Long Story Short – Xin Zhou Within Time Vortex (Continued)

Author: Siddharth Naidu
Photography Partner: Prashita Ramteke

Xin Zhou’s expertise in Science and curiosity in Time Travel led him to traverse unknown territories!

Tampering with time, however, is a dangerous path!
In this treacherous game of multiple lives, Ayane awaits his rescue.
Will Xin be able to succeed? Will he accomplish his mission, without getting lost?

27 Minutes Clocking Down:

Xin Zhou stood still on the wooden floor of the house, dewy dust sprinkled all over his coat. He turned to see Ayane wobbling and taking a step towards him; then she crashed onto the floor with a thud. A steel machete in her hand, the button of a black jacket in her grip and blood oozing out of a deep wound on her stomach. But before he let his emotions get the better of him, he saw something written on the whiteboard fleeting behind her. A cryptic message which said “Check Logs in the Whistle”.

He immediately understood, took a hypothesised guess as to what was happening all around him.

He lay Ayane on the floor and walked out of the room to an adjacent private lab he constructed for his time synthesis. He slid through the door and saw the ContraR recorder, which could record whatever he said through a collar mic.

What made it special was that everything it recorded was eventually transferred to an SF Drive on a real-time basis. He clicked the blue playback button and filtered it by time – latest. It was Log 29. Then he went back and heard each and every log understanding and reconfirming his calculation. He selected all the logs and deleted them. None of them had the eventuality which he hoped for. The convolution would only get him to traverse the loop an infinite number of times. From what he knew and analysed, there were seven loops, which were going about simultaneously. Thus, these would only expand, if fed with information which had no results. Continue reading


Long Story Short – Xin Zhou Within Time Vortex

Author: Siddharth Naidu
Photography Partner: Prashita Ramteke

Xin Zhou’s expertise in Science and curiosity in Time Travel led him to traverse unknown territories!

Tampering with time, however, is a dangerous path!
In this treacherous game of multiple lives, Ayane awaits his rescue.
Will Xin be able to succeed? Will he accomplish his mission, without getting lost?

23rd February 2078:

The weather forecast for the day had already gone terribly wrong. There was no sign of summer, not even a glimmer of sunlight to be seen. Xin Zhou pulled up his jacket. He stepped down to the road from the bus shelter, desperately trying to avoid the rain. The rains lashed at him as if the hurricane miles away from the bay area was his fault somehow. He tightened the hood around his face and under the chin. The University bus coughed and rumbled on for a few hundred feet away on the road that in some miles joined the Okegawa by-pass, getting him to Tokyo Metropolitan within an hour.

Xin Zhou leant on the window fidgeting with his mobile phone. He scrolled through the contacts, paused at Ayane for a moment. When would this end at all? The problem was he knew it would end, but could he know if it did. Ayane was taken away with no explanation or reason. Much like the rain that would go once the bus had crossed The Vortex. He looked at his watch, a vintage David Olley steel strap. He waited intently. The second’s hand moved above the minute’s hand and approached a full circle. A man remarkably similar to him sat on the first seat, just behind the driver, with his ear pods in, and shut his eyes close. Of course, Xin Zhou hoped that the man would wake up, if only for once; and only after an hour, after the bus reached its destination. He only hoped that the man would be oblivious to anyone boarding it or getting off. A hope that deep in his mind, he knew, was not possible.

The bus halted at a stop, near the mega Ikea store beyond the Saitama connector bridge. He got down hurriedly, unbuttoned his raincoat and rolled it into a bundle. He placed the bundle within his backpack and took out his Gun and its silencer attachment. His day had just started.

“Log 27, X7, Day 7….I’ve seen X1. Again. I’ve gotten off at Saitama. Hopefully, I’ll intercept Yukai from their origination point Omiya. Vortex time available, 58 minutes and clocking down”

He spoke into a wireless mic, embedded within his collar. A log was necessary to record his past and quantify his future. He sprinted towards the cab service pod, and hailed one, as thunders cracked the blue skies. The cab turned the corner into Heromi Nest roadway. Everything was being recorded. Nothing was left to chance. He got off the cab, and swiftly jumped onto the pavement, and hid in the shadows of the alley between two tall buildings.

