Frankenstein

By Ilsa Rashid

Directed Writing:
I lay on a mattress of steel, writhing in pain that gnawed, not on my body, but my conscience. The cold of the mattress reminded me that this agony and this loneliness were all real.
How much longer must I endure such suffering? When shall I join those innocent ones? The ones that I snatched away from their families, like a stubborn child seizes another’s possession.
I saw their faces float affront my eyes, on the walls of the cell, mocking me. The embarrassment, the guilt of it drove me insane! I remember, as clearly as I saw the turnkey sleeping on a chair behind the bars that I had killed. How many, I do not remember.
The turnkey parted his eyes slightly and said,
“Do you need anything?”
“Death,” I replied.
“Might as well learn to kill time too. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” he stated flatly.

Comparative Analysis:

Both, the given passage and my passage, are written in first person singular and are monologues by a person responsible for a series of murders.

Both passages have the same purpose: to show the murder’s agony. ‘Agony,' ‘miserable,' ‘parched’ and ‘terror’ are words that the given passage uses. My passage uses ‘pain’, ‘suffering’, and ‘gnawed’. All these words describe the character’s experience in the prison and create a mood of tension and, sometimes, sympathy. Throughout the passages, the tone of the speaker is that of guilt and restlessness. This is illustrated by the questions in line 5 in my passage these questions evoke sympathy in the reader as they help form a connection with the prisoner.

The given passage uses long sentences and exclamations to show the frustration and helplessness of the prisoner. The given passage uses thus exclamation in line 21, whereas I have emulated this technique in line 10 and 11.

The given passage uses a simile in line 22 where the renewed torture is compared to ‘the turning of the wheel.’ ‘Like a stubborn child’ is the simile that I have used to describe his act of murder.

The given passage repeatedly mentions how the prisoner can’t differentiate reality from a dream, as in line 4, 24 and 47. I have also shown a sense of disbelief and confusion in line 13, where the prisoner does not remember how many he has killed.

Both passages make use of dialogue where a person asks the prisoner a question. ‘Are you better now, sir?’ in the given passage and “Do you need anything?’ in mine. Also, both passages make use of sarcasm: in line 42 in the given passage and line 17-18 in my passage, where the remarks of the outsider hurt the prisoner. This evokes sympathy for the prisoner.

“Gaolers, turnkeys, bolts” is a triad used in the given passage. This creates a sense of pity for the prisoner as it is a list of boring things and people. However, I have not used this technique.

Untitled

By Ilsa Rashid

I thought I heard a dull scraping beneath the floorboards.
“Must be that rat again,” I thought to myself, and switched the channel to Star Movies. ‘Scream’ was about to begin. I crossed my legs on the couch and rested my legs on the cushion.
‘Nothing better than a good horror movie on a Saturday night,’ I smiled.

I was nearly asleep halfway through the movie.
‘Who takes two hours to open a closet door? Horror movies aren’t the same anymore,’ I yawned.

I heard the scraping sound again now, louder this time. It was more like a knocking sound now. Not only did it grow louder, I sensed it moving closer too.
The girl in the film crept towards the closet.
I inched towards the edge of the sofa.
The girl reached out for the knob on the door.
I bent to peek under the sofa.

And then we saw it.

Writhing in pain, silently, was a cat so black that its body blended against the black sofa. All that was visible were its eyes; wide, neon and still. Without a sound, as if choking on a bone, it became very stiff, like stone.

A wave of nausea and terror washed over me and trembling I ran out of the room, leaving the television switched on. With sweaty palms and a breath too fast, I entered the bathroom and threw up today’s lunch. But I wasn’t able to expel the image glued on to my mental screen: the pale green eyes, wide with fear. I reached for the tap, when the light bulb flickered. Flickered again. And went out.

After colliding into the sink, the tub and the door I managed to find the door knob. It wouldn’t open. I wiped my palms off my pants and tried again. I pulled. I pulled harder. It didn’t budge.
‘Breathe,’ I told myself, but to no avail. Air came to me in shorter gasps by the minute.
Frantically, I kicked the door. It smoothly opened wide.
‘Of course!’ I patted my self, laughing half heartedly.

