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. 

Fat

By Izaan Hasan

Q. Write the opening to a short story called "Fat". In your writing you should try to create a sense of mood and character.

He burst through the door, all four hundred and fifty pounds of him. He scanned the room and its occupants, staring each one of them down to the ground

“Who ate my chocolate?!” he screamed.

Instantly, thirty accusing fingers sprung into life and pointed in the direction of a skinny twelve year old named Wong Ding Chi .The scrawny child started quaking in his tattered boots, shaking so fiercely that he fell down from his chair. In any other classroom, the children would have burst out laughing, but not this classroom. Not when the Supreme Leader’s son was in the room, that too all four hundred and fifty pounds of him.

“Give me back my chocolate!” the over-sized watermelon of a child shouted.

“ I . . . I . . . I doesn’t gots its,” Wong Ding Chi blurted, fumbling with his words. The colour had drained from his skin .He had heard stories, stories of how the “great fat-one” would eat servants whole if they did not please him. Wong Ding Chi did not want to be eaten alive.

“You don’t have it, eh? We’ll just see about that. Guards! ”

The word had barely left the child’s mouth when two lanky, crew-cut uniformed men burst into the room. Their faces showed no emotion, but they did tell a story , a story of war, of hardship, of sacrifice and of separation.

“Take him away! Strip him down to his underwear if you have to! I want that chocolate! “

The guards willfully obliged, dragging the wailing bag of bones outside. The teacher stood aghast. He was helpless. He could do nothing to save his star student who had once again become the victim of the class’s jealousy.

A tear trickled down her left cheek. She wanted to do something, to speak out, but she was powerless. She knew better than to interfere in what had now become ‘a matter of the state.’

As a child, the teacher had never seen, much less tasted a chocolate so she had no idea what the fuss was about. She sat down on her chair with her head in her hands, whimpering softly, hiding her face from the rest of the classroom.

The wails of Wong Ding Chi echoed throughout the school’s corridors. No one could save him now. The students sat motionless, some cried, some were shell-shocked at the events that had just unfolded, some were having guilt pangs about pointing towards Wong Ding, others were trying to leave the horrendous episode behind and move on. No use crying over spilt milk.

When the school children came out to recess, they saw a bony child dangling by his underwear from a flag-post where the Korean flag was fluttering just minutes ago.

At the base of this flag-post stood two guards, ever-vigilant and ever-ready. Between these two men was a bench on which a child the size of a mini-truck sat. The child was happily munching away at a bar of chocolate that he held in his bucket-sized hands. Kim Jong Un was happy, all four hundred and fifty pounds of him.

Twenty-five years and a loss of two hundred pounds later, Kim Jong Un stood waving to his people from his bedroom’s balcony. His father had died, Kim Jong the second was now the new Supreme Leader of the Communist Republic of North Korea. His old man had taken far too long to die. But power was finally his. It had had to happen eventually.

“You called, your Lordship?” inquired the defense minister.

“Ah yes, Defense Minister. I was wondering last night, Father spent all his life building up the country’s nuclear arsenal. Why not use it, let’s say, against our lovely neighbours , the South Koreans perhaps? “

“A . . . as . . . as you wish, your Supreme Lordship.”

“Excellent. Begin the assault next Tuesday. Not on Monday. Mondays are always such unlucky days .But first things first. Could you hand me that chocolate that’s  on the dresser? “

The Clown

By Najia Navaid

Chapter One

Ahmad wanted to murder his boss.

When he had applied for the job, he had specifically mentioned that he was looking for a career in management, not entertainment.

He slammed his hand hard against the steering wheel and then cursed himself as the car swerved towards the pavement. But what else was I expecting anyway? he thought viciously. It's not like someone up there is watching out for me.

He drove recklessly; not a surprise, considering the fact that one could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. The car screeched to a halt in front of Number Seven, Zamzama Street. Ahmad looked up at the house - or rather, mansion - and the scowl on his face deepened.

Rich people and their snobby brats. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. He walked around the car to the trunk and pulled out the bag which held his costume. After casting one look at his tiny, beat up car, he turned away and walked up the mosaic pavement lined with hydrangeas to the patio. He looked at the ornate door handle and dread tightened around his chest like iron bands. He could hear screaming and the pattering of feet.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and pressed his finger to the buzzer.

***

"No, Rayyan, you have to wait until everyone is here!" Mrs. Sherdil was in a state of distress. Her son's friends were running all over the place and already one of the priceless vases lay in pieces on the floor.

"But Mama, I want my presents now!" Rayyan screamed as his mother rushed past him, calling out orders to the help. He couldn't believe that his mother had told him off for the broken vase. It was all Sadia's fault; she had pushed him.

