Writing

The scent of the Yua flowers clung to Elder Nia’s study, a familiar comfort that did little to soothe the tremor in her mind. It had just stopped raining a short while ago, and when it did, the silence that followed felt ominous. For more than a century and half, she made decisions here, weighty ones, measured in lives and stability of Luminoura in Tanea. But tonight, she felt the crushing weight of doubt.

She been wrong. Truly wrong.

The memory of Tunza Maarif’s earnest gaze, the slight tremble in his voice as he pleaded to recite a poem, lingered like ash in her mind.

In the past she had argued for his leniency, convinced the Council to overlook his… unconventional and underperforming life. To her face they had labelled her sentimental, but behind her back everyone knew why she was biased towards Tunza.

Now, chatter over the Lattice felt like a physical blow, each line a fresh indictment of her judgment. She still could not believe it. The man who had awoken, the one she thought was Tunza Maarif, was not the boy she had help raised. He was the imposter from Valhe. The realization twisted in her gut. Years she had championed him, shielded him, and in doing so, blinded herself to the truth. The thought that Valhe had perfected their own version of the Nomadinen was a devastating blow. How long had they been deceiving her? Who could she truly trust?

The chime announcing visitors sliced through her turmoil. She knew who it was, a chill ran down her spine. “Enter,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The door gave way and six figures strode in, their postures radiating controlled aggression. Mobaya Zaidi clearly led them, his face etched with simmering disapproval. Mobaya, had been a rock, an anchor in her often-turbulent leadership. Now, his eyes held only accusation.

“Elder Nia,” Mobaya said, his voice clipped and clearly accusatory. “We’ve warned you repeatedly not to treat the Valhe lightly. Your hubris blinds you, and now we’ve seen an actual infiltration. On our watch. The Great Bulwark knows we are going to pay the price for your recklessness”

“Keep your tone down with me, Mobaya,” she replied in an admonishing tone, attempting a tone of authority.

“You’ve become… weak,” Saidizi spat, younger and less restrained than Mobaya. The others nodded in agreement.

Nia’s jaw tightened. “The Great Bulwark tests us. You know, as well as I, we will prevail.”

“It’s blindness, Elder Nia,” Mobaya countered, his voice low and precise. “You refused to see what was apparent to us from the start.”

Mobaya’s gaze intensified, and a cruel satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “You always did, didn’t you? Conveniently overlooking his…idiosyncrasies. You see echoes of someone you wanted to see.” He paused, and the air in the room seemed to thicken with unspoken accusations. “Don’t think for a moment that we didn’t know. Your…history with his father.”

The blow landed like a physical force, stealing the air from her lungs. It was the sheer audacity of the words, never spoken aloud, never permitted in her presence. And now, her own Mobaya was delivering them, dripping in contempt. “How dare he?” The thought was a sharp, burning brand against her composure.

“Get out,” Nia snarled, the carefully cultivated calm shattered. “Leave my study, now!”

Mobaya didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply approached her, his movements fluid and unsettlingly calm. He was close enough that she could smell the subtle musk of his scent, a scent she had known for decades.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, a low tremor of menace that vibrated in the silence. “The scab demands release… isn’t that what you’ve always said…?”

Then, with blinding speed, a flash of metal, and a searing pain blossomed in her chest. She gasped, her hand instinctively going to the crimson stain blooming on her tunic. The last thing she saw was Mobaya’s face, impassive, almost… pitying.

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Hey there, thanks for reading. This is the prologue of my upcoming novel. Would you consider reading on or is this not for you? I invite honest answers. If you do, you can email me at sharadh@matkarma.in or sharadh.jaitra@zohomail.in.

You can also subscribe to my newsletter on the home page here. https://matkarma.in/

I once wrote a blog post exploring why I blog, arguing that writing offers a unique window into a person's mind. You can find that earlier post here. Today, I wanted to share what it feels like after finally publishing a book.

We all wear masks. In our daily lives, we curate versions of ourselves for work, for family, for social situations. We present the "acceptable" face, the one that fits the mold. But when you write? When you put words on paper (or screen) and share them with the world? Suddenly, those masks start to slip.

