Super Villain Paintbrush

  The Unexpected Villain

By :Hailey LeMunyon Klier

Once, in a quaint village, there lived an old artist named Elias, renowned for his vibrant landscapes and captivating portraits. His secret? A magical paintbrush gifted to him by a mysterious traveler. This paintbrush could bring to life whatever Elias painted, and his art transformed the village, filling it with color and joy.

However, one fateful evening, as Elias worked late into the night, he accidentally dipped the brush into a pot of black paint—an unfamiliar hue. The brush twitched and shimmered, absorbing the darkness. That night, Elias painted a somber stormy sky, and when he finished, a chill swept through the studio. He had unknowingly awakened the paintbrush’s darker side.

The next morning, as Elias prepared to paint a cheerful scene, the brush had other ideas. It twisted in his hand, refusing to cooperate, and instead created sinister shadows. Frustrated, Elias tried to control it, but the brush began to paint on its own, depicting twisted trees and haunting figures. The village watched in horror as Elias’s joyful artwork morphed into unsettling scenes.

Desperate to regain control, Elias researched the brush’s origins. He discovered that it once belonged to an artist consumed by jealousy, therefore infusing who had infused it with dark magic. To reclaim his gift, Elias had to confront the brush’s evil spirit. He gathered the villagers, who had once adored his art, and together they filled the studio with laughter and light.

As they painted together, joy and creativity pulsed through the room. The brush, overwhelmed by their positive energy, began to tremble. With one final stroke, Elias painted a brilliant sun breaking through the stormy clouds, and the brush shuddered, revealing a glimmer of its former beauty.

In that moment, the brush transformed back into a tool of creation, now imbued with both light and shadow. Elias learned that both sides had their place in art. From then on, he painted with a deeper understanding, blending joy and sorrow, creating masterpieces that resonated with the village’s heart. The brush, now a companion, reminded him that even darkness could be transformed into something beautiful.

Wings of Friendship

 Wings of Friendship

By Juliet Castro

In the bustling city of New York, where the skyline clashed with the whirring of everyday life, lived a lonely, elderly man, named Carl. He was an ordinary figure, lost in the sea of ordinary office people. As a dull factory worker by trade, his life was dictated with repetition: wake up, work, come home, sleep, repeat. As each day faded into the next, dark clouds of solitude gathered above his head, wrapping him in an invisible fog.

  Meanwhile, in the same city, there lived a lively pigeon named Pippin. Pippin was not your average pigeon. He roamed the busy streets, dodging pedestrians and cars, feasting on crumbs, and soaring over the bustling parks that lay scattered about the concrete jungle. He found joy in the smallest things — a glimmering puddle, a gentle breeze, and the chance to encounter other birds.

 One fateful morning, as Carl ambled through the city park, he sat down on a worn wooden bench. He let out a long sigh, allowing the weight of his stressful workday body to settle momentarily. That’s when Pippin, curious as ever, landed on the bench next to him, searching for scraps of food. Carl glanced sideways at the little bird, smirking at his audacity. 

 “Looking for breakfast?” he asked, softly.

 Pippin perked up at the sound of Carl’s voice, tilting his head in curiosity. Somehow, in that brief moment of connection, they both felt a flicker of camaraderie. Carl slowly dug into his bag, pulled out a slice of bread, and tossed it towards Pippin. The bird ruffled his feathers, hopping excitedly towards the offering.

As the days passed, Carl began spending his lunch breaks in the park, and Pippin became his unlikely companion. Each day, Carl would save a few crumbs for the spirited little pigeon, who took to his presence with delighted coos. Over time, Carl started to share more than just food; he began to share stories — his dreams, regrets, and the suffocating loneliness that shadowed his life. Pippin, in his own way, listened avidly, his beady eyes locked onto Carl's, understanding every word.

       Their bond deepened and Carl’s routine shifted; the once-hollow days were now filled with purpose as he looked forward to his encounters with Pippin. He began to notice the little things around him: the vibrant colors of flowers, the laughter of children, and the symphony of life that enveloped him. 

One fateful winter afternoon, as snowflakes began to cascade gently from the gray sky, Carl hurried to the park, wrapped tightly in a worn coat. He arrived to find Pippin huddled in a corner, shivering and disheartened. The harsh weather had made it difficult for the bird to find food and shelter. His heart sank, realizing that he hadn’t seen his feathered friend for a couple of days, not knowing how dire the situation had become.

        Without a second thought, Carl took Pippin under his wing – quite literally. Carl quickly fashioned a cozy makeshift home from an old box, placing it in his small apartment and filling it with soft cloth. He filled it with seeds, grains, and warmth. Pippin was hesitant at first, but soon learned to trust Carl, snuggling into the warmth of his new abode.

        As the seasons turned, their bond grew even stronger. Carl began to bring life into his apartment. He filled his space with laughter and love, often taking Pippin out on short flights around the city and introducing him to the places he had once only gazed at through the office window. The pigeon became a small beacon of light that motivated Carl to break from his routine and  to explore the world outside.

        One sunny afternoon, they ventured to the top of an apartment overlooking Manhattan, the city sprawling below them. As Carl marveled at the beauty, Pippin took to the sky, soaring high with carefree abandon. 

        Months swirled by, and the friendship between the man and the pigeon turned into         Years later, as Carl sat on that same worn wooden bench, he looked at Pippin, now a little grayer around the beak but still filled with the same spirit. They watched the sun dip beneath the horizon, wrapping the city in hues of gold and orange.

