeremy thought I’m the second wealthiest man in the world, for gods’ sake! The newspaper really does never run out of rubbish words to use. “Fans protest against arrest.” There you go. At least some people still liked him.

The day after that he was out. His lawyers did a marvellous job. He roamed freely around the streets of London, surrounded by seven personal bodyguards and more that fifteen times as many fans. At least my reputation hasn’t defamed, no matter what the newspapers may say.

He walked over to his limousine, a top model Cadillac and painted jet black. It had cost him a fortune. But fortunes couldn’t measure his wealth. As he got into his private section, his body guards climbed into their own seats. His last thought as he closed his tinted glass windows was:

What heist should I pull off next?