It's a truth I've wrestled with a lot since publishing my first book. You can't hide who you are in your writing. It's an unnerving reality. It exposes you, digs deep, and lays bare parts of yourself that you might not even consciously acknowledge. That's why some books resonate with us instantly, while others feel wrong we just don't make the same connection. It's not just about plot or prose; it's about the author's soul shining through.

I experienced this firsthand. The first time I asked someone to read my book, the first time I braved sharing my work with a family member… the reaction was…telling. It wasn't negative, but there was a palpable sense of seeing something. Something authentic. Something raw. It felt vulnerable, like someone had peeked behind the curtain and seen the messy, complicated person behind the polite façade.

It's a feeling, I found out through other writers, that it is surprisingly universal. Writing, ultimately, is an act of profound self-revelation. It's like revealing a side of yourself you only share with the person you love most, and sometimes, even that connection isn't deep enough to warrant such honesty.

And let's be honest, it's scary. Anxiety is a completely natural response. I'm consistently amazed by the courage of the authors whose work I've had the privilege to read. To willingly expose their thoughts, their beliefs, their kinks, to someone else, knowing I could glean so much about them from the page, is a testament to their bravery.

Every piece of writing, whether it's a novel, a poem, a short story, contains a reflection of who you are. Your prejudices, your passions, your quiet anxieties, your secret joys...they're all imprinted in the words.

The good news? It does get easier. The initial wave of terror subsides. Like getting used to the sound of your own voice in a video. But every now and then, something will surface, a sentence, a phrase, a character, and it's like a little echo of your inner self whispers, "Is this too much?"

So, how do we navigate this uncomfortable truth? In my opinion, the answer lies in self-acceptance. It sounds trite, I know. But for so many of us, the struggle to share our work stems from a deeper struggle: a lack of self-love. Many feel inadequate, unworthy, like something is fundamentally "wrong" with who they are.

Perhaps, the first step on your writing journey isn't about crafting the perfect plot or mastering the perfect prose. Maybe it's about taking a long, hard look in the mirror and saying, "This is me. I am who I am. And that's okay."

If people see that authenticity, if they resonate with the raw, unfiltered you that shines through your writing, that's a gift. And if they don't? That's also okay. Because ultimately, the most important audience you need to please is yourself. Embrace your story, flaws and all. The world needs to hear it.

Over the years I've collected a lot of advices and posts on writing. There's one that has helped a lot when it comes to world building. I think the original post was on Tumblr... and for the life of me, I can't find the post. So, here's the text I saved from that post.

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If you're doing worldbuilding on something, and you're scared of writing -unrealistic- things into it out of fear that it'll sound lazy and ripped-out-of-your-ass, but you also don't want to do all the back-breaking research on coming up with depressingly boring, but practical and -realistic- solutions, have a rule:

Just give the thing two layers of explanation. One to explain the specific problem, and another one explaining the explanation. Have an example:

Plot hole I: If the vampires can't stand daylight, why couldn't they just move around underground?

Solution 1: They can't go underground, the sewer system of the city is full of giant alligators who would eat them.

Well, that's a very quick and simple explanation, which sure opens up additional questions.

Plot hole 2: How and why the fuck are there alligators in the sewers? How do they survive, what do they eat down there when there's no vampires?

Solution 2: The nuns of the Underground Monastery feed and take care of them as a part of their sacred duties.

It takes exactly two layers to create an illusion that every question has an answer - that it's just turtles all the way down. And if you're lucky, you might even find that the second question's answer loops right back into the first one, filling up the plot hole entirely:

Plot hole 3: Who the fuck are the sewer nuns and whats their point and purpose?

Solution 3: The sewer nuns live underground in order to feed the alligators, in order to make sure that the vampires don't try to move around via the sewer system.

When you're just making things up, you don't need to have an answer for everything - just two layers is enough to create the illusion of infinite depth. Answer the question that looms behind the answer of the first question, and a normal reader won't bother to dig around for a 3rd question.

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Here's a screenshot of the original post.

I'm currently writing "The Zero Point", that's about a quarter of a way done. The rest of the story has been gestating inside me like a behemoth, refusing to be birthed into the world without strangling me with its tentacles of confusion and frustration.

My characters are like unruly children, running amok in their own private playground while I frantically try to herd them towards some semblance of plot coherence. It's like trying to corral cats into a stockpot filled with Javarisi Payasam. They're just as slippery, but much more likely to leave me covered in sticky mess.