        “Thank you for being my friend,” Carl whispered, In the heart of Manhattan, where loneliness once seeped in like shadows, there blossomed a friendship that defied the odds — where a pigeon and a human discovered the beauty of companionship, turning their solitary lives into a shared journey filled with love, adventure, and endless possibility.

The Nightingale

 By Abhiram Pittala

It’s melodic song,

makes me want to sing along.

Its complex chirps,

is equal to a tasty dessert.

It may be small,

but it sounds like a beautiful call.

It’s brown and gray feathers,

reminds me of my warm winter sweaters.

It reddish brown tail,

Is very detailed!

It is the nightingale,

the sweet vocalist.

it’s song seems to tell tales,

It’s beautiful tune,

will probably be on my playlist.

I take a photo of it singing,

which will be bringing,

new memories.

Pluvia

By Eshaan Patel

It falls, splat'ring below our feet.

Gracef'lly it comes, compared to sleet.

The ground's now overcome with wa'er.

Yet many portray themselves a martyr.

The Bourne Crossover

THE BOURNE CROSSOVER                       BY ABHIRAM PITTALA

CIA HEADQUARTERS, WEST VIRGINIA

FLOOR NUMBER 15

“What have you been working on, Wilhelm?” Griselda asked as she walked into Wilhelm’s office. “I haven’t seen your face all day.”

“Have you ever heard of Treadstone, Selda?” Wilhelm asked without looking up. “All my co-workers have been talking about it, and I really want to know what it is.”

Selda stopped in her tracks. Her face turned pale and she dropped the bag she was holding.

In a low, shaky voice, she whispered, “Wilhelm, whatever you are working on, abandon it immediately.”

“I already have all the information about Treadstone, Selda,” Wilhelm replied in a calm and composed voice. 

“If you know so much about Treadstone, then tell me about it,” Selda said, her voice still quivering.

Wilhelm cleared his throat. He put his lit cigar in his mouth and picked up a bunch of files that were lying on his desk. Wilhelm took a puff of his cigar and opened one of the files.

 “Treadstone was a wing of the CIA that was shut down years ago. It hired, brainwashed, and trained 10 main agents. The agents only had one objective: to kill,” Wilhelm began to explain. He pointed at the files and said, “All the agents and their missions are in these files.”

“All these agents were strong, fast, and sharp assassins that have carried out hundreds of successful missions. After each agent completed 328 assassinations, they were killed by the president of Treadstone: Conklin. All the agents were declared as deserters or killed in action. Suddenly, Conklin was shot by a mysterious man and Treadstone was shut down,” Wilhelm described in a stern voice.

“Wilhelm, you're missing a key piece to the puzzle,” Selda clarified in a firm voice. “Jason Bourne, a runaway Treadstone agent diagnosed with Amnesia, was the one who killed Conklin. Bourne’s location is unknown and wants to stay off the grid.”

“Correction,” Wilhelm interrupted. He held up a black file with a RED NOTICE stamp on it and said, “I just got intel that Bourne is staying at Apple Orlando Inn, a hotel in Florida. I already sent a man to kill Bourne.”

“But why, Wilhelm, do you want to kill Bourne?” Griselda asked, her voice shaky. “On top of that, WHO did you send to kill Bourne?”

“If I kill Bourne, I would be able to re-open Treadstone,” Wilhelm reasoned. “Treadstone could act like an extra black-ops force against our enemies, Selda! Also, I sent the best British Secret Service agent, James Bond, to kill Bourne.”

Selda sighed. She faced the fact that no matter what she told Wilhelm, he wouldn’t change his mind.

Selda cried, “Wilhelm, you hold a very good position in the CIA. You have a nice family, millions of dollars, and a life you don’t want to ruin. You’re going to retire in 2 years, and here you are, wanting to kill the best agent we have out there.”

“Selda,” Wilhelm started to say in a firm voice. “I’m going to catch that son of a gun with the help of the greatest British secret service agent. Bourne is off our radar, but I’m going to kick him off the grid.” 

Apple orchard inn, florida

special occasions floor

“Well, I guess this is it,” a vigilant Jason Bourne whispered to himself as he snuck passed the front desk. He was at Florida’s most famous hotel, and he was there for a reason. 

Bourne quickly made his way to the staircase. He would’ve used the elevator, but he didn’t want to risk being recognized. 

Bourne made his way to the sixteenth floor, or the special occasions floor. He snuck past the hotel security guard and made his way to the function hall. Despite having an amazing architectural style, the place was abandoned. Overturned chairs and tables were everywhere. Ripped banners hung from the ceiling and deflated balloons rolled around like tumbleweed in a desert. Some food and drink stains were still visible.

“I guess this is the place my parents got married,” Bourne said with a chuckle.

Suddenly, the best British Secret Service agent, the amazing James Bond, jumped out of his hiding spot holding a gun and declared, “Bourne, you may be the best, but today’s your final day!”

Jason Bourne, who expected an attack, pulled out a black revolver from his back pocket and yelled back, “I refuse to die a British death!”

James Bond began firing at Bourne while yelling, “Bourne, you’re gonna have to die!”

Bourne quickly hid behind an overturned table. He waited until Bond was about to reload and fired back. “What type of CIA agent has a horrible aim?” Jason Bourne roared.

Bond hid behind a marble pillar and yelled back, “I’m not a CIA agent like you Americans! I’m a British Secret Service agent!”

Bourne stopped firing. He thought about what James Bond had just said. It took Bourne a second to realize that Bond fell into the CIA’s trap.

“You need to stop firing and get out of here!” Bourne yelled. “You were hired as a use and throw assassin, they’re going to kill you after you kill me!”

Bond reloaded his gun. “Why in the name of the country of England would I trust you?” he shouted. 