Milky moonlight from through the windows lit the house. I stood tight against the wall opposite to my bed, with my own breath being the only sound in the room. And the rustle of the leaves outside. I shut my eyes and told myself I was being paranoid.

Swinging the door to my room open, I swiftly made my way to the kitchen. The door creaked shut behind me. I had trouble finding a candle but after a lot of tripping and stumbling, I lit one. As parched as I was, I dared not approach the fridge. As I tiptoed into the lounge, I fell back in my feet and screamed in horror. A giant, dark figure, in the shape of man lurched towards me. I collided against the wall, the candle fell from between my fingers and the monster disappeared. An embarrassingly long moment later, I lit the candle and began to walk towards my own shadow again.
‘At least I’m not alone,’ I shrugged, half hoping I was wrong.

I crawled up on the couch again, sensing the stiffness of the corpse that lay under me.
My mouth tasted like vomit. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the blue light that filled the room, I bent to set the candle on the table before me. The candle was still in my hands when the power returned and the television switched on along with the fan.

I sighed with relief and looked up at the television. The movie was ending. The girl held a candle in a dark room. She walked smoothly towards the camera, as if floating. Her face, white as snow, covered the entire screen. I watched my lips slightly apart, eyes wide open, candle wax dripping on hands as they shivered. Ten slender fingers appeared on the screen from behind her and circled around the nape of her neck.

Both of our candles fell.

Holding my breath, I brought my trembling hands to my neck and felt eight knuckles tightening around me. 

Anger: Calming the monster inside us!

By Hiba Fatima

Have you ever felt so angry at someone that you imagined killing them in the most brutal way you can? Have you ever been so frustrated, so exasperated, that all you ever wanted to do was to scream? Every teenager has felt this way at one point in their life or another. That's okay. Sometimes, people are just inviting you to high-five them. In the face. With a chair.

Says Mrs. Shernaz Darrah, Principal of Beaconhouse School System, Karachi, "It is alarming how I've been observing countless incidents of bullying at the school. Most of it primarily stems from the high school section."

Mr. Mehdiali Dharamsey, English Language teacher of the eleventh grade, further added, "My students- they are volatile. A discussion metomorphisises into an argument, an argument into a scuffle, and a scuffle into chaos."

That's what happens when you let anger culminate inside you. It cloud your judgement and may even force you to make decisions you will regret. Sarah Shahid, 19, told Top of the Pops magazine, "I ran away from home last year because I was seething mad at my mum for confiscating my cellphone. I came back three days later, but in those three days, I realized just how stupid I had been. My anger motivated me to act in the most destructive ways."

So what do we do about this crimson monster called anger?
We close our eyes, take a deep breath and tell him to calm down. There are many ways in which you can vent out your feelings without being violent or irrational. One great way to do this is through art. Painting a blank canvas with the colours of our choice actually helps us express our feelings. Sughra Azeem, an art teacher from Beaconhouse, told us how students automatically picked colours like red, orange and even black when painting while angry. "It helps you with intellectual development as well as anger management." she said.

You could write your feelings down in a journal. Mad at your friend, sibling or teacher? Write a poem about it. Perform it with all your emotion. Let your anger stimulate the creative juices in your mind to flow. If you love doing so, you might just be a slam poet!

If you really can't do anything but hit something when you're angry, then listen to this story of John Green, 17, from Sean Covey's book, "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teenagers". Green, whenever he was furious, would escape to the basement of his house. He would pick up a hockey stick and a ball and hit the bare walls of the room for as long as it took to vapourise his anger. "Doing so did wonders for me." Green says. "I found a way to manage my anger, without hurting my family with the rudeness I usually showed." You could join Karate classes if you likes Mr. Green's story!

