Publish Or Perish

@genieinabook | Prompt 1 • Jul '18

An Evening At The Gravestones 

by genieinabook [published on 13-07-2018, word count: 1447 words]

I just finished writing my latest story for our regional weekly magazine. I'd gotten countless calls from the editor, "Arohi, make it magical! The kids want them these days"

It's true indeed that to write for children, you have to become a child yourself. I was wrong to think I'd left behind my childhood in the Tinkle and the Bengali Shuktara magazines and my collection of Tintin, Marvel and DC comics. Here I am a fully grown eighteen old, writing about magic and spells and fairies for a population one less than half my age. I found myself in amusement as I started pouring out fairytales, like water from a tap.

I'm known as "The Perfectionist" in my circle of friends. For I loved challenges and I worked relentlessly to achieve them. I wanted each and every aspect of mine to be perfect, be it writing or studies and I was probably one of the rare teenagers with a job in my class of Indian society. I wasn't the party animal you found in every nook and cranny these days. I preferred to sit and write stories at home instead of stoning yourself sick and making a fool of yourself. I had countless people telling me that writing wasn't a thing to do at my young age, but that's exactly where my Leo instincts kick in. A Leo does something when you tell them that they can't do it. And they nail it. Which is why I get more and more writing assignments than my colleagues who are twice and even thrice my age.

Speaking of assignments I just finished writing another such story about ghosts uprising from their graves, grabbing people who disobeyed the king of a land with their long bony hands. I was super tired, plus I had to study till dinner. It was still light out, so I grabbed my cousin Arup da (A Bengali call for an older brother) who was staying over and went for a walk.

We walked through our leafy colony till we reached the old gravestones. A beautiful place in the heart of Delhi. For a change, I walked through it, reading the names of the various deceased who lived in this colony. We walked up to the gravestone of one of my colleagues in the magazine editorials who passed away due to old age.

'Look at this, Arup da. The gravestone of Gupta ma'am'

'The same ma'am who used to advise you on your writing?'

'Exactly'

'Do you miss her?'

'Not really. She wasn't very close to me. She just gave me writing tips and suggestions whenever she came over to our place. She was a close friend of Ma'

'You've met anyone from her family?'

'She doesn't have one, Arup da. She never married'

'I see. I think we should be going now'

But all of a sudden, I felt the grass making way, its blades swaying to the sides. Then came out five white finger bones, followed by the full skeleton of an arm. It started motioning to grab things, desperate to hold on to the grass. The grass disappeared to reveal the opening of a large abyss. I suddenly saw a ring on the skeleton's pointer finger. A ruby red, oval signet ring.

Gupta ma'am?

Both Arup da and I were frozen to the ground. Suddenly, the hand reached out to us. Stretching out, the bony hand clawed and ripped at the air, desperate to wrench us into the abyss. We clasped each other in fright, but it was of no use. The hand grabbed my arm and pulled me in.

For a moment it was pure darkness. I looked around to catch a sight of my surroundings, but it was pitch black.

'Arohi?'