“Because I was one of you!” Bourne replied in an angry accent. “Once upon a time, I was an assassin. After I completed 328 assassinations, I was shot 3 times and thrown into the ocean! They know I’m here, so that’s why they hired you!”

Bond was about to press the trigger, but he stopped. He thought for a moment. The file he was given listing the details of Jason Bourne included a lot of things about an assassin. The file also explained that Bourne was killed in action, but Wilhelm told him that Bourne was a deserter. That means Bourne isn’t lying!

James Bond, now realizing his mistake, threw his gun on the floor. “I believe you, Bourne!” Bond yelled. “Let’s get out of here before we’re both slaughtered!”

“It’s too risky for us to go out the front door,” Bourne clarified. “We’re going to have to escape through the emergency exit.”

Saying so, the duo rushed to the nearby empty elevator. They made their way to the 45th floor where there would be roof access. Strong winds blew as both James Bond and Jason Bourne stood side by side in the middle of the roof.

“Well, I guess this is where we go separate ways,” Bond said with a sigh. He looked at Bourne and stated, “It was nice meeting you.”

Bourne nodded in agreement before using the emergency ladder perched on the edge to escape. Bond laughed before grabbing a rope and using that to escape.

And that’s the story of how the 2 great government agents from different countries met.

 

The Quellings: Ep. 2 - The Prequel

 By Abhiram Pittala

The Quellings: Chai

1860, Calcutta, British Raj

“Hear, hear!” the British soldier called while standing next to the British Raj flag on the podium. The crowd of forest dwellers rushed up to the podium with frightened faces and crossed arms. The radiant sun, armed with rays,  was just beginning to rise, and the day was already starting with disquieting news.

“Hear, hear!” the soldier called again, attracting more villagers like a moth to a flame. They gazed upon the soldier standing tall on the podium, his head concealing the yellow sun, making him appear like the village deity. The soldier would come at the event of discovering a member of the Vanguard of Calcutta.

The Vanguard of Calcutta was a Bengali freedom rebel outfit. The Britshers feared them, for they had killed hundreds of soldiers. The outfit not only used melee weapons such as clubs and axes, but also had access to firearms such as Muskets.

The blame of the death of the Britishers was pinned on the poor forest dwellers. They lived in the depths of the Calcutta forest, which was near the Calcutta sea. The vanguard would sometimes be misled and accidentally kill a Calcutta forest dweller.

The soldier yanked a chain he was holding in his left hand. The chain tugged and pulled on what seemed to be an Indian covered in blood. He was bare, and there were visible whip marks on his torn back. It looked like a wild animal had found him in the forest but cruelly tortured him. In this case, the wild animal was the soldier.

“Suri, a forest dweller, has proved to be a member of the Vanguard of Calcutta!” the tall soldier on the podium announced. A series of yearnful shouts and moans erupted from the crowd present.

Boom! The soldier's gun crackled, and the entire crowd fell silent. The lead ball bullet fell to the ground, clinking against a metal scrap also laying on the ground.

“Silence!” the soldier yelled, although the crowd was already completely hushed. He cleared his throat and yelled, “I will now demonstrate what will happen if we find out you are a part of that bloody rebel group!”

Just then, a horse’s neigh sounded from the side of the forest. Dressed in a checkered white shirt and classic black trousers, out came the detective. He was comfortably sitting on a black horse, casually trotting on the path. His Fears Watch exclusively found in London glistened in the dawn Sun.

“Morning, sir!” the soldier greeted in a happy tone.

“Morning to you too!” the Indian detective replied back. 

The soldier smiled before looking back at Suri with a disgusted expression. Still on his horse, the detective watched silently. He watched as the soldier lifted his musket and placed the muzzle in Suri’s mouth. Suri’s hands were tied, so he just closed his eyes. The soldier loaded a bullet into the gun and gripped the trigger.

“Glory to the crown!” the soldier shouted enthusiastically. The detective closed his eyes. The crackle of the gun echoed in the humid morning air. Suri’s dead body dropped to the ground.

The typical day of the detective includes riding around on his horse pointlessly, stopping by any street vendors, and drinking as much chai as possible. The British called it ‘tea’, but they forgot they were still in India. 

In retrospect, the detective did everything other than be a detective. He was rarely assigned work, so he had to keep on finding things to do to keep himself occupied.

“Hyah!” the detective yelled, and his horse began to ride. It trotted along the path, under the lush trees, the abode of the Shikra birds. The detective turned his head to look at a group of Indian boys kicking a torn ball around. They were poor, and had nothing to wear except torn pieces of cloth which they tied around their genitals. Despite this, the boys were happy.

The detective, still on his horse, looked to his right and gazed upon the farming fields where many poor farmers till the land until their backs break and their necks snap. They would work from dawn to dusk, trying to make at least a few rupees. Although it doesn’t sound like a lot, a few rupees could afford maybe a few grains of rice or even an apple.

As the detective rode further along the path, he passed by small huts made of mud and thatch, nestled among the trees. Smoke billowed from their chimneys, carrying the scent of cooking spices and the sound of laughter from families starting their day.

Beyond the huts, the path widened into a dusty road that wound its way through the forest, disappearing into the distance. Tall trees formed a canopy overhead, dappling the ground with patches of sunlight and shadow. Birds chirped and monkeys chattered, adding to the cacophony of sounds that filled the air.

The detective slowed his horse down until it came to a full stop. He closed his eyes, firmly gripping the reins. He exhaled slowly, his ears listening for a specific sound. Anyone who could listen carefully would hear this sound. Amidst the laughter of people and the chatter of monkeys, the sound of the boots of the  soldiers stomping against the ground could be heard. The sound of a musket taking someone’s life, or the sound of the soldiers firing a cannon can be heard. 