Another way to pacify yourself is by performing yoga. "Yoga requires so much attention that your mind is actually vacated of grief and anger because it is so focused on your posture." Ms. Maliha Subzwari, a yoga instructor at Body Beats, Karachi, told TP magazine.

Having greater control over your emotions makes you a more pro-active person. When you're angry, you're also confused. You focus on problems, not solutions. Solutions that your mind cannot emulate while your judgement is clouded. Every little thing other people do annoys you. That's why it's so important to learn how to manage your anger. Next time you're angry, try Dr. Fiza Shah's idea, "Breathe deeply, press your forefingers against your temples and just pretend to scream, with your mouth agape but voice silent." You'll feel lighter, happier and satisfied. All this because of one thing: anger management.

The Wedding

By Lynette Rodrigues

Write a contrasting descriptive piece (between 300-450words each) about a wedding. One of them is about an enjoyable experience; the other is about an experience which is not enjoyable. In your writing, you should bring out clear contrast in setting and atmosphere.

Enjoyable Wedding Experience:

“From this moment as long as I live, I will love you....From this moment on,” sings the girl in the floral blue dress. Her melodious voice fills the hall as the bride and bridegroom dance to their first dance in the new chapter of their life. Colorful stripped paper and sequence burst out in delight above them from the bride and bridegrooms statue. The paper twirls in the air as though dancing to the energy in the candle light room.

               

As the little girl watches, her eyes sparkle at the scene in front of her. The music puts her in a trance, swaying her body, making her feet tap to its beat. The good cheer in the room unconsciously draws a smile on her cherubic face as she runs towards the crowd to get a closer look at the bride.

               

The bride twirls across the wooden dance floor, her groom always there to catch her. Her delicate, hearty laughter adds to the fairytale of the scene. She looks at her husband, their eyes meeting in laughter. Nothing else seems to matter; not the silk wedding gown whose trail is sweeping the floor, nor the sprig of flowers that seems to jump on her simply designed hair as she glides across the floor.

               

As the dancing comes to an end, the crowd, intoxicated with merriment, moves towards the round tables to sit. Each table is covered with a cloth matching that of the chairs with it. Broad purple ribbons too can be seen tied on the chairs which add that sense of celebration that is seen at weddings.

               

Even the little girl seems to find decorations to her liking. Purple balloons decorate the Greek style pillars of the room. They frolick with the slight breeze that enters the hall, upon the arrival of a new guest. The bride picks out a balloon from the pillar and gives the girl with a smile before her husband and she move towards each table to welcome their guests.

Experience which was not enjoyable:

The jarring music floods the room where the bride and bridegroom sit. Her eyes burn as the overwhelming lights hit them. Red lights, orange lights, green lights, they all cover the room in an almost menacing manner, like that of a dictator ready to ruin one’s life.

               

As the bride sits, she tries to let her eyes become accustomed to the light. Her head sways due to the heavy jewelry that adorns her delicate, slim, fragile body because of the wedding. She tries to smile but she is unable to because of all the makeup that shrouds her.

               

The guests pay no attention to the red beauty sitting in silence. They are more interested in a dance being performed by the grooms sister and friends.

“WOHOOO!” they scream, their voice being drowned by the blaring dance music.

Some children are seen running around, jumping, kicking, “Thud!” a plate falls from a child’s hand, but no one notices. The child quietly kicks it under the table and skips away.

               

She waits, as she cannot move around freely, for someone to come and talk to her. It is her day after all, IS it NOT? But no one comes. She contents herself with looking at her guests rushing towards the bouquet. Plates are piled up, rice topped with curry, topped with salad and shami kababs, topped with pudding. They wallop it down, like hunters after a week’s failed hunt. They gossip in loud voices about what is wrong with the wedding, about the lack of heavy embroidery on her scarlet red gown, about the lack of variety of food.

She looks at them with eyes glistening. The garish dressed clothes that scream out their pompous nature, the fashionable outfits that do not care about personal comfort, the lips that do not care about people’s feelings.

     

She tries to move, but alas, she is unable to. It is her day. Her prison.