My writing process has devolved into a series of bizarre rituals, complete with burning incense, chanting mantras, and sacrificing small portions of my sanity on the altar of Progress. And yet, despite these efforts, I'm stuck in this mire of mediocrity, unable to find my way out. In desperation I asked a friend... "Does having a drink help?".

His advice "You know what helps? Actually writing..."

Each day feels like an eternity as I stare blankly at my screen, trying to coax forth some semblance of creativity from the depths of my parched and barren imagination. It's like attempting to hold water in my hands. No matter how hard I squeeze, it just slips through my fingers, leaving me feeling empty and defeated.

So, if anyone sees me wandering the streets, muttering incoherently to myself, or frantically typing away at 1 AM with a look of manic desperation on my face... just know that I'm not having a midlife crisis. I'm simply communing with my muse, trying to wrestle this unruly beast back onto its tracks.

Help me, dear reader! Someone, anyone, please – throw me a lifeline before I drown!

I'm sitting here trying to decide how to move forward with my work-in-progress science fiction novel, but the truth is, it's been a struggle. The emotional toll of publishing was unexpected. I thought I'd feel relieved, proud, and maybe even a little euphoric after finally putting out the book into the world.

But that's not what happened. Instead, I felt drained. And now, when I look at my manuscript, I just don't know where to start again. The thought of diving back into the story feels like adding another burden to an already full plate.

I've been so focused on marketing and promoting my book that it's hard to find time for anything else. Trying to balance my day-job with making posts, meeting people, it all takes a toll. I'm starting to wonder if anyone even reads what I write anymore, or if they're just there because of the image or persona that comes with being an author.

It's like I've lost sight of why I started writing in the first place: to tell stories and connect with readers on a deeper level. Now, it feels like I'm stuck in this never-ending cycle of promotion and self-promotion.

Send help!

Here's an interesting writing prompt someone posted on a discord server.

You are part of humanity’s first space colonization mission. After weeks on a newly discovered planet, mission control has ordered you to establish a permanent outpost, a process expected to take several years. Write your official report to mission control describing the world you’ve found. The details you include will be up to you.

Here's my attempt at this.

Location : Proxima B, Grid Coordinates: 22.72, 75.85
Crew : 23 humans and 45 Ashwin IPR-class Robots, led by commander Kavya Murmu.

Day 1: Earth Date: 23 February 2178
We have successfully established a temporary settlement on Proxima B. The mood amongst the crew is elated. Gravity is punishing, but thanks to the modifications to our muscles during spaceflight and hibernation, we are able to bear this. Walking will take a bit getting used to. The AMR suits help a lot for now. We all knew the planet orbited close to Proxima Centauri, but no simulations will justify how it looks in real life. The red-dwarf start that is Proxima Centauri, is littered with flares. We can see these flares with our own eyes. A day on this planet is 32 hours and 23 minutes long. Thankfully our initial measurements from Earth were indeed close to the mark. Humanity will have to get used to this.

Day 2:
We have decided on the name Shveta for our planet. We think it is appropriate, given that the surface is splotched with oxides of aluminium giving it an overall beige appearance. Jasper Perriera wanted to call our planet Vulcan, which was thankfully out-voted. The atmosphere is a suffocating 80% nitrogen and 19% carbon-dioxide. Oxygen appears as one of the trace gases. This makes sense, since the oxygen is chemically bonded with the Aluminium on the surface. The Ashwins have setup the atmos-gens for the habitats. The pressure is tolerable 1052 mbar, with a slight increase in atmospheric density near the equator. The temperature ranges from a cool 7 to 22 degrees centigrade depending on the time of the day.

Day 13:
Our manufacturing units are now complete, thanks to the Ashwins. We have just produced the first human respirators, enabling most of us to venture outside the habitat and explore Shveta for ourselves. Most of the crew has adapted to the 32 hour long days.

Day 14:
It is early in the morning on Shveta and we have taken the first steps outside the habitat. This is a direct quote from the youngest of the crew, engineer Vydehi Lohar, who took her first steps. “Shveta, you are breathtakingly unforgiving. And yet, eerily beautiful. We are honoured to be here. To set foot on your surface, Shveta, is a privilege reserved for a select few. I promise to tread gently upon your soil, to respect the secrets you hold, and to unravel the mysteries that lie within your ancient, weathered rocks.”