Mrs. Sherdil looked helplessly at her son who was now throwing a fit on the antique carpet, and then decided to let him be. Instead, she answered the doorbell.

The man standing on the doorstep took her breath away. He was tall with russet hair that was standing up every which way. His eyes were azure, a shade she had always been fascinated by. But what made the man really attractive as the way his eyebrows were furrowed. Mrs. Sherdil could tell that he was thinking deep thoughts and in spite of herself, she giggled.

"Are you Mrs. Sherdil? I'm the -" the man hesitated for half a second. "- clown."

"Oh!" Mrs. Sherdil's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Oh, of course. Come in, do!"

The man stepped over the threshold and his eyes appraised his surrounding with an almost bored look. He was holding a large duffel bag which Mrs. Sherdil supposed held all his props and costumes.

She led the man to a broom closet.

"Go on," she chirped. The man looked at her as if she were crazy.

"What am I supposed to do in here?"

"Change your clothes of course! You can't entertain the kids wearing that!" She gestured to his scruffy clothes with a gesture of her hand. Her diamond ring glinted. She thought she saw irritation cloud the man's face briefly. Was it something she said?

"Alright. Give me twenty minutes." The man stepped inside the tiny storage room and slammed the door in her face.

***

Ahmad looked down at his sickeningly bright costume and almost threw up. It was a jumper suit with bright orange and green polka dots against a yellow background. His face looked as white as a newly painted wall.

"If Edward Cullen could see me now," he muttered to himself. He carefully painted triangles over his eyes and fumbled through his bag for the bright red balloon that was his nose. After surveying his face in the small cosmetic mirror, he snapped it shut and stuffed it inside his bag. He did not want to go out there. He just knew that the woman with the platinum blonde hair was timing his appearance - if the way she had been sneaking looks at him was any indication. Probably a dead marriage, he thought bitterly.

He could hear the clatter of dishes through the wall from what he assumed was the kitchen, and the sound of children running around screaming made Ahmad want to escape. He heard a balloon burst and a child started to wail. Obnoxious spoilt brats.

He looked down at himself one last time, put a trick flower into his pocket and took several deep breaths to steady himself.

"Show time," he muttered and then pushed the door open.

The Hotel

By Shumaila Abbasi

Q. Write the opening chapter of a novel called "The Hotel". Introduce the reader to three different characters who do not know each other as yet, but will do so later. In your writing you should try and establish differences between them and possible reasons why they might meet.

“Ma’am, are you ready to order?’ the smiling waiter asked Jane.

“No, I am waiting for someone” she replied. The waiter walked away, looking annoyed.

Jane crossed her legs and then uncrossed them. After each passing minute she glanced at her watch, as she waited impatiently for her date at Sunset hotel’s restaurant. She was not early but was exactly on time. She had always been punctual.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she said to herself as the sudden fear of being stood up enveloped her.

What was I thinking agreeing to a blind date? She thought. It was so unlike her to be on a date with someone she did not even know. But she was desperate. She would have done anything to escape the constant criticism of her friends.

Her friends had told her that she worked too hard. They feared that if it continued in the same direction, she would live a long, miserable, lonely life.

“Miserable life, yeah right!” grunted Jane under her breath. “I would have my money to keep me company.”

She felt uneasy when the waiter who had asked her for her order ten minutes ago, looked at her as he passed by her table once more.

What a waste it had been! She had put on a black, strapless dress with her lustrous hair tied in a tight bun. She had, unwillingly, on the insistence of her friends applied thick layer of make up on her face. Although her friends had praised by saying she looked gorgeous, but according to her she resembled a clown.

“God! I wish that man would stop staring!” she muttered angrily as she saw a man with his fixed on her.

***

Victor nibbled at the corner of the garlic bread, the only thing he was able to afford among the pricey dishes in the menu. His eyes moved around the restaurant. There was a wonderful aroma of freshly baked potatoes. Delightfully subtle music was being played, however, which was barely audible due to the clacker of plates, spoons and glass brought by the waiter. A wave of nostalgia hit him as he saw the happy couples holding hands and smiling at each other.

He looked at his reflection in the glass. Age had been to show its effects, he realized as he ran his bony fingers on the wrinkle around his eyes. He was upset that his youthful spirit was trapped in a mortal shell. He sighed at the sight of the increasing amount of gray strands on his head.

As he looked around he was shocked to see a young woman sitting alone on another table. She resembled his wife, who had passed away five years ago, remarkably.

How can this be possible? Victor thought.

“Could she be a relative?” he whispered to himself.