The Cage

By Reja Younis

I was petrified. My mind went blank, my hand froze and my palms grew sweaty. My stomach, full from pancakes Mother had forced down my throat, was now performing 360-degree summersaults and flips. I felt an overwhelming wave of nausea as I gripped my chest to keep from kneeling over. Cold chills ran down my spine and my mouth was dry. Absolutely parched.

Where was my water bottle? I reached down to grab the clear bottle and I held it up in the light to observe. There were a few sips left. It would have to do. I fumbled with the blue cap, my fingers wet with perspiration. It wouldn’t open – the cap was air locked. I twisted and pulled with all my might until it popped off and flew to the far end of the room. The invigilator robotically pacing down the rows gave me a taunting look and curled her lips up to reveal filthy, yellow teeth. Our eyes locked for a nanosecond. Her gaze was menacing, evil and a solemn word flashed into my mind… death.

I shrunk back in my cold, unwelcoming seat and looked around. Everyone was maniacally flipping pages back and forth with a crazed look in their eyes. They looked hypnotized and entranced. I could hear the sound of pens and pencils scribbling furiously. I cringed and took a long swig from my water bottle. It glided into my mouth soothingly and an aura of tranquility overwhelmed me. Then I was out of water. I placed the water bottle back on the floor with a soft thud. 

The silence could kill. With over forty rows of students, not a single sound escaped anyone’s mouth. I wanted to scream and climb on the top of a chair and shout, “ Get me out of here! I don’t know anything!”

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… the clock’s sound seemed to boom in my ears. I cupped my ears to block the sound, but it still penetrated through. I looked at the students one by one then. There was the girl sitting in front of me, destined by God to receive a distinction. She had not looked up once, not to look at the clock, nor to take a drink of water. She fiercely scrutinized her paper; it looked perfect by what I could make out. She furrowed her brows and frowned. I let out a long, frustrated sigh. Another invigilator stopped to look at me. This one had sharp, cheetah-like eyes that were tawny and speckled, masked by a shield of copper and wire. His broad nose crinkled in disgust as he continued his march – his black shoes clicking across the floor.

            

I glanced at the boy sitting next to me. He was finished, wearing a smug expression on his face, his countenance dripping with pride and confidence.

            

I felt the walls start closing in all of a sudden. Nausea overwhelmed me again as I decided to have another go at the question paper. When I picked up my blue pen, however, it slipped out of my grasp and clattered onto the floor noisily, I reached over to pick it up and began reading the question paper again. It was hopeless. There were still thirty minutes to go and I was imprisoned in the examination hall. I nervously looked at the invigilators sitting at the front desk. They were busy as well – it was as if they were also attempting the Biology paper.

            

What had they said in the beginning about emergency exits? I could not remember; but I was certain that I was going to throw up if I did not get out of this cage. I looked up at the melancholy blue lights and then over at the vile clock. I began to feel extremely dizzy as if I had just exited an amusement park ride. My Biology teacher’s sinister voice kept repeating in my head, “ You will fail! You will fail! You will fail!”

            

“No, no, no” I croaked desperately to my self. I put my head down on the desk. It was hard and grey. Sweat was dripping down my forehead, my right leg vibrated uncontrollably. I glared at the floor – it was mainly a dark grey with patches of white and title of red. The red looked like blood to me. What would Mom do if I failed Biology? Would she murder me? Would my blood splatter onto our pristine, marble floor?

            

I shook my head convulsively and rocked back and forth. My insides were turning and grinding.

            

“Five minutes” the invigilator declared. I let out a small yelp and fell back in my chair again. A tear escaped my eye and I jerkily brushed it off. I took in a long breath and smelled fresh, new papers and an antiseptic odour burned my nostrils till I shuddered.  

            

The cage was no longer a nightmare. It was a reality. I wondered if I would make it out alive. 

You Are In Hell.