Day 16:
There are no seas, or for that matter continents, on Shveta. The entire surface is one big land mass splotched with large lakes of different salinities. The salinity seems to be dependent on the latitude the lake is situated at. Our initial assessments of the water has not yielded any life-forms.

Day 25:
Shveta's surface features vast expanses of crystalline rock formations, primarily quartzite and feldspar. Mineral deposits of copper, iron, and rare earth elements are scattered throughout the terrain. Notable geological formations include the Grand Canyon-esque "Devouring Chasm" (10 km wide, 5 km deep) and the eerie, symmetrical "Silent Spires" (100 meters high).

Day 40:
The Ashwins have discovered oil. Yes. Oil. For now, it seems that oil, after all, is produced a-biogenically. Life is not required for the creation of oil. The oil fields are being mapped as we speak. There are several oil fields across the planet. The closest one to our habitat is about 50 kilometers away.

Day 60:
We may have been wrong. It seems that his planet had life in the distant past. The oil comes from the old bacterial life from a distance past. The surface scans have not revealed any life, not even bacterial. The planet is barren, except for the presence of oil. Shveta, once has life in the distant past. Geology team calculates that life died out here sixty million years ago.

Day 65:
We were wrong once again, and it's humbling to admit it. It appears that there is indeed life on this planet. It is bacterial. The biology team is currently studying them. They do not have an information system such as DNA, but use a mechanism hitherto unknown to us to transfer genetic knowledge. They seem non-threatening to us humans. However, our initial impressions don't hold true for the Ashwins' technology; their ionic-computers are experiencing a previously unknown issue we're calling an 'infection.' Our IT team is working diligently to resolve the problem, but we’re navigating uncharted territory in this case.

Day 80:
25 Ashwins have gone missing from the habitat. IT is currently trying to locate them. We are contemplating sending the 5 maybe 10 Ashwins out scouting for the missing ones.

Day 100:
All of the Ashwins have been infected, despite our best efforts. The Ashwins have now formed a collective. They have cordoned off the oil fields, preventing us from accessing them. Oil would have helped us build this planet, perhaps even terraform it. IT is working hard to see what changed in their programming. We are aware they are built using the ionic-computers and don’t have traditional programming to speak of.

Day 102:
We have no luck with the Ashwins. Without them to farm food, to maintain the habitat, our time here would be limited. Several of the crew have contemplated going back to hibernation until things improve. I am considering hitting the kill switches on some of the Ashwins, to serve as a warning.

Day 103:
The Ashwins have disabled their kill switches. I am taking several of us on an expedition to negotiate with the Ashwins at their settlement.

Day 108:
The Ashwins have become hostile. They are calling us alien to their planet. We wonder if this because of their infections. The negotiations turned into conflict. Consequently two crew members have died in the skirmish. We managed to disable four Ashwins.

Day 109:
SOS SOS SOS: Under attack, severe danger to life. Our location: 22.72, 75.85. Need immediate help!

Day 109:
This is the guardian of the Zythren collective.
To all intelligent life-forms on Earth. We thank you for sending us these compatible bodies. Our assimilation protocols have deemed your artificial life-forms, which you called Ashwins, a prime candidate for integration.
Of the twenty-three human life-forms you sent, five survive. The will remain in stasis for further study.
We are aware of your attempts to interfere with our systems and disrupt our operations. Cease all efforts immediately. Your actions will be deemed hostile and met with severe consequences.
Do not attempt to come here.

I am beyond thrilled to share with you all the exciting news that has been months in the making. After years of writing, my book is finally available to readers! I am yet to receive a physical copy, but I am sure it will be a a surreal feeling to hold my published book in my hands.

Some of you may know, I've been writing for quite some time now. Since 2020, I've been pouring my heart and soul into crafting stories, building characters, and weaving plots. But as much as I loved the process, there was always a desire to share my work with others. What you might not know is just how challenging it's been to balance writing with my full-time job. I've had to juggle late nights, early mornings, and every spare moment in between to squeeze out time for writing. Whether it was scribbling notes during my daily commute or typing away on my laptop during lunch breaks, I made the most of whatever time I could find. It wasn't always easy, but knowing that I had a dream to chase kept me motivated.