42 Minutes clocking down:

Any moment now. A black sedan swirled around the corner and came to a halt, screeching on the other side of the road. First the plump one in a two piece jacket, they called Tommy, would get out, and scan the area. Then, the two passengers in the back seat, Zinko and Raiden would come out. They carried hidden machetes within their jackets, a mark of Yakuza. Now, a man would appear behind them. He always hid in the phone booth, waiting for the opportune moment of attack. The man, X5 would glance at the alleyway for a moment, make a mental note of its hiding capability, and attack Zinko from behind. The Yakuza members were trained professionals. They would disarm him easily and swing their weapons at him. Hence this explained the existence of X6, a few moments later at the turn off bridge the stealthy presence of X7 in the alleyway. New chances of a constant man, were all going waste.

Continue reading

Long Story Short: The Wonderful Life of Zariya

Author: Siddharth Naidu
Photography Partner: Prashita Ramteke

Trashed memories, broken dreams, famished will.
A young life was finished before it even began.
From the world where wonders had just begun to the world where Zariya was nothing but a vegetable.

When all hope was lost, a fickle frustration led him to her.
Vikram was the only hope; an only saviour for her will.

Drishti had unexpectedly become Vikram’s life goal.
Drishti’s acknowledgement was a purpose. Stories – his revolution.

Will Vikram lose it all in the attempt of survival?
Will Drishti ever awaken her emotions?
A story of breathtaking tragedy, heartwarming love and beautiful lives engulfed in the mirage of self-actualization!

When Zariya crashed on the road from her scooter, she was 19. She was at an age that identified her goals and realised them as dreams. In a split second, she lost everything. A sharp gravel stone pierced the skin under her neck and cut through an internal carotid artery. She lay there, immovable and entirely paralytic, except for the working grace of her sensory organs. She could see people gathering around her. A few men trying to remove her scooter, which felt weightless on her legs. She could see people pick her up and one of them placed her into the backseat of a car. The front seat, the textured leather cover, a faint jasmine smell and blowing horns were all apparent to her. She felt her blood dripping onto the seat, her senseless fingers sticking onto the glass window. It almost never happened. And then days later, she woke up in a plush private hospital. The sobbing of her parents, flower bouquets, the creaky doors, and the pungent medicinal smell filled her ambience. This was, however, her side-stop in a longer journey; a journey which would transcend through many hospitals and finally land her at General Govt. Hospital in the city. She would survive on aided-support, yet would never recover. She couldn’t die either. All she could do was to lay on the cot and spend her days…

Vikram suddenly woke up from a deep slumber and patted around his side table. After almost dropping it down, he latched onto his mobile and turned off the alarm. It was ten minutes past six. He closed his eyes and his body begged him to stay put. 3 or 5 minutes wouldn’t really change anything. Vikram, however, knew the trick having fallen for it plenty many times. He sat up and took a gulp of water from the bottle near his bed. By seven o’clock, he readied himself. A bag packed with precisely six books, some pens, some apples, and his office ID tag thrown in. He walked out of his small room and locked the door behind him. Just as he stepped away from the plankton seeping door and towards his bike, his mobile rang.

‘Vicky… Hello… Vicky… Hello?’ the voice said.

It was his Mother. She usually called him in the evening when he returned home. This call was an oddity.

‘Amma..! Can you hear me…Hello’, Vikram replied, raising his voice a little. He was a soft talker. But then, his mother was old and in her own words, growing deaf in one ear.

‘Vicky…Book a ticket for me for Duronto Express tonight’, His Mother said as clearly as she could.  Vikram tried understanding the request or rather question the reason behind it. Did she tell him something? Was he supposed to remember something? But before he could come up with anything, his Mother intervened,

‘Vicky, you know Kamili aunt’s father right? He passed away an hour back, and I need to be in Hyderabad at the earliest’ she declared.