His wife, Mary, had been abandoned at birth. She never knew her family, nor did Victor.

Amazed by the striking resemblance, Victor continued to stare at her, even though judging by her expression, he knew she was irritated by it.

He wanted to talk to her, hoping that she might have answers to the mystery of his wife’s murder that had taken place at the Sunste hotel, five years ago.

***

Meanwhile, in Room 506 at the same hotel, Edward was getting ready for his blind date. As he stood in front of the mirror buttoning his shirt, the crisp grey coat lay on the untidy bed. It was beside a briefcase that had a job-rejection letter, bank warnings, two cigarette packs and a shaving cream. On the bed-side table, there were empty tea-cups and a broken lamp sprawled on the floor. The room smelled of rotten apples.

Edward flashed a perfect smile at his reflection as he thought about his date. His friend had said that she was a rich business woman and had described her as workaholic. He had been pleased to hear that as according to him such women were easiest to fool. He was a professional when it came to charming such types. He used his personality and quick wit to trap them in his web of affection. Since, these women did not date quite often there wasn’t much competition to be intimidated with.

“If everything goes perfect tonight, I have a good chance of becoming rich,” his coffee-brown eyes sparkled. “Oh! I am late!” he said as checked the clock. “Oh, no worries, I’ll just say I was taking care of my mom. Works every time!” he grinned to himself.

He sprayed perfume, looked at himself in the mirror one last time and said “Looking good!” and chuckled to himself as he left the room.

The Hotel

By Fizza Ali

Q. Write the opening chapter of a novel called "The Hotel". Introduce the reader to three different characters who do not know each other as yet, but will do so later. In your writing you should try and establish differences between them and possible reasons why they might meet.

“She shot me, she shot me, bang, bang! She shot me!” the black iPhone 3G rang. “She shot me, she shot me, bang, bang! She shot me!”

The blonde man glanced at his heavy Gucci. 00:00, the watch showed.

“H’lo,” he spoke into the phone.

“When?” he suddenly froze, eyes narrowed.

“Well,” he said after a moment’s pause, “that should be easy.”

He disconnected the call, replaced the phone on the table and fumbled with the television remote control as he dropped onto the sofa. A news anchor roared as the television turned on. The man winced, quickly hitting the mute button. The room was quiet again.

“All o’ ‘em should be made t’ shut the hell up like that,” he grumbled, reclining on the sofa.

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

“Yer ugly ship is goin’ down, Amy, this ugly ship ya dumped me for.” He chuckled. “Dumb Pakis.”

With a slight smirk on his face, he slipped into sleep.

*****

A six-year-old sat up in bed.

“M-Mummy,” he whispered, lightly touching the shoulder of the sleeping woman next to him.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she asked, now wide awake and concern clear in her voice.

“I’m s-scared,” the boy stammered. “The man in the room b-below ours w-was sh-sh-shouting.”

“Is that all?” she laughed. “He’s an American; they shout, they’re noisy. You don’t have to be afraid of them, honey. We’re safe.”

“But w-what if he sh-sh-sh-shoots us?” the boy’s eyes widened with fear.

His mother wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Nobody can shoot good boys. Allah protects good boys. And, my baby,” she paused to look at him, “people are not allowed to bring guns into hotels.”

“S-so he won’t sh-shoot us?”

“You prayed before going to bed, didn’t you?”

The boy nodded slowly, as if it was a painful effort. His mother’s smile faltered for a split second.

“Then Allah will protect you,” she beamed at him.

“I asked Allah to protect you too,” he said, with all the innocence of his childhood.

“Then we’re both protected,” his mother whispered, hugging him again. “Now sleep. We have to go to the doctor in the morning.”

They snuggled under the covers again, the woman wrapping her arms protectively around the small, vulnerable form of her only child.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“When will I g-go to s-school?”

The woman blinked in the darkness.

“When you grow up.” She ran a hand through his soft hair. “Now close your eyes and dream about fairies.”

The boy obliged. Very soon, he let out a soft snore.

She smiled and kissed his forehead.

Keep him safe, she prayed.

*****

The last time he had been to that room, his life had changed. And now, two long years later, he stood in the same room, waiting for orders that would change his life again.

The room was just as it had been two years ago when he was a scared boy: white-washed, with bare walls, a small, yellow fan hanging by the ceiling, and a dark dari in the middle of the floor. The elderly of the camp, the authority, sat on the dari, peacefully counting their blessings on their rosaries, their eyes fixed on the weapon slung on his shoulder.

The young boy, a well-built seventeen-year-old, placed his rifle on the dari, at the elders’ feet, and stepped back.