By Junaina Naveed

You open your eyes. You blink. You close your eyes tightly for a moment, and then you open them again. You see, nothing. You try to raise your arm, but you can’t. You try to lift your leg, but you can’t. Gravity overpowers every bit of strength in you. Or perhaps, it’s something else taking control of your body. Your body, but not your mind. No. It wants you to feel everything. Or at least, have you believe that you feel everything.. 
You want to scream. But your jaw remains idle. Your heart palpitates. 
Black. Everything is pitch black.. Until in front of your eyes, streaks of bright white start to appear. You cannot look away. You are paralyzed as the streaks start elongating and weaving themselves into a web. Abruptly, you are lifted up off your feet and thrown into the web. The white streaks start to warp themselves around every inch of your naked flesh, tighter and tighter. They pierce your flesh, gradually cutting all the way through your mass to your veins, till they feel bone.
You want to scream. But no, you cannot. 
Red. The white is now stained by a single drop of red. The tiny red dot, starts to expand before your eyes. It expands just like the blood on his shirt when you brutally stabbed him.. Suddenly, all you see is red. It takes over the white and surrounds you. It enters you like thick smoke and grasps onto every organ inside you. Chokes it. Suffocates it.. You fall, and you keep falling. The pressure by the fall, whips your face and your body. Whips it harsher than the belt you beat your child with.. You fall into water. Or is it water? It is blue as midnight. But it is dense. Thick and gooey. You sink through it to its depths. And you lie at the very depth, carrying the weight of the entire sludge upon you. 
Green. You see two small beads of vivid green in the distance, making there way towards you. They edge closer and closer.. Eyes. They are eyes that belong to a face. A face carved with perfection. Carrying luscious lips. You see curves, decked in purple satin. You see flesh. A walking form of lust, now inches towards you. You welcome it, as it caresses your face tenderly. Hands travel down your neck and your chest. They stop. They slice your flesh with their long nails and tear it open. They pull out bit by bit. And then relish it. The creature breaks off each of your bones. One by one. And chews on them. Its face contorts into the face of the woman you raped.. And the next. And the next. And the next.. Its face is a blur. 
You want to scream. But no. No, you cannot.   
Yellow. All of a sudden, nothing but bright yellow. You try to focus. You look carefully. There are mirrors all around you. The mirrors are what reflect the yellow.. The wrench of burnt flesh starts to encompass you. You look around you, into the mirrors once again. You, are on fire. Every part of your body, is in flames. The intensity of the heat sinks in. 
You want to scream. No. You cannot.
The fire extinguishes. Leaving a gray silhouette of your body, that you stare at in the mirror.. Ice. Your insides turn to ice. The delicate kind, that breaks easily. Every muscle, every nerve, slowly freezes. In pathetic attempt, you try to flex your frozen muscles, even though you know you cannot. And you crumble. The gray figure of frozen ash that stood before you in the mirror, crumbles to the ground. Each grain, each molecule, separates itself from the others. Separating you. Separating your mind, into millions of independent existences. Each existence, now feels each and every atoms worth of torment, separately.
You want to scream? 
You are in hell.    

Forbidden

By Alisha Sethi

With Christmas approaching fast, the scene at the North Pole was one of havoc and hysteria. Reindeers were excercising to build up strength for all the long journeys they would soon have to undertake ; Santa's helpers (the elves) were busy manufacturing goods in the factories; and last but not the least the Santas were sorting out their Wish Lists.Wish Lists were mailed to them early November and now the Santas were busy planning their itineraries, which house to visit first which to visit last and all that. However in the midst of all this madness, sat Martin, a most unhappy Santa, sulking in the corner of his cubicle. He had been in service for twenty years now, twenty long years of delivering presents and having kids pull his beard but not once had he been appreciated. Not once had he been made Star of the Year. He was fed up of his job, his life and the same monotonous routine that took place every year. Each year Martin's mind would race through the endless career alternatives that waited out there, he was not quite sure what they were but he knew that there were many and he knew that they HAD to be more exciting than being a Santa. He had been thinking of resigning since quite a while now but because of the severe consequences of leaving the profession, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. People didn't just become Santas, either you were born into the profession or you weren't, and he,Martin, was born a Santa. His ancestors had been Santas too, he couldn't just pack up his bags and leave. It was Forbidden.