About a few hours after riding around, the detective settled by a small canopy tree located close to the fisherman’s shore. With a bit of strength and sweat, the detective pulled himself onto a branch and seated himself comfortably. He pulled out a small diary he kept in his shirt pocket, as well as a red pen. The detective opened the book and began to write about the day’s events and what he had seen. The smell of wild fish being caught filled his nose, while the excited bicker of the lads playing betting games filled his ears.

After about a few minutes, the detective jumped right off the tree branch and onto his tree. “Hyah!” he shouted with emphasis, and he was off again. This time, the detective took a path which led into the busy streets of Calcutta, on the border of the forest and the town.

The detective hopped off his horse and tied it to a fence-post placed right next to his favorite chai shop. His eyes darted, focusing on the vendor deftly creating a cup of chai for his customer.

“Kēmana āchēna syāra?” the chai vendor asked in Bengali.

Translate: “How are you doing today sir?”

“Āmi bhālō karachi, ēka kāpa cā āmākē bhālō karē tulabē,” the detective replied happily, which received a response of the vendor laughing before proceeding to make another cup of chai.

Translate: “I’m doing fine, but a cup of chai would make me better.”

The detective sat down on a bench. He patiently waited for his cup of chai. After about 3 minutes, the vendor shouted, “Syāra, āpanāra cā prastuta!”, to which the detective chuckled and enthusiastically grabbed his hot cup sitting on the stall.

Translate: “Sir, your chai is ready!”

The milky but balanced chai assuage the detective’s mouth as he carefully took a sip from the glass cup. After finishing the entire cup in a matter of seconds, the detective placed the glass down and sighed. He closed his eyes once again, listening to the sounds of the lively town. But he heard something unexpected.

The sound of a marching soldier seemed to be getting louder and louder. Like he had expected, when the detective looked up, there was a soldier standing in front of him, clutching a white envelope stamped with a blood-red seal.

“Sir!” the soldier yelled. “For you!” 

The soldier handed the detective the  white envelope. He thanked the soldier and placed his hand on the seal. It was freshly stamped. With a breath of readiness, the detective opened the envelope.

The soldier handed the detective the  white envelope. He thanked the soldier and placed his hand on the seal. It was freshly stamped. With a breath of readiness, the detective opened the envelope.

To be continued…

A story written by Abhiram Pittala

Everything All At Once

 By Abhiram Pittala

Everything All At Once

Tick. Tock. The sound of the clock on the wall ticking echoed in my ear. I pulled the comforter over my head in a desperate attempt to fall asleep.

Drip. Drop. The uncomfortable noise of water droplets leaking from the faucet hanging above the sink in the bathroom found its way into my bedroom and resonated in my ear. Annoyed, I grabbed a pillow and shoved it in my face. 

I tossed and turned. Whatever I could do, I couldn’t sleep. The noises seem to find and attack me, trying to keep me awake for a painful, dark, 8 hours. The sound of a passing car. Some nocturnal creature is croaking in my front yard. A bird perched on a nearby tree branch hooting away. 

With a heavy sigh, I pushed away the comforters and got out of bed. I rubbed my eyes, the mix of sounds still echoing all around me. I turned off the spinning fan (which also made a creaking noise) before leaving my room.

I felt like an owl, discreetly walking around in my pajamas, my eyes naturally being able to see in the dark. I stopped by my parents bedroom for a second, my ears picking up on their deep snores (mainly my dad’s). But the medicine I was seeking wasn’t in my parent’s bedroom. 

Silently, I tip-toed down the stairs, finding myself in the kitchen. Although the box of pastries sitting on the dinner table were appealing, I pulled my looks away and focused on getting to my grandfather's room.

After about a minute of careful tiptoeing, I had entered my grandpa’s room. It was a bit big for an old man like him, but who am I to judge? I walked across the room, walking around the bed where my grandfather lay. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the dark and I was practically blind. I felt around, realizing I was standing next to my grandfather’s desk. I smiled and moved my hand down and then to the right, leading it to the first drawer. 

I recalled what my grandfather had told me once: the first drawer had his sets of pills, his second drawer had his shotgun, and his third drawer had what I was seeking. Carefully, I bent down and gripped the handle of the third drawer. With a silent yank, I pulled open the drawer. A few minutes of more awkward feeling and I was in possession of what I was looking for.

I quickly but silently left my grandpa’s room. I put the box of cigarettes in the moonlight, authenticating it. Then, I opened the box and took one of the cigarettes. With a faint memory of the procedure my grandfather follows, I put the cigarette in my mouth. I felt around in my back-pocket and pulled out a box of matches I had grabbed from the kitchen. With force, I struck a match against the striking surface, igniting it. Very carefully, I put the tip of the ignited match next to the cigarette before shaking my arm, putting out the fire. I waited for the feeling of relaxation. But that’s the only thing I didn’t get.

My mouth was immediately filled with a dominant bitter taste. I exhaled, smoking being emitted from my mouth. I could feel the tobacco getting stuck in my teeth and rotting. I had every urge to spit the cigarette out, but I decided to push my luck even more.

Then came the noises. All the noises I had heard came back. I felt like my ear was stretching outwards toward the noises as I was hearing them in 8d. More noises began to resound in my ear, which was on the ear of losing its ability to hear. 

It will work, like grandpa always said, I thought as I took another forceful exhale of the cigarette. But its magic never seemed to be initiating. In fact, the magic seemed to have backfired!