“You have been trained well,” one of the elders said.

The boy glared at him. “Well”? he thought. He should retire.

“You are one of our most valuable assets,” the old man continued, slowly.

I’m the best there is! So hard for him to even admit that.

“For that very reason, we have assigned to you a very important task.”

Now we’re talking.

“It is an enormous task, filled with dangers and great risks.”

Bring it on!

“We believe you’re ready for it.”

You bet I am!

“It is a spy mission. We have tracked some American activity that the government is aware of but does not act upon, for obvious reasons. So it falls upon us to deal with these kafirs and expel them from our pure land. For that, we need information on exactly what activity is taking place in darkness to be able to do something about it. And there will be a slave girl under your command. Use her however you want to; she has some skills, but she is disposable.”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“Any questions?” the old man asked, distracting himself from the sight of the formidable rifle lying near his feet.

“Location?” the boy’s voice rang out in the room for the first time since he had been recruited.

“Yes, I almost forgot about that.”

I blame your age.

“Marriott Hotel, Islamabad.”

The Hotel

By Afnan Imran.

Q. Write the opening chapter of a novel called "The Hotel". Introduce the reader to three different characters who do not know each other as yet, but will do so later. In your writing you should try and establish differences between them and possible reasons why they might meet.

The demon craved release.

The fact did not come as a surprise the man as his beady black eyes gazed, transfixed at the beautiful, young woman getting out of the red SUV. The demon had hidden inside him for two years, but now it seemed impossible to contain it. His sweaty palms clenched, yearning to feel the veins of a long, supple neck beneath them. Anxiety made his skin crawl and his lungs were burned with the need to scream. Was he losing his mind? No, no. He would handle it. He knew how to control the beast. One perfect strike was all it took to calm it down.

He licked his lips in anticipation as he watched the tall, slender woman walk by him. The scent of gardenia wafted through the air, making his nostrils flare. He grinned, watching her enter the building. Her thick, dark hair, pulled back in a pony-tail swayed with every step. His gaze swept down to her long, luscious legs accentuated by black stilettos. She would do.

He was a good man. He did not prey on innocents. It was entirely her fault that she tempted the demon. It would have to be perfect. No one should suspect him. This called for a few rehearsals before the main event.

*****

Danielle Smith forced a smile on her face as she got out of her car. She just hated first days. She sighed, knowing that nothing could delay the upcoming torment. She had a new job to begin. She looked up at the grey, stone building of the Harrison Hotel, its tallest point seeming to touch the wind-chapped face of the New York sky . She shuddered and hoped to God that she never had reason to be up there. She handed her keys to the valet and started towards the revolving glass doors. She absently nodded to the two doormen outside as the scent of leather assailed her senses. She shivered, but it was not from the cool air-conditioning. The nape of her neck tingled as though burned. She felt as if she was being watched. But there was no one in particular concentrating on her. everyone seemed busy in their own buzz of activity.

Don't be foolish, Dani,

she thought, shrugging off her hesitation. It was now or never. She went to the reception at the south-end of the lobby, her eyes taking in her surroundings all the while. The hotel seemed to cater mostly to the upper-crust society. That was the only possible conclusion for a lobby full of gentlemen and ladies in elegant suits at eight a.m., either juggling files or sipping coffee. She nervously smoothed a hand down her own brand new suit. She hoped the grey suit and the black stilettos served their purpose of making her look older. It was galling when people thought her younger than her twenty-three years because of her annoyingly wide, blue eyes.

"Hi, I'm Danielle Smith. I'm Mr. Harrison's new assistant." she said to the pleasant-looking receptionist.

"Of course, he's been waiting for you," she replied smiling. "May i see some ID, please?"

Dani handed over her driver's license, glancing at the middle-aged woman's name-plate. Megan.

"Well, that all seems fine. The offices are on the fourth floor which can only be accessed by this key. " She handed back Dani's license along with a coded key-card. Sensing her discomfort, Megan asked, "First job?"

At Dani's nod, she made a soothing sound in her throat. "Don't worry, dear. Mr. Harrison is a kind employer."

There it was again. That sense of being scrutinized. Dani's hand reached up to scratch the itch at the back of her neck. This new job was getting on her nerves. The sooner this first day ended, the better.

Forcing another smile as she thanked the receptionist and began walking across the white, marbled floor, towards the elevator alcove. She very much doubted that Hayden Harrison was a kind man. In fact, the big, burly man portrayed in yesterday's newspaper hadn't even seemed civilised enough to be sitting behind a desk, let alone kind!