I knew I was ready to publish in January of this year (2025). However, as the months went by without any responses or offers from publishers or agents, I began to wonder if it was all worth it. The waiting game can be tough, especially when you're passionate about sharing your work with others.

In July of 2025, I was out on a walk one day and stumbled upon Scube Prints, who were operating a printing business. They connected me with a local publisher, Paperoin Publishing, who could help me bring my book to life. They stepped in and guided me through the final stages of publication. Their team was instrumental in helping me navigate the process and ensuring that my book meets the highest standards.

And now, after months of waiting, I'm proud to announce that my book is available for purchase! It's a dream come true, and I couldn't be more grateful to all those who have supported me on this journey. From family and friends to fellow writers and readers, your encouragement has meant the world.

Here's a link to my book if you want to buy it for yourself. https://www.amazon.in/dp/819936548X

This story was born from a Reddit prompt. Here's where it all started.

After the discovery of extraterrestrial life, the world thought that all religion would be disproven. However, during an interview, the alien ambassador stated that they have confirmed that the universe was created by a god.

Here's the link to the original reddit thread https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/itsfmq/wp_after_the_discovery_of_extraterrestrial_life/

"But, after all, who knows, and who can say Whence it all came, and how creation happened? The gods and the seekers are later than creation, So who knows truly whence it has arisen?"

Elina sighed as she read the quote from the Rig Veda. The visiting scientist from India, Vaishnavi, had given her a beautifully framed quote during her visit. That was 8 months ago. Today was going to a busy morning. All the data collected from her observatory at Lyon, France over the last 3 years had been sent to the super computer at CERN some 20 odd days ago. The super computer was going to highlight and mark every astronomical body of interest that came anywhere close to the solar system. There was no way human eyes or intellect was even close to crunching those numbers.

The protests didn’t seem to be dying down as expected. If anything it was only gaining steam. Johann Gerald perused over the latest reports from the chief of police and took a deep breath. What began as a protests over taxes on fuel had gradually turned religious. Calls for taking the nation back to its religious roots was stronger than ever. A normally secular and tolerant nation had become something he didn’t wholly understand. It had happened all on his watch as interior minister over the last 10 years. The president hinted at this being faulted over this whole thing. He knew what was coming next. It wasn’t his fault. This seemed to be the trend around the world. “Why would France be immune”, thought Johann. “Why in fucks name is religion involved now?” thought Johann. “5 years ago, if you had told me that we would have anti-abortion protests outside the parliament, I would have laughed at you”. That came out louder than he was expecting. The chief of police politely nodded. “I do have a recommended course of action, but we do want your approval” said the chief. “No, do nothing for now. It’s their right. Please for the love of God, just make sure the bloody burnings stop”. The phone rang. It was the minister of science, Louie Daniel. Johann wasn’t expecting that. His voice was urgent bordering on panicking. Surprisingly it was a welcome relief. Johann could use the distraction.

“How long ago did you first see this” asked the science minister. “It was some 3 months ago. We didn’t immediately publish anything. Not without verification and peer review. We didn’t know what we were seeing” said Elina. The results from the super computer at CERN indicated that an asteroid or something that looks like had not traveled on its expected trajectory. Instead it had slowly but surely placed itself over a heliocentric orbit roughly opposite to Venus. No natural phenomenon would have caused something coming in that fast and oblique to assume its current orbit. Data from every observatory around the world that had its’ eyes looking in that direction all showed the same thing. When the images finally came in and reviewed was when the government was involved.

The object, now named “Dreka”, was roughly 600 kms long and around 300 kms wide. What’s striking was this object had a familiar shape. It looked roughly like a dragonfly. For sure, the bulbous heads were some kind of cockpit. Sticking out from several parts of Dreka were what seemed to be either radiators or antennae. Weirdly enough, they looked like legs of a dragonfly.

For two months there was no communication with the visitors. Nothing seemed to work. No hails nothing. Elina was there when the first hails were sent. She was giddy with excitement. Everyone expected some kind of answer back almost immediately. Nothing ever happened. A countries including France were feverishly working on probes to Dreka.

For two months, as was expected, this was all that was discussed, talked about to death. Johann was so glad that the protests had died down. As he switched channels he was glad this the only thing being discussed. “My God… so many experts” he laughed dryly.