The sound of the ticking clock twirled in my eardrums before the drip-drop of the water droplets. Then came the screech of the car tires, the croaking bug, and the hooting bird. I began to hear new but painful noises such as the creaking wooden plank I was standing on.

Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. I covered my ears, wanting the noises to stop, but they didn’t. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak.

Finally, with all my power, I spit out the cigarette, yet the noises did not stop. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak.

I tried to walk back to my bed, but I couldn’t walk straight anymore. Different colors flashed in my ears, a bitter taste flummoxed my tongue, random thoughts raced across my mind, all while the noises echoed in my ear. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. Tick. Drip. Screech. Croak. Hoot. Creak. 

I realized the grave sin I had committed. My body seemed to turn off and I collapsed on the sofa. The noises, the thoughts, the taste, and the feelings all seemed to attack me all at once. Everything all at once. Everything all at once.

About 480,000 people die due to smoking annually.: The urge to smoke goes away whether you light up or not.

Written by Abhiram PIttala

Happiness Poem

 By Zara Ali

In time of suffrage, we endured

Even in times of distraught, we learned to procure

The discreet delights hidden away

We learned to see vibrance in the shades of gray

In times of ease, we only sought to suffer

We chose to see dullness and nothing other

The prominent elation was always in front

But we remained blind and blunt

Happiness, whether big or small, was always there

We shouldn’t stress the things we can’t bare

Pollution Poem

By Srinikesh Gundomogula

Pollution

One of the worlds biggest problems today is pollution

Its a problem that is yet to have a permanent solution

It harms all life

But is not sharp as a knife

Its progression is slow

But beware, it does grow

It is hard to prevent

But we have to try to keep the world at its highest percent

From sky, to cement

To prevent the world from getting dirty

We don’t all have to be thirty

All you have to do

Is try to keep the sky and ocean blue

Many creatures are being forced to suffer

And don’t have enough time to become tougher

So it's up to us to take on that role

To make cleaning the Earth our number one goal

Pollution in the air

Demands much care

For when sulfur and nitrogen mix

Acid rain falls down like bricks

It kills many innocent fish

Causing much food to go off the heron’s dish

It pollutes many bodies of waters

Resulting in many marine life slaughters

It's not only dirty air

That demands people to be aware

Polluted seas

Also cause much recent growth to freeze

A sea turtle eats a plastic bag

Accidentally mistaking it for food

Now, its whole body begins to sag

And has most certainly met its doom

Although many creatures are dying

Many people are trying

To keep Earth clean,

By filling it with green

This is not the end of Earth's story,

There is still time, to return it, to its previous glory

 

The Quellings Ep. 1

By Abhiram Pittala

The Quellings: Prelude

The Quellings is a set of short fictional stories filled with mystery, deceit, violence, and romance. Be aware that all the stories are FICTIONAL, and none of the events taken place in the story are real. Occasionally, there may be a spin-off in another universe written about in a different story. So, for those reading the Quellings, buckle up to embark on a suspenseful adventure.

Take care, Abhiram Pittala

The Quellings: A Filet Mignon

2022 Manhattan

Thunder crackled and boomed in the sky as the Black Sedan slowed down in front of the Manhattan apartment. Terry pushed open the door to his car before striking a match and attempting to light the Marlboro cigarette dangling from his mouth. As Terry expected, the small water droplets falling from the midnight sky quickly extinguished the match. 

Terry sighed, spitting the cigarette into his hands and dropping it into his pocket. Terry’s Ace Mark shoes were drenched in water as he stepped into a murky puddle next to a hungry sewer. He jammed his left hand into his left jacket pocket before buzzing the twelfth floor button. After about twenty seconds, the hatch made a ‘click’ sound, beckoning Terry to open the door.

Terry strolled into the elevator, preparing himself to go to the twelfth floor. He pressed the twelfth floor button and closed his eyes as the elevator boosted up. Within seconds, Terry was standing in front of the only room on the twelfth floor: Room 21.

Terry knocked on the door before being greeted by a Chinese woman who was wearing a white dress. Forgetting where he was, Terry stared at the flower patterns on the woman’s dress. He could imagine smelling the sweet scent of the Snapdragon flowers depicted on the woman’s white dress. 

“Hello?” an accented voice boomed, interrupting Terry’s thoughts. He shook his head, regaining his senses and remembering why he was here.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Terry stuttered. He pulled out his wallet sitting in his pants pockets and flipped out a gold shaded badge with the words NYPD printed on it. “My name is Detective Terry and I’m from the NYPD. Mind if I come in?”

“Uh, sure. Just take your shoes off before coming inside,” the woman said. Terry took off his spoiled Nike shoes before entering the apartment room. He was overwhelmed by the beige walls and the tiled floors. Terry carefully sat down at the round table placed in the middle of the room. He dared not to sit on the white sofa because of the fear of ruining it.

Terry looked at the TV mounted against the wall. Opposite to it was a small room that Terry guessed to be a kitchen. A tall, brown bookshelf was placed suspiciously against the balcony door. Terry’s eyes darted around the compact but elaborate room, noticing the mattress concealed beneath the sofa. 

“You don’t have a bedroom?” Terry asked the woman, intrigued. 

“No, but we have a bathroom by the entrance,” the woman claimed exasperatedly.,“Now can you please tell me what you want?”

“Right, about that,” Terry began to say, no longer playing beat around the bush. “A member of the NYPD known as Yuchen Lee had gone missing. We know that you, Mrs. Lee, is Yuchen’s divorced spouse. Can you please tell me everything you know about him?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Lee, or the woman murmured. She hesitated for a moment before switching the topic by saying, “Would you like anything to eat?”