On the 26th of November 2011, a miracle happened. His colleague,who had been with him in service since the start, couldn't remember his name.Ralph, looking around for an intern to deliver files to the office of the Head,saw Martin sitting at his desk and asked him if he was new. Upon looking at the appalled look on Martin's face, Ralph realized that he was mistaken and then made several attempts to recall Martin's name. Morris, Mickey and others were tried in vain before Ralph finally slammed the files on Martin's desk and told him, whoever the hell he was, that he wanted the files delivered to the Head right away. 

Something snapped inside Martin.

Suddenly all of the reasons why he couldn't, why she shouldn't, leave his job flew out of his mind and a wave of anger and determination took over. Fury raced through his veins and clouded all sense of reason. He marched up to the office of the Head, but not with the purpose of delivering the files.

Without knocking on the door, as required by unspoken and unwritten rules he banged open the door.

" That's it! I've had enough! I'm done! I want to resign NOW!", yelled Martin.

The Head, Sir Christopher Jones, looked taken aback at first due to the hard,blazing look on Martin's face, but then within a few seconds of the outburst, he regained his usual calm demeanor. 

" Excuse me? ", Sir Christopher said.

Martin retorted that what the Head had heard in the first go was right, that he, Martin was sick of being a Santa and wanted an out. Then without waiting for any further questions, Martin went on to narrate how much he loathed being invisible and doing a meaningless job.  The Head listened patiently and waited for Martin to finish, however after all the endless complaining was done all that came out of Sir Christopher's mouth was a simple ' No '. He told the elf sitting in the corner of the room to escort Martin out of the room. The elf, copying his boss' smug and sarcastic smile took an entirely bewildered looking Martin out of the room and then slammed the door on his face.

Though it was clear that the Head wanted Martin to forget the conversation ever happened, it was very difficult to do so. Not only had Martin not given up but also the constant whispering and muttering that always surrounded him these days made it very hard for him to put that little outburst out of his mind.He was greeted by stiff looks wherever he went. He could sense people pointing at him behind his back, referring to him as the traitor' or the rebel , the person who dared to go against tradition. Every Santa felt honoured to be part of a family which had for years engaged in a 'noble profession' and since Martin on the contrary loathed his ancestors for forcefully deciding his future the moment he was born, he was the Oddity. A disgrace to all Santas. Rumours quickly spread suggesting reasons why Martin could possibly want to leave service, some, the wackier ones, involved him wanting to be a disco dancer at a shabby pub instead.  His reindeers, who he thought for years to be his loyal friends, had also turned their backs on him. One of them actually assaulted Martin.

However Martin's sense of determination had not left him. He turned a blind eye and deaf ear to all the disapproval that surrounded him and worked on his plan with renewed vigour. His plan involved the father of the only kid that Martin had grown to like over the years. The father, Rupert, was a nutty scientist. When they had met last Christmas, Rupert had told Martin that he was working on a machine that could go anywhere in the world within a few minutes. The machine,which was called Rocker 007, was going to be complete roughly around the end of 2011. One phone call was all that was needed to put his plan in action. 

Exactly a week before Christmas when everyone was so busy that they had even forgotten to gossip about Martin, something rather starnge happened. The elves,busy in loading prepapred packages into trunks, noticed the sky grow darker.  The sudden lack of light was felt by many others who left whatever they were doing and turned to look up at the sky to discover a possible source of obstruction for the sun. And then they saw it. A flying rocket, atleast thats what it looked like, was coming down upon the North Pole fast. The moment it touched the ground all went dark and there was lots of screaming to be heard. The darkness though left as quickly as it came, and once the crowd had accustomed themselves to the sudden light they saw something which made their eyeballs pop. Martin, with a man on his side, was sitting in a machine full of what appeared to be suitcases. Then suddenly, a puff of smoke emerged from the engine of the machine and left a message in the sky:


                                                           SO LONG LOSERS!