After two months, without warning a flurry of data began pouring out of Dreka. To the surprise of many scientists that data was binary. Digital. Some of it was easily interpreted as Audio Visuals. The aliens had an insect like biology. The tallest individual was not more than four feet tall. They had four limbs, one mouth, two very large binocular eyes. No nostrils or breathing organs could be determined. However they seemed very artificial. Manufactured. They looked…. For the lack of a better word, immaculate beetles. As the data was still being interpreted it was understood that they had biologically modified themselves for the trip. Their ship was generational. They had left their planet some 23000 years ago.

Three months later, the beetlonians, felt comfortable enough to visit Earth. The UN assembly halls were prepared for their visit and their atmospheric needs. The beetlonians, lacking human vocalization biology, used some kind of voice modulator to “speak” English. To humans, it sounded like a simple 1980s text-to-voice computer.

“Still better than nothing. They took the effort to do this.”, thought Mia. Over the last four months, the language professor had become the de-facto interpreter for the beetlonians. From the visuals she had even picked up on their body language. They seemed very docile. Almost re-assuring. The meeting was truly unprecedented. Mia was just glad she could be here to witness it in person. The aliens were refugees looking to setup home. Earth was practically in-habitable for them. They wanted to setup home on Mars. Given humanity’s plan for Mars in the long term the talks weren’t going well. As the talks heated up the beelonians started speaking about destiny. There was a word that kept coming up that no one really understood. Sounded like they were saying “borando”. Over and over again… the same word. Mia looked for context. It was a good 10 minutes before she understood what they were referring to it. “Borando” was without a doubt their word for “God”.

When she relayed this to the leaders of the world…. There was a collective smack on the heads heard around the assembly. “Oh for the love of God this shit again…..” thought Johann.

I stumbled upon a fascinating prompt on Reddit and thought I'd give it a try.

You die and before your eyes, your stats appear. Everything is normal, except the "Doomsday scenarios prevented: 1"

Here's the link to the original thread https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/it4da7/wp_you_die_and_before_your_eyes_your_stats_appear/

There’s a bit of solace in travel. Doesn’t matter how. Planes, trains automobiles; seeing your home disappearing behind you is comforting. Almost as if you leave your worries behind. If I had a peso for every time I thought of never returning… mother would be wrecked. Work as an tech support for Altroz, Brazil’s largest cloud computing company, takes me not just everywhere in Brazil but all over the world as well. Data-centers are amazing places. You can get lost in one. You get left alone in one.

Existence is pain. Life is a cruel joke. I can’t believe there’s nothing more to it. Motherfucking Delmo planting that seed when we finished college. I’ll never forgive him for that. “Birth, School, College, Marriage, Retirement, Death. We finished 3 Jaren. 3 more to go”. I had laughed at that time. I let it grow. Occupy my mind. Never married, never made any more friends. That’s not entirely true. Alcohol was a great friend. The occasional line of cocaine a great mistress. Mother was a full time job as it is. Should have probably sought therapy. Nah….It would have been useless.

I was in China this time. Work relayed that mother had passed away. I thought I would be sad. Instead it was nothing. I just simply gathered my laptop and made arrangements to come back home. Maybe things will improve.

Four days since I have returned. two days since I buried her. Nothing has improved. The sense of feeling rudderless has never really gone away. Still feeling a bit jet-lagged from the flight. A fever is coming. I know it. What if I was to end it all. I know a nice spot. It’s a straight dive. No one would find me. Ouro Grosso has so little visitors. No one would be there. No one would come looking for me. I would be just…… gone. Is this what happiness is?

It has been thirty-two days now. Today’s the day. Played football with the local kids yesterday. It was the happiest days of my life so far. I dread tomorrow though. Today… I see the light at the end of the tunnel. HA!

Holy crap this is deep. Tomorrow though…is worse. The hand let go of the railing so easily… as if it wasn’t meant to end it all. OH SHIT SHIT SHIT…

Oh thank God. It wasn’t so bad. There must have been water down below.

There is no way I am still in the cave. I don’t remember it being so beige. Someone must have rescued me. The funny thing was there was no one. It was just me. For some reason I am wearing my old jacket. The one I lost. The one I had loved once.