Terry paused for a moment. Looking up, he exclaimed, “Yes please, I’ll take whatever you have!”

“Great,” Mrs. Lee said. “I’ll go prepare something in the kitchen. You can talk to me while I’m there!”

Saying so, Mrs. Lee got up and walked to the kitchen. Terry couldn’t see her as the kitchen was hidden by a wall. He also noticed the drops of sweat slipping down the side of her forehead.

“She must have never met a detective,” Terry concluded in his mind.

Terry could hear pots and pans being set onto the countertop. The mental noise they made echoed throughout the apartment room.

“When did you meet Yuchen?” Terry asked, pulling out his notepad to jot down notes.

“The summer of 2013,” Mrs. Lee replied faintly enough for Terry to hear. “I was at Liberty State Park when we met. I was on college vacation at the time when I discovered Yuchen, who also went to the same college.

“Where did you study?” Terry pursued. But instead of a reply, all he heard was the sound of oil crackling on a pan.

“Where did you study?” Terry repeated. This time, he got an answer.

“Seton Hall University,” Mrs. Lee responded, her voice louder than the crackling oil. “I was planning to go to Medical School, but before I knew it, I got married!”

“Huh,” Terry said. “Do you know anyone who had a problem with Yuchen?”

“Well,” Mrs. Lee's loud voice began to say. “There was my family. My family wanted me to marry a doctor, or someone who had a safe job. Yuchen was studying to become a detective, which was pretty risky. Many people in my family disliked this, and wanted him to change professions. But, despite their constant comments, we got married.”

“Anyone in particular?” Terry inquired.  The noise of the crackling oil stopped for a minute, but started once again. Terry found his mouth watering to a smoky aroma that escaped from the kitchen.

“My dad,” Mrs. Lee confirmed in a solemn voice. “and Margaret.”

“Margaret? Who’s that?” Terry asked.

“Before I met Yuchen, he was in an intimate relationship with this American girl named Margaret,” Mrs. Lee quickly affirmed. She seemed to hold her breath. “Xuèxīng dì měiguó rén,” she muttered in a loud tone but soft enough so that Terry couldn’t hear.

“So Yuchen broke up with Margaret after he met you?” Terry continued.

“It was very hard for Yuchen, as he loved Margaret a lot,” Mrs. Lee added. She sauntered out of the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.

Something told Terry to stop talking and look into Mrs. Lee’s eyes for a moment. He did so, and began to silently compare her face with a gleaming, white chrysanthemum.

“So, uh,” Terry blurted, shaking himself out of his trance. He looked at his empty notepad, realizing that he hadn’t jotted down any notes like he had wished to do so. But once again, Terry’s instinct told him to close the notepad as he wouldn’t need it. There was something about Mrs. Lee’s glistening face that would help him remember every little thing she said.

“How did Yuchen treat you as a wife?” Terry asked, now completely forced out of his trance. 

“He was a very good husband, and devoted his entire life to me,” Mrs. Lee answered. She closed her eyes and smiled, like she was remembering Yuchen. “He devoted his entire life to me after we got married. Although we didn’t have a happy life together, we had a strong and loving relationship.”

“What do you mean when you didn’t have a happy life together,” Terry questioned, making air quotes.

“Margaret had taken all our money, and we were left with around $300 dollars to start a life together. Since Yuchen was an orphan, and my parents didn’t agree to our marriage, we weren’t given any parental wealth. $300 can’t even support us for 4 days, let alone an entire life!” Mrs. Lee explained. She hesitated for a second. “But Yuchen didn’t try to stop her,” she elaborated after a minute of silence.

“Anyway,” Terry said, his mouth watering and his stomach empty like a vacant. “I’m starving!”

Right, uh, just give me a second,” Mrs. Lee stammered, rushing back into the kitchen. She brought out a plate and placed it in front of Terry.

Terry was unable to describe how good the food looked. The filet mignon seemed to glitter in the dim ceiling light. Its texture looked like freshly made China wood, and the smell of the red wine sauce pervaded Terry’s nose. Terry could already feel his stomach filling just by looking at the food. 

And the mushroom. Just by looking at it, Terry could tell that the mushroom had a smoky flavor that would blend within the filet mignon but make his mouth water.

Terry picked up the metal fork with his left hand while picking up the knife with his right hand. He plunged the fork into the filet mignon like a spear impaling a fish. In a still position, he cut the piece of the filet using his knife. He made sure to get the piece with the most wine sauce and a mushroom on top.

Terry placed the fork in his mouth and pulled the food off the points. It took a minute for Terry to process the excellent taste of the filet mignon. It was the juiciest yet most tender piece of meat he had ever tasted. The texture was smooth, but it concealed what seemed to Terry a new world of taste. The mushroom, like Terry predicted, blended in with the color of the meat but had a distinctive smoky flavor.

“This tastes…AMAZING!” Terry exclaimed after about a minute of enjoyment. His curious yet recharged eyes darted around, looking for Mrs. Lee. He soon realized that Mrs. Lee was in the kitchen. Her face popped out of the kitchen. 

“You like it?” she asked, and an odd smile spread across her face.

“Yeah, the meat is the best part! Did you use any special ingredient?” Terry asked eagerly.

“I used my secret ingredient,” Mrs. Lee said. “Would you like to know what it is!” Terry responded by nodding his head up and down about 20 times.

“Oh, so sweet! Then would you come here? I would show you the secret ingredient, and maybe something else!” Mrs. Lee called out in a suspiciously sweet voice.