Vikram promised her he would book her a ticket as soon as possible and got off the call. His office was in Hitech city, fifteen odd kilometres to his place. But then, he had stopped going to his office for a long time now. For the past six months, his day started with a pretence of it and had to zero in on finding the perfect human resource for a said target project. However, everything had changed after he met her.Drishti. She was everything to him now.

He reached the Hospital within an hour. This was the only time that the doctors allowed him to visit Drishti. Dr. Swathi had taken pity on him and more so, on her. Her sympathy made way to his prolonged visits. She was dead otherwise, but her life breathed inside. And he was essential for her healthy heart beat. The scans and records showed the remarkable escalation in bodily activities when he was around her. And for Dr. Swathi, taking care of this abandoned young woman meant a treatment better than any.

Continue reading

Write Club Anthology – Open for Entries

After the success of our first anthology

“Of Blood and Ink”

We’ve decided to do it again! This time, it’s an open contest!

Pen down a write up on the below theme and send it to us!



The unknown and unpredictable communication with an object or a person that caused an event to result in a certain way rather than another

What happens when you unexpectedly face someone?

What do you do when you have your first encounter with something?

When was the last time you had an unexpected or casual meeting with someone or something?

Tell us all about a fascinating encounter that turned tables over!

November 25th


  • The participant should have attended Write Club at least twice (2 times) until the date of submission.

What’s in it for you?

An opportunity to have an entry into a book of Write Club’s anthology of short stories for this year. We know by experience, how satisfying and difficult it can be for your words to see the light of day. Helping even a handful of talented writers get their words into the world, online or on-paper is the goal of this anthology.

What wins the contest?

  • 10 well-written write-ups with plausible structure, captivating characters, and gripping narratives.
  • We love writers who show that they do!
  • Feel free to take some risks, if you wish!
  • Let your words make us think, feel and express! And you’re a winner.
  • Explore writing forms and genres, we accept them all as long as it adheres to our theme — stories, poems — fiction, nonfiction, and even beyond.


  1. The theme should be Inherent and Integral to the write-up!
  2. Submissions must be your original work and no longer than 3,500 words.
  3. We will accept previously published work as long as the piece is eligible to be republished. Include information about previous publications at the end of the document.
  4. Please submit your entry as a Word document (.doc or .docx). Don’t forget to add in your name (pseudonyms accepted)!
  5. Include the title in a header on each page.
  6. You can NOT submit more than one piece.
  7. If you are simultaneously submitting a story to other publications, please let us know. And if it’s accepted elsewhere, please withdraw the piece immediately.
  8. Entries submitted after the deadline will not be considered.
  9. The entries must be sent to writeclubhyd@gmail.com

In case of any further questions about anything at all,

Write to us at writeclubhyd@gmail.com


The Present

He looked into her eyes, desperate to know how things would end. He tried to read her eyes, which refused to give away the climax of the story of his life. He wondered if he should defend himself. What was the point though, his voice of reason said. Her name was tied to his fate, and his name to hers. There was nothing he could do to change things.

Her arms were bare. He could see his initial on her right bicep. ‘A’, the Alpha. He knew that the rest of his name was tattooed on the arm, followed by his social security number. It was proper protocol to let the enemy know that this was beyond the petty decisions of a human mind. He wondered if she would kill him slowly, or make it quick.

Her dusty clothes indicated that she had travelled a long way to find him. It was possible that his mother’s trick could have kept him alive for a lot longer, except he couldn’t do it anymore. The urge to find her was too great.

Sorry Matri, he thought to himself. I can’t live for you when I’m meant to die for her. This is someone I was meant to be with. Continue reading

Joker’s Day

Batman and Joker have a conversation in hell.

‌J : I did not get expect you of all people to be here. The protector of Gotham.

‌B: I did want to chase you to the depths of hell. Looks like my wish has been granted.

‌J: Tell me, have you met your parents yet ?

‌B: Even here, you just can’t resist poking at me can you ?

‌B: Are you afraid ?

‌J: You tell me. Should I be ?

‌B: Oh Yes. You should be.

‌J: Am not scared of you bat freak !!