Well, here goes, she thought as she punched the number four inside the spacious elevator. The huge glass chandelier disappeared along with the leather upholstered sofas in the lobby as the metal doors closed.

****

She was late on her first day. That did not bode well for her punctuality. It was already five after eight. Hayden Peter Harrison fiddled with his pen as he awaited the presence of his new secretary, a dark frown marring his chiseled features. He knew he should not have let HR convince him to hire a fresh graduate. She would be unreliable as was the habit of youth. However, he had needed a young, unattached assistant who would be able to frequently travel across the States with him to monitor his scattered chain of hotels.

His fingers raked through his black hair in an impatient gesture and his sea-green eyes narrowed with irritation. The golden pen in his other hand rapped a constant rhythm against the wooden surface of his cluttered desk. He was just about to pick up his phone to ask the receptionist to call Ms. Smith when a knock sounded on his door.

"Come in," he called.

The Gangster: Carpe Diem

By Fatima Arfeen

They say what you cannot define does not exist; what if who you are becomes what
you can no longer define? Do you cease to exist? What is that boundary we’re so often
warned about? The one that ‘divides’. That intangible line you never realize you’ve
slipped past until it’s too late? You’re so far consumed by what landed you in that state
of limbo to begin with, it becomes virtually impossible to decipher the voices in your
head. They taunt and they taunt and they taunt. Times like those, the one-way street to
an inevitable doom becomes the only street left to walk because turning back is only just
that fragment of your mind that refuses to release its grasp on denial. Fear, they call it.
That sickly feeling that impresses itself upon you, making you question not only your
sanity, but your humanity. And what if… what if you find you can no longer define
those either? That, my friend, is when you come closest to selling your soul to the devil
in bargain to satisfy your cravings for the smallest ounce of peace, thinking it’ll rid you
of the turbulence within. Sadly, even that evades and abandons. Nothing more is left
of “you” than that hollow shell. The very shell that so convincingly resembles my being.
I tear myself away from the cold eyes that stare back hard in my reflection. I run
my hand over that monster beating through my chest in an attempt to remind myself
that I’m still alive, in this self created, endless, merciless nightmare. Impulsively, my
fist rebounds off the wall and what felt like the beginnings of pain tickled my knuckles.
Blood for blood; it was justified, I convinced myself repeatedly.
My mind slipped back to the time I had been standing in the same spot five years
ago. A homeless nobody wandering the streets, waiting to be found. The tall, suited
man began approaching me, cornering me up against the wall of the silent, isolated lane.
Afraid he had seen me at my worst, I began tucking the freshly stolen wallet deeper into
the pocket of my, also stolen, coat. He became, much to the contrary, my “saviour”,
extending a helpful hand in exchange for my services. Rather unsure of what exactly
these qualified as, even for an uneducated teen, I was smart enough to recognize game
when I saw it. Besides, that watch on his wrist, with all its daintiness, shimmering even
against the ash taint of the sky was, I calculated in my head, a poor reflection of his true
fortune. The deal had been sealed.
I trailed off on a rewind of the roller coaster ride my pathetic excuse for a life had
become. The boy that thought he had cheated destiny watching as the tattered clothes
were replaced by posh suits, first class plane tickets, personal assistants, all expense paid
vacations, a sum total of the American dream to be precise, was only to realize he had
been played against himself. That moment had presented itself.
A harsh knocking on the door snapped me back to the present; I was unconsciously
still holding my face under the cold tap. Swearing under my breath at the source of the
interruption, I hurriedly patted my face dry and slid on the sleek black Ralph Lauren coat.
With a sweeping look at the cracked mirror, my fingers slid onto the icy metal of the
loaded gun that lay by the sink. The familiar feel of the bare barrel against my skin sent a

fresh shot of adrenaline up my spine. I knew, that even if my full capacity, I was nothing
less of an ant to a mountain in comparison to him, but I had to try. For the first time, in a
long time, I was scared out of my skin. As I walked out the door, the final alias had been
abandoned; it was time to face the demons.