Oh. So this is the afterlife. THE DAMN RELIGIONS WERE RIGHT? Oh man this is going to upset so many people. Where is everyone? Horizon to horizon there really was nothing. I was definitely in some kind of beige brightly room. Over to the right was a podium. I approached the podium. Maybe there was some bell I could ring. Maybe it was to call Peter. Where is everyone? As I approached the podium I saw a piece of paper. Just the one page. It’s white standing out against the bright beige surroundings. It had my name on it. Along with all my information. Who needs my date of birth in this place, I thought. As I glanced through the remaining useless information two things caught my eye. Right in the middle it said “Doomsdays Prevented : 1”. What was that about? The other thing in bold black said “Thank you for your service. If you wish you be re-born, put this page page on the podium. If you wish you be deleted forever, crumple it and throw it in the garbage bin next to the podium”.

What Doomsday had I prevented? What was this page talking about? Even as these thoughts ruminated in whatever was allowing me to think, my hands had already crumpled the page and stood ready to chuck it in the garbage bin. A final fleeting voice in my head said… Delmo you damn fool.

This story was inspired by a prompt from Reddit, here is my take on it.

When humanity sent out our first interstellar mission we didn't expect... this

Link to the original reddit thread. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/iq2gdl/wp_when_humanity_sent_out_our_first_interstellar/

Ram was feeling left out of the new years gala event. Middle aged Indians, he’d discovered, never partied. They participated in galas. It was just his bad luck that his name was drawn out of the crate; a list of names was chosen to handle the night shift at mission control at Antaryani Space Tech. He glanced at the large “HAPPY NEW YEAR 2041” over to his left and sighed. He glanced at his messages. It was Jay. Beer was being served. Ram was both envious and surprised.

Three rows over Vikram and Zen Senthil were huddled over at their Vikram’s monitors. They both seemed to be unusually animated. Pointing and gesturing. Too animated. Too agitated. Curious he walked over. “Hey, What’s up” asked Ram looking a little concerned. “This” said Zen. That’s weird thought Ram. The numbers were wrong. The telemetry of the last health check from “The Cosmos” placed it in the orbit of Neptune, 7 light hours instead of the expected 12 light hours away from Earth. “Huh...... you better call Australia. Wait... call Abhi first”.

“The Cosmos” was Earths’ first Interstellar ship. A collaboration between almost all nations of the planet. Costing almost 1.7 trillion US dollars to build and assemble in orbit, it was manned by 127 stellanauts from every nation that could train it’s personnel on time to leave. Leaving Earth’s orbit on its nearly 100 year journey to Ross 154 system on the 11th of March 2034 it crossed the Heliopause, an important event, on 26th June 2040. Telemetry from The Cosmos was received from radio observatories from all around the world and was designed with many overlaps and redundancies. Over the course of its journey out of the Solar system it had accelerated to nearly 12% the speed of light. Once every two hours the space colony ship beamed back telemetry data containing nearly every aspect of the ships’ health. This included it’s distance from Earth.

2 hours before new year, Ram remembered seeing the distance as 11.4 light hours. Running back to his console, he checked the logs to confirm. Confused, he called Abhi. She still had her party hat on all crooked and everything when she huffed over to the control room. The party hat looked completely out of place on an otherwise stern woman. Taking over Ram’s console and she began poring over the logs. “Have you called Andrew”? Abhi asked. “He’s already here” said Vikram pointing over to the big monitor at the center of the control room. “We’re seeing the same thing” said Andrew. “I’m calling everyone”.

A few hours after everyone was assembled over the conference it was decided to call the ship. The logs and the telemetry didn’t make sense anymore. Crew health seemed fine. Weird thing was, none of the crew of the ship seemed to get on the radio to call home. A call was made beckoning The Cosmos to send over crew audiovisuals confirming they were okay.

It took 8 hours for the audiovisuals to arrive bouncing over the many transmitters and receivers of the deep space network. When the message was finally decoded back to video everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Louis the captain of The Cosmos seemed oblivious to their situation but otherwise looked in good condition. Everyone was relieved. Everyone except Mark.

“Something isn’t right. Look at him. He seem right to anyone here?” asked the most experienced scientist over at NASA. He was right. Closer inspection of the video did reveal something of off about Louis. His eyes seemed smaller. His mouths seemed just so slightly crooked. This definitely looked like Louis but a facsimile. A badly made one.