The sound of Martin's evil laughter, echoed loud and clear in the ears of the baffled community of the North Pole.

Q) You are in Hell. Describe what it is like.

By Farwa Haider

The cold, steel walls of the elevator vibrated for a millisecond as it stopped on Level Nine.

The doors separated as a saccharine voice emerged from the crackling intercom.

“Welcome to the Ninth Circle of Hell. We hope you enjoy your stay no matter how long it may be. Thank you for riding Edison Elevators. ‘Edison- Nobody’s perfect!’”

I stepped out and immediately wrapped my arms around myself. It was freezing! I should have listened to Alighieri and instructed that I be buried in my fur coat.

The elevator vanishes, leaving only some disturbed snow behind.

The area looks barren and empty. I guess when it comes to the Ninth Circle of Hell people are fashionably late- and perhaps better-dressed as well.

All around me is a white and blue wasteland with mounds and mountains of snow and ice, higher and larger than Mount Everest itself.

The wind keeps blowing in my face. I touch my nose but it’s cold and solid. My nose is frozen!

In the distance, over the mournful wailing of the wind I hear someone scream “Avalanche!” The scream is very similar to the way that mountaineer screamed in Vertical Limit, the voice filled with terror and boldness- of all the words to scream, he screams the obvious. I guess we’re all here because we were bold, because we dared! Dared to rise above a world filled with concerns for others. Dared to live and win for ourselves and ourselves only! I wonder if Ayn Rand’s here too.

The thunderous sound of the avalanche is getting closer. And closer. And closer.

I keep tripping and slipping over ice. I don’t know where to run! I can’t see! This cold wind is like a sharp knife that’s been jabbed into my eyes. I feel a powerful tug on my shirt.

“Follow me!” says an urgent, husky voice.

My hands hang loosely by my side as my rescuer pulls and tugs and swears. I don’t know if he’s swearing at me of the avalanche or our luck.

“There is no luck in Hell. You make your own luck the same way you made it back home,” says a familiar voice.

Suddenly, the wailing of the wind, the thunder of the avalanche and the stabbing pain and numbness of my face disappear.

“You can open your eyes now”

I do so. The avalanche disappears down a glowing, gaping abyss. From afar it  looks like the ice floor cracked. Awful groans emerge from it.

My eyes! I can see again! They feel great, as if a jug of warm water was poured over them.

The terrain is still the same except that there are two people standing in front of me. One is a heavy-set, bearded man wearing a beaver and a brown leather jacket. There are dark circles under his eyes and he seems like the kind who can will a person to shoot himself.

Beside him is a tall man, lean with a wide forehead and a big nose. He has a gun slung over a shoulder and looks bored- Charleton Heston! He’s here too!”

“Are you going to stand there with your mouth open like a retard or praise my acting in Ben-Hur,” he said in a monotone.

Before I could stammer out a reply the other man says gruffly “Where the hell are we?”

“Why in Hell, of course. The Ninth Circle if you want details. Really! The fools they send down here are increasing by the number lately. I should complain to the big guy about this!”

“Big guy? You mean the Devil?” I say quickly. Heston just cocked his eye-brow and started walking.

“Let’s keep this nice and short. I have a spa treatment to return to. Welcome to Hell. Yes, there will be tests of your strengths, endurance and patience till you’re left pulling your hair out and begging God for forgiveness. Don’t worry. It’s not so bad here. We have therapy and spa treatments and Roman Polanski puts on a show every weekend. You’ll get used to it.”

It sure seems nice. People smile and nod at me as I walk by. Most of them have parts of their bodies missing but seem least bothered. I could get used to this.

“Oh Farwa, you’re here too? I always knew you were a bad egg!” a voice squeals in my ear. I freeze with horror.

Oh no! Kulsoom Khala’s here too? This truly is Hell!