Ghosts

CHAPTER ONE

by Nimrah Nadeem

The bedroom was chilly. Well, it was late November. What did you expect? Jeanette sat
at her desk, tapping the pencil on the paper anxiously. Tick, tick, tick. Her wristwatch
was too loud. The room was quiet. Almost too quiet, Jeanette thought.
She glanced at her paper again, frustrated at how little progress she had made.
“This must be what ‘artist’s block’ feels like,” she muttered, looking glumly at her
unfinished pencil sketch. Her portfolio was centered on a particularly morbid theme:
insanity. Ghastly reference pictures were tacked onto a softboard, some depicting
haggard men with hollow eyes, some of people with expressions distorted in pain. There
were some of children recoiling in terror. Jeanette’s research was quite thorough, but now
that she finally had to pout her ideas down on paper, she felt blank.
The lamp on the table cast a cold light that barely illuminated the rest of the roon.
Jeanette pulled up her collar. The room was unnaturally cold. She looked at the pictures,
and they seemed to leer at her with their cold eyes. They seemed almost alive in the
loneiness that cold November night.
Jeanette felt a chill run down her spine. She was never one for ghost stories, but there was
something particularly eerie about the room that night. It was a clear night, she noticed.
If she didn’t have so much work to do, she would probably be out somewhere. The
room seemed to close in on her, the walls edging closer slowly the way they do in those
horror movies. It didn’t help that the paint on the walls was a dark maroon-ish purple, the
clolour of congealed blood.
Jeanette felt an uncomfortable nagging in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong.
The silence was deafening. It roared in her ears like a feral animal, hurting her ears,
making her head throb.
Oh, God. Not another migraine, she thought. Her muscles were tense, and her hands
were shaking. She turned the reference pictures over. She was getting a bit unnerved by
the silence. There was no sound from the dorms below. It was as though time had stood
still. Even the tick-tick of her wristwatch had stopped. Jeanette got up slowly, and winced
as the chair scraped loudly on the floor. She froze, waiting for some unknown horror to
swoop down upon her without warning.
Scolding herself for being so superstitious, Jeanette went to wash up. She gasped as the
ice cold water hit her hands. As she dried them, she studied the face in the mirror. A pale
girl with grey eyes stared stonily back at her. Her hair was tied back, but a few strands
has escaped her chignon. She pushed them back and was about to turn and go back to
her desk when she froze a second time. A white mist was snaking across the glass of the
mirror, slow and almost spiderlike. It was unnatural, eerie.
Jeanette felt her musles tense up again. She thought she saw something dark flit inside
through the window, and she tried to scream, but al that came out was a choked sob. The
fine hair on her arms stood up, and sheer terror ran through her veins.
With one hand clamped over her mouth, Jeanette ventured cautiously out of the
bathroom, her heart thudding frantically against her ribcage.
Her room was exactly the way it was before: nothing was amiss. But still, she felt the
unnerving presence of an alien being. As she walked to the open window to shut it, her
head started throbbing again. Pain shot through her skull. She thought she saw smoke

roiling upward in an oily haze, and her vision faded to black.

When Jeanette came to, she was on the floor. Little bursts of agony still wracked through
her head, and she could see nothing through one eye. She got up slowly and flexed her
fingers that were numb with cold. Just a dream, hmm? She thought.
Then, as she walked to the bathroom she saw the shattered mirroe. Black lines were
interlaced together within the glass, like some sort of horrid fungus.
In the sink, lay the pictures of the convicts, drunkards, and the like, all immersed in dirty
rust coloured water. And, in the middle, lay a picture of Jeanette, one that she had never
seen before.
As she looked at the girl in the photograph, an inexplicable horror clawed its way up her
throat, and she screamed in the silence, drowning out the unbidden whispers in her head.

The Gangster

Chapter One

by Najia Navaid

The room was dark, and the only source of light was a crack under the door which let in a sliver of diffused sunlight. It illuminated the dust motes in the air and caused the man's eyes to gleam in the darkness. He could judge by the patter of feet outside, the frantic activity that was going on. He smiled in satisfaction.

It was time.

He got up from the armchair in one fluid movement and adjusted the collar of his leather jacket. He unlocked the sideboard with a set of keys that an onlooker could have sworn had not been in his hand a split second ago.

Someone knocked twice on the door, a code. He felt excited; he could feel his pulse quickening. He picked out a revolver from the sideboard and fingered it tenderly, with the caress of a lover. He slipped it inside the folds of his jacket.

There was another knock and the door was opened. He could see the outline of a man, silhouetted against the door frame.

He nodded at the intruder, and the door was shut again. He knew they were all surprised at his unexpected instructions. He rarely got involved in such matters himself, he had far more important matters to attend to.

But this one was different. She was a pure rebel and he wanted to see her with his own eyes. He wanted the exhilaration of finishing this one off himself. His nerves tensed at the very thought.

He opened the door, and walked outside, without even blinking at the sudden brightness. He was a tall man and well built. He was handsome, no doubt. But there was something curious about his good looks which the men could not quite put their finger on. His hair was raven coloured and coarse, and the skin of his palms was callused. But the most remarkable thing about him yet were his eyes. They were dark, intense, the eyes of a killer. He could reduce his men to jelly with just a look: the look a tiger gives when it is about to pounce on its prey.