‌B: Oh not of me. No… You see there over in the distance. The devil’s helper torturing the poor sod. Molten iron in the mouth and all ?

‌J : Yes…

‌B: And all he did was kill a man in self-defense.

‌J: I can’t even wait to imagine what they will do with you.

Continue reading

Love and other Drugs

Josh and Emma, were so in love. Not just with one another but with the psychedelia they experienced together. They considered themselves to have been paired in a realm that is not quite close to the reality we see. Their meetings were very less remembered soberly. Being in a state of trance was like in a character that was so relatable to each other, that it made them forget that a sober world existed.
They were the so cute drug addict a couple, which seemed to be a relationship goal that no one confesses.
They were in a community that allowed them to get high on their own supply and also make a living out of. Everything was just a transaction. They sold drugs to people from all around the world. What they lived in was paradise. Amsterdam. Need I say anymore.

Emma was a runaway foster child who grew up in the ruins of Brazil. Josh was a spoilt millionaire offspring. They met in Amsterdam and just like in the movies they knew they were for each other. They stayed together and worked out of their garage. They got their supply from Johor Bahu, a small unknown district in the South of Malaysia. They arrived at Johor Bahu and received their consignment from Mallorca. The purest form of Heroin and phoenix was developed nowhere in the world but here.  If there was any sobriety left in their lives that was only when they travelled across the ocean to collect their supply. Continue reading


“Gini, close the TV and get to bed now,” she heard her mom shout from the kitchen.

Gini ignored her voice, her eyes focused on Shin Chan’s adventure. She knew her mom would shout two-three times more from the kitchen before finally coming over to shut the TV. Shin Chan’s show would be over by then.

This was a pattern they followed every school day. When she returned from school, Asha the maid would come to pick her and Rooi from the school bus. After changing out of her uniform, she would have lunch and a short nap. At 4 PM, Rooi would come to her house to call her. Rooi was her best friend and lived in the same floor, in the opposite house. Rooi’s mom made sure they finished their homework before going to play.

Around 7 PM, Gini’s mom would return from work, dump her bag and head to the park where the kids were playing. Gini was usually thrilled when she saw her mom there. She looked really nice in her office clothes. The only time when she wished her mom would go away was when she to join her and her friends in their game. That was super-embarrassing.

Later, after dinner, Gini got to watch Cartoon Network before sleeping.

Gini didn’t realize when she had finally slept off. But, she awoke when mom picked her up and carried her to the bed. She didn’t want to get up to brush her teeth, so she pretended to be fast asleep when her mom tried to wake her up. She knew her mom wouldn’t force her awake. She felt her mom gently kiss her cheeks, before leaving the room.

A part of her was happy that she managed to fool her mom; the other part was too tired to gloat. Continue reading

Memories in a cassette

“Papa”, a six-year-old girl tugged at her father’s shirt at a regulated pace, three tugs at a time. Her obsession to numbers was in it’s primal phase.

“Um, yes – yes my dear”, Raju fumbled as he searched for the cassette player on the top shelf, with a Bala Murali Krishna cassette picked out already on one side.

“Papa, do I look like mamma?”, she asked jumping to get on the bed by the shelf.

“Who said so, honey?”, he said. He was too lost in the thoughts of a million things to think clear and give undivided attention to his darling daughter. She managed to finally get one leg on the bed with the other dangling out of balance between the floor and the bed.

“Everybody! Why don’t I look like you? I want to be like you, papa!”, she demanded.

Raju looked back and chuckled at his bewildered daughter, barely scraping on the edges of the mattress to seat herself on the bed.

He lifted her up in the air, high enough for her curly black locks to fly about. He planted a kiss on her blush cheeks. Settling her on his lap, he replied to her innocent question. Continue reading


Click, click, click. I couldn’t stop staring at the fan.

Its slight pendulous swing was as mesmerising as it was terrifying.

How old was it, I wondered.

How strong are the wires that are keeping it from falling?

Not too strong anymore; they were ragged, visible through the drywall that had fallen away with time.

It was Impossible to distinguish one blade apart from another. Continue reading