Deep Root

  * Krrk krrk * The sound of the metal tap in room no. 1304. Whenever someone opened or closed it, it let out a loud, grating * krrk krrk *. It was a metal tap, cost-efficient for a low-budget motel. The public had given it a rating of one star out of five. Most of the reviews were like: “Bad, poor quality, bed bugs beware! Is there even air to breathe inside the room?” The worst one read: “I saw a dead body inside, and the owner said it was his father, drunk, who fell in the bathtub, and he would clear him soon.” This could sum up how the motel runs today. Nobody was willing to stay there even for a single night. Sometimes, people stepped under its roof when it rained, but they left quickly—before the rain even stopped—because of the terrible smell drifting out of the chimney. Yes, they had a canteen—a small cafeteria, as they called it—and they even provided complimentary food for the guests. But no one ever bothered to go near it. Rotten bread, carrots that were most probably ...

“Ridiculous! Who even invented this? This is tough! I can’t do this!” Abishek’s voice echoed across the quiet classroom as he stood there, fingers in his mouth, trying once again to whistle. The little boy had been at it for a while now, long before the bell was about to ring. His friend Mukthar stood next to him, trying hard not to laugh. “Yo !, just relax your lips,” Mukthar said, demonstrating for what felt like the hundredth time. Abishek inhaled deeply, puffed his cheeks, and blew. Nothing came out—except a spray of spit that landed right on Mukthar’s face. “Eww! You’re not whistling, you’re watering me!” Mukthar groaned, wiping his cheek. Abishek frowned, frustrated. “How do you even do it, man?!” “Okay, okay, listen carefully. We’ve got four minutes before the bell rings. Try again, but this time—make your mouth dry. Take a second, breathe through your mouth, dry it up. Go slow.” Abishek nodded, determined. He inhaled through his mouth, feeling the air dry his tongue and...

       The day could have been worse, but he knew what he was supposed to do to make things right. Vivek was a high-profile assassin, ruling North Osman for the past 25 years — a well-mannered man who felt his mind was in his fifties. The two conditions he always made his clients promise were clear: no children, no animals would be harmed. The third and final rule was: if it goes beyond three bullets, the issue becomes personal from that point onward. That’s what happened today. Three shots took out window glass, a plant pot, and a Buddha statue. How could he possibly be alive? What happens to the 25 years of experience? What did I miss? Those were the questions racing through his head. He took exactly ten seconds to think and answer himself. He got the answer at the ninth second. He knew. He knew what he had done. Breathing became hard. Fear crept in and sweat started rolling down his face. He was standing on the 18th floor of a well-known construction building. The...

                     The Man Between Dreams Dreams in sleep have the power to alter your real life. Our subconscious minds have the same amount of power and strength as our conscious minds. Little did he know about it. Atlas — his name. No one knows his real name except him. He tries to keep it hidden from the public. He sells his paintings for a living. His dream is to sell a painting worth enough to buy a house. Not bad. Seems pretty legit. He thinks so too. But that one dream, on the previous day while he was asleep, turns his life upside down in a way he couldn’t believe something like that could happen. After waking up in the morning — normal as he could be — he went out, had his breakfast, took his paintings, and went to the street. He started selling them near the beach, hoping some tourists might buy a few. Winds blowing, sunny day — a pleasant day in a pleasant place to sketch some scenery. But what Atlas drew was not ...