He strode down the corridor without even sparing a glance for the men hurrying to keep up with him. he sensed that they were almost tripping over their own feet in their haste to comply. His eyes grew hungry and suddenly he could wait no longer. His companions sensed the shift in his mood, the dangerous energy he was radiating. They glanced at each other nervously.

A tired sun hung above the horizon, just about to set. It was the perfect evening for a murder.

***

If he doesn't get here soon, I'm leaving, she thought angrily, as she sat at a table looking out into the street. It was getting chilly and the seat opposite her was still empty. I look like a fool, she thought viciously, tapping her nails impatiently on the table; they were fire engine-red, with all the bells and whistles. she had already memorised the whole menu, including the 'Today's Special' and he still hadn't made an appearance. She glanced at the clock. It was pointing at six.

"Preposterous," she muttered to herself. She let out an irritated sigh and leaned back in her chair, her heels clacking the floor at regular intervals.

The cashier glanced at her curiously. After all, she had been sitting alone for the past hour. Not that it was a bad place to be sitting in. It smelled like vanilla and caramel. The walls were coffee coloured and the wall around the counter was a soft pink. Bright lamps cast a warm glow around the room and made her hair gleam like polished mahogany. Her eyes were large and clear. There were cheerful paintings hanging on the walls. And yet they had not affected her mood. She looked grumpier with each passing minute.

There was a tinkle as the door opened and a man entered, bringing in with him a blast of cold air. He was quite tall and wore a black jacket. There was a scar running down the side of his face; it intrigued her. He sat down in the booth adjacent from her and opened up his menu. She sighed and looked away. The street was throbbing with people, as they hurried home with their shopping.

Maybe he isn't coming after all, she thought. She could feel the man over there looking at her. She could feel the heat of his gaze. She turned and glared right back, trying to outstare him. But apparently he was not to be intimidated and held her gaze boldly.

Annoyed, she got up and prepared to leave. It was no use waiting any longer. She scooped her bag up and headed for the door. As she was leaving, she cast a glance back at the man. He had put his menu down and was staring at her without any reservations. She felt a thrill, and the shock of recognition.

But she made no attempt to go up to him, and it appeared as if he had not recognized her yet. She shook her hair back and flounced out. I can't believe it! she thought excitedly and an involuntary giggle escaped her lips as long forgotten childhood laughter sounded in her ears.

***

Inside, the man sat in the booth, content. His men should have prepared everything by now.

Now I have glimpsed her, he thought. Let the game begin.

Celebrations

Chapter 1

by Lynette Rorigues

“CHIRR-PP” sung the small red-feathered bird, perched on the chocolate brown branch of the maple tree. It moved its head from side to side as it sung, following the constant commotion which was going on beneath its branch. The daisies too seemed to sense the bird’s feelings for they swayed from side to side

with the crisp cool morning breeze, to the soft polka music that filled the air.

“Mummy, where are you?!” exclaimed Danny as he ran into the garden of their cottage in San Allans, “ I drew a picture to give to Daddy when he comes back! Do you th-ink he will like it?”

“ Of course honey,” came the reply from the rosy cheeked woman at the other end of the garden. Now Mrs. Carax was a delicately featured woman in her late thirties. At present she wore a flowery knee-length dress and a beautiful heart shaped necklace of sapphire given to her by her husband the day they

got married. Her blonde ringlets gently cascaded around her shoulders as she stretched out her slender hand to tie the poster stating, “ Welcome back Henry!” around the tree trunk. “Oh how beautiful Danny! Daddy will surely love it.”

“ You think so?” asked Danny with a shy smile as he sat at the table covered with scrumptious looking food items. Strawberry tarts, bourbon chocolate soufflé, black magic caramel, blue berry cakes with ice-cream courting decorated the three small tables that had been placed on the luscious green lawn in the Carax’s

garden. 

Mr. and Mrs. Duncan entered the garden from the kitchen door as well to celebrate with their next door neighbours the return of Mr. Carax from the war. They entered the exquisitely decorated party area, amazed, wondering how such a fragile woman could have created such an extravagant looking place all by

herself, for of course, the son only five years of age could not have been of any help.

“ Oh good morning Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, how are you today? Isn’t it just such a glorious morning! Just beautiful! Perfect!”

“ Yes it is,” came the warm reply from the voluptuous figured Mrs. Duncan as she went towards Mrs. Carax to help her arrange the coloured buntings across the white picket fence.

“ William! William” shouted Danny, “are you in the kitchen?” The small neighbourhood boy appeared, scruffy and chocolate covered, then laughs and runs back in again.