Every one of Terry’s instincts told him not to go, but he seemed oblivious to his senses. He got up from his chair quickly, not acknowledging that he pushed it over. He rushed on over to the kitchen, ready for his surprise. Not even the sound of a drawer opening, and a sharp object squealing against a tile stopped him.

2 Weeks  Later..

OFFICIAL POLICE STATEMENT: ON FEBRUARY 15th, 2022, THE BODY OF THE MISSING TERRY BOWEN WAS FOUND IN AN EMPTY CEMENT CAN HIDDEN AT A CONSTRUCTION SITE. ALTHOUGH THE KILLER IS YET TO BE FOUND, A POST MORTEM REPORT REVEALED THAT TERRY HAD CANNIBALIZED RIGHT BEFORE DEATH. THE REPORT WAS ALSO ABLE TO UNCOVER WHO THE LATTER HAD CANNIBALIZED. THE REPORT SHOWS THAT TERRY HAD CONSUMED THE BODY OF YUCHEN LEE, AGE 31, WHO HAD ALSO BEEN MISSING FOR MANY WEEKS. DETAILS WILL BE RELEASED LATER.

A story written by Abhiram Pittala

The Unexpected Party

By Eshaan Patel

"Braiiiiinnnnzzzzz‼" the zombies outside the dark, gloomy, stone cave groaned, likely looking for me. I was hiding inside a cave with a narrow opening with only the most basic of basic supplies. If I were found, it would be the end of me.

This is the end and the beginning. I took a deep breath and accepted the fact that I was taking a risk.

After venturing into the darkness with only a low-battery flashlight, I found a suspicious door that I would later discover was magical. It was floating one foot off the ground with no supporting walls. I opened the door instinctively, and I saw a lamp made of severely oxidised silver. I knew that in fairy tales, people like Aladdin tap on the lamp to find a genie. I inferred that this was also the case with the lamp that I had found. The lamp itself has a message under it that said "G_nie po_s __t, as__ __r __n_o_ pe__l_'s ___e_". The message itself was very faded, however, I could barely make out that the "G_nie" meant "Genie", but I could not make out the text after the comma.

Finally, after taking yet another very deep breath, I had decided to actually touch the lamp. It turned out, the door was actually just a dormant form of the genie. The door shifted its shape into a classic genie!

"Name four random people," the genie said.

"For what? For what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" I asked with confusion.

"Because. Just name four random people," the genie angrily replied, "and they don't have to be dead or alive or anything. Fine?"

"Fine. Umm, I guess Joseph Stalin, Albert Einstein, perhaps Mark Zuckerburg and Elon Musk?" I mumbled. The cave became brightly lit, cancelling out my need for my emergency lamp. A table with a white, linen tablecloth and buffet-style stoves with boxes of edibles began to appear. I groped right onto the top of one of the chairs. On the table were spoons, forks, knives, butterknives, and sporks as silverware eating utensils. One box was full of pizza for an appetiser, along with another one full of nachos with cheese over them. More boxes arrived with foods like gulab jamun, chocolate ice cream, butter toast, bagels, donut holes, and more.

Right as I closed my eyelid to blink, the grey, gloomy cave turned into a huge dinner hall. The smell of fresh, warm food delighted me. It almost felt like the sense that a zombie could attack me for my brain was gone. In front of me appeared a blue spiralling portal-looking structure. Outside of the portal came all of the people whose names I said.

"Who are you? Why am I here?" inquired Joseph Stalin, with a confused face.

"Aye, where am I?" inquired Albert Einstein with a sharp German accent. The other people whose names I had stated inquired about similar stuff.

"Are you Mr. Eshaan Patel, that guy who mined asteroids using robots for a profit trillions upon trillions?" asked Elon Musk. It seemed like he had known me from the beginning.

"Robots? Those stupid-butt things that try to make us all lazy? What were your names again?" Einstein angrily said.

After saying our names, everybody got seated. At the same time, Martin Luther King Jr., Mark Zuckerburg and Joseph Stalin were busy arguing.

"Freedom is for the stupids!" said Stalin, starting in a high voice before plunging down and coming back up again. "Privacy is stupid as hell!"

"I have to agree that privacy is stupid as hell, but literally we need freedom and no discrimination!" replied Zuckerburg in an extremely angry tone, walking up to get a bowl of gulab jamun and eating it as he walked.

"Shut up, Joseph and Mark! I do think freedom is needed and discrimination, especially by race and gender, should be prohibited, but literally, give people privacy! Not just us blacks, but the whites too!" said Martin Luther King. His voice was very strong, and he sounded unusually fierce. He grabbed the Pepsi from the ice box.

"I mean, at least we might be able to agree that drinking Pepsi all day and night is amazing, right?" continued MLK. As a reply, everyone agreed by saying words like "yes" and "obviously".

"I guess, let's eat!" said Albert Einstein in a more cheerful tone than the arguing.

"Oh, Einstein, you think you're smart? My average Soviet prisoner is 5000 times smarter than you!" said Joseph Stalin.

These people fight much more than I expected, I thought. It was a mistake for me to think that nothing was wrong with this evil genie.

"Yeah, Joseph. Just phone one of your guards and ask what E=mc2 means. They won't know, and neither shall you," Albert stated in an odd, calmer than usual voice, however he was about to get really angry. "Plus, Elon and Zuck-whatever-his-last-name-is are stupid as hell. Why would they ever think those computers should be turned into life for everyone‽ That stupid tech is just making people crazy! The only practical, logical use would be to do a rocket launch and call people by video!"