“ Haha, Mummy look at William!” says Danny running friskily after his best friend. “ William wait, my daddy will be here soon!” 

Mrs. Carax laughed looking at her child wondering how she was ever able to raise him alone for a year. “No matter, Henry will be here soon,” she thought singing to herself in a happy, dreamy voice. “I must get everything ready before that though.”

Just then the doorbell rang.

“Henry! Henry!”

But alas there stood an officer instead, but not her Henry.

The Gangster

Chapter 1

by Misal Shujjat

“What should I do with you?” Tyler asks, his voice threateningly low as he regards the girl whimpering under the point of his blade with a dark look.

The pale light of the moon makes the scars on the back of his hands stand out ghostly white against his skin. There’s a long gash running from his forehead to his chin, cutting across his lips and nose and when he speaks, it makes his face seem mutilated. It’s a reminder of a particularly fierce drunken encounter with the members of the gang Al Capnico. An encounter, in which he had knocked two men unconscious, stabbed one of them and lamed another in the process. These scars are Tyler’s pride and the reason he’s nicknamed Scarface by his fellow gangsters.

The blonde girl sobs, “Let me go...please...just...just let me g-go...”

The sirens of the approaching police cars suddenly rip through the silent night; loud and predatory. Tyler is familiar with the sound and rather than frightening him,

it sends a rush of thrilling adrenaline through his veins.

He turns back to the girl and tilts his head in a moment of contemplation. Is she worth it? Should he let her go?

His mind answers for him; naah.

It’s too easy. After years of practice, all it takes is just one swift, calculated motion of his hand and the girl’s falling forward, choking and suffocating on her own blood.

Shame, she really had been quite pretty.

Stuffing the bloodied blade into his pocket, Tyler breaks into a run. He jumps over the low walls of the connecting alleys, putting a quick distance between him and the police cars. The sirens slowly fade in to the distance and Tyler slows his pace.

He’s barely walked a few steps before a hand spins him around shoves him into yet another darkened alley.

“What the-” Tyler exclaims as his head is slammed against the brick wall. Tyler struggles against the iron grip of this man, whoever he is; he knows how to hold a person down. There isn’t an inch of space for Tyler to move, his hands are pinned at his sides and his legs pressed at an angle that he can’t budge and it’s becoming increasingly hard to breathe.

“That girl you just slaughtered back there? She was my sister...” the man twists his arm painfully and Tyler holds back to the cry of pain-it’s a sign of weakness he will not show.

“So I killed her.” Tyler snarls, “What of it? You gonna kill me too? Hand me over to the police?”

“I don’t have to. I am the police,” the man replies, his voice going menacingly soft. “That’s Officer Howard to you.”

Tyler freezes. Through the darkness of the alley, he can only make out some of the features on the face of this man. Is he bluffing? Is he one of the newest recruits of Al Capnico and just messing with him?

Or is he telling the truth?

Either way, Tyler is trapped. If he can just reach his blade somehow...

He flexes his hand and Howard jumps on the move, giving his arm another twist, “I could kill you now...” he says, his voice tainted with something akin to madness. “If I arrest you, they’ll put you on trial...you might have a chance to get off without facing a death penalty...and I can’t have that. I could kill you here and say it was self defence...”

Tyler begins to panic just a little but his exterior is carefully controlled. “Go ahead then, why don’t you? I bet you’re too scared. You’re too scared after you saw what I did to your sister. Died so easily didn’t she?”

Tyler knows he’s pushing Howard’s buttons. He can almost feel the steam pouring out of his ears with his anger.

“Shut up!” Howard roars pulling him back and slamming him against the wall again and now Tyler can feel the cold metal of a gun pressing against his forehead.

“Look man...” the graveness of the situation begins to dawn on him and he struggles to find a way out.

“I said shut up.” Howard spits. The sound of police sirens picks up again in the distance. “I’m going to make you beg for mercy like you made my sister beg,” Howard continues, his hand trembling slightly with emotion, “I’m going to make you get down on your knees and plead with me for your life...”

Tyler feels flames of red hot anger lick his insides. No one makes him beg. And no one gets away with trying to make him.

Howard is holding him back with only one hand now; his other hand holding the gun and Tyler uses all of his strength to duck out from under his grip and brings his elbow down on Howards head with an echoing crunch. Howard doubles over with pain and falls to the floor.

Tyler wants to finish him off but the sirens are getting louder, closer and he knows he has to run. He aims a kick at Howard’s shin for good measure, revelling in the sharp cry of pain and breaks into a run.

He only gets as far as the end of the alley before the gun shot sounds.