Albert Einstein was getting so angry as to try to destroy Mark Zuckerberg's and Elon Musk's plate. However, drama also ensued between them as well. At least the party had hot food, which I had not seen in what felt like hundreds of millions of years.

"Stalin," said Martin Luther King, "you need to learn not to discriminate. Like seriousl—" he continued, interrupted at the end.

"King, you've just revealed why capitalism is stupid!" Stalin exclaimed in an excited tone. "Those capitalists that did the discrimination were the only people I exiled!"

"Stalin! I never knew that you were such a great man! You don't deserve to be mocked by the Americans for capitalism!" replied King, holding his pepsi and gulping it down after he spoke and as he finished his sentence.

"Thank you. I feel so sorry that you couldn't move to Russia at the time because the cold war was going on and the aerospace was blocked."

"Wait a sec… ain't it called airspace?"

"I learned British English in the USSR, so I just learned that it was called 'aerospace'." Stalin and King both laughed along.

Meanwhile on the other side of the table, me, Zuck, Einstein and Musk were busy. Me and Musk were both arguing with Zuckerberg.

"Zuck the maniac! Stop giving our info to the government!" Musk shouted amidst chewing his pizza.

"Yeah, Zuckermaniac! That's the reason I don't use your 'Metagrass' or whatever it's called," I added.

"Shut up you two! Man, first, 'tis called the Metaverse, and it revolutionizes everything by making everything digital so you don't gotta walk or run and you could do anything you'd ever want!" optimistically replied Mark Zuckerberg.

"Digital? Digital life? I know that computers got so small, but why would you ever want life itself to be digital? What about real life? What if we go back to real life and it turns out we can't indeed do what we can do in that so-called 'maiden grass'?"

Zuckerberg began to get extremely frustrated and angry. "Since when was it called 'maiden grass' or 'metagrass' or whatever, you trumpets of poop! Get out of my dinner party, you ner—" he said, interrupted by me.

"... and look at you, and you also begin to call us nerds when that's what you also clearly are. Don't mock us!" I exclaimed.

"Wait… you also leak details of the stuff in the 'maiden grass' to the FBI and CIA? Our human rights!" said Einstein, extremely offended by Zuckerberg's insults. He then proceeded to move to the other side of the table, to talk to King and Stalin.

"Umm, get out!" I yelled right into the ears of Mark Zuckerburg. The genie managed to make him completely disappear and he was gone without a trace, his food all gone. To this day I still wonder what happened to him, though the most logical explanation I could think of was that he only got his brain eaten up by one of the zombies outside the cave. I finished my plate, and went up to grab some quick ice cream, a pizza, some gulab jamun and a donut hole. I hadn't eaten during the party at all.

"So Einstein, what was that 'mallgrass' thing that that stupid Zuck was talking about?" inquired Stalin. "What was it?"

"It's this sort-of stupid thing where they put some sort of television up on your eye and you do everything you normally do in real life on it," Einstein replied.

"Oh boy, that's stupid! No wonder he's been thrown right out of the party!"

"Yeah."

"It turns out that Germans are actually smart. I take back whatever I said earlier about you comparing you as a death row thing in the minds of the average Soviet prisoner. I'm legitimately sorry. Anyways, I ought to get to the water closet real fast 'cause my tummy is full, but you guys continue eating."

Elon Musk decided to welcome Albert Einstein, and they had begun to talk.

"What do you do for a living, Elon?"

"Nothin' much. I normally just work for my car company Tesla and my space company appropriately called SpaceX. And this traffic project I named the Boring Company for some reason."

"What do they do in SpaceX?"

"Our maths department uses computer machines to calculate the solutions to our equations, while our rocket scientists write down equations to be solved on the chalkboard."

"Computers equal stupidity. I feared this for a while!"

"OpenAI? Artificial Intelligence for all? How did you know about that?"
"My, that's even worse!" Albert Einstein exclaimed, very perturbed by the fact that intelligence could also come in computers. "I wonder what Patel over there is doing."

Albert Einstein and Elon Musk had completed their argument at the same moment Joseph Stalin came back from the restroom, which he had been inclined to call "the water closet". We all ate for about ninety seconds straight in silence before Einstein proceeded to speak with me.

"So Eshaan, what's done by you?"

"I do use computers but AI's just stupid."

"Okay, go on."

"I bought multiple private reusable rockets from SpaceX back three years ago. I launched them about half a year ago, and then I used a remote controlled robot (that only was able to mine) in order to mine an asteroid, which gave me an insane amount of wealth." Einstein then told Musk that he had to learn from me.

"Fine." Musk whispered in a sarcastic manner while rolling his eyes at us. The table began to shake.

Multiple light fixtures and chandeliers on the ceiling cracked and fell. The ceiling looked like a collapse was imminent, and cracks were visible. Someone mentioned zombie noises like seen in the cinema and I nodded, followed by others' laughter. The opacity of peoples' bodies except mine were getting lower and lower, and with that their voices became softer and softer. They also started to uncontrollably walk into a box with their food somehow floating in midair with them. Finally, everyone was back in the box and a peaceful, green forest was visible.

It turned out that the groaning noises weren't actually zombies, but just the wind. The apocalypse was over. However, when I tried to turn on my phone, the internet wouldn't work, even though there was a cell tower only about three metres to the right of the hole in the ceiling.

Even though a staircase descended on me, and I even walked up, I never realised that the stairs went to heaven. It let me float in midair, and I walked higher and higher into the sky, until I was in the land of angels quadrillions of light years up in the sky, where the ground could definitely not be seen. I entered the gate and I have lived a peaceful afterlife happily ever after, to this day. The only thing that I keep wondering about too often is the question of where everybody went.