Eyeballs by Pritesh Patil

Aindrila was an aspiring author, a talented one even, but after her first taste of success, she yearned for even more. But in those days success was hard to come by, and the ones who spent the most money got the most eyeballs. Her writing was pure, her muse was happy, but Aindrila wasn’t content with the slow, steady nature of her success.

“Eyeballs, I want more eyeballs. No, I need more of them!” She screamed in a fit of rage and agony.

And so she made a deal with a demon. No, not any demon, but with the King of Hell himself, Crowley. She was willing to sell her soul, but that wasn’t enough for Crowley.

‘The market is saturated with souls. People are willing to sell souls for a slice of pizza and good fries. Nay, I want something more, something I can use,’ he said in his slick, oily voice.

‘Whatever you want, take it, take it, but give me what I deserve’, said Aindrila, in desperation.

‘Your muse’.

‘Take it!’ Screamed Aindrila, ‘But help me…help me,’ she said softly.

‘Done,’ Crowley smiled. ‘Go home and sleep, you will have what you want when you wake up’.

Aindrila smiled her deranged smile, and ran home gleefully. After all, what was the trading of a mere muse when she was getting so much more in return.

She went home and fell asleep, thoughts and dreams of fame, renown, book signings and movie deals filling her head.

When she woke up the next day, she felt a heavy weight on her. She tried to get up, but the weight only increased, and she felt trapped under some squishy, fleshy substance.

She opened her eyes and she saw that her room was filled to the brim with eyeballs. Squishy, squashy, glassy, eyeballs, whirling here and there, some with blood still on them, staring at her in horror, holding the torment they’d suffered before being pulled from their bodies.

As she suffocated and drowned in those vicious eyeballs staring at her, wishing their anguish upon her, she began laughing. A hopeless sound, full of despair and excruciating terror.

Oh how she laughed…even as she drowned, as she realized that she would become famous after all, but only as a victim when the reporters and cops found her, much like the victims in her stories.

Finally, her laughter turned into a gagging sound as one after another, the eyeballs entered her mouth and choked her to death.


P.S. – I See You’ by Aindrila Roy is available on Amazon.

Wanderer of the Scorching Sands

Wanderer of the Scorching Sands by Pritesh Patil
A Story written by me long ago, in a time much different from this one, in what could have been a different age, though it’s been but 5 years to that pleasantly cool morning. Earlier called ‘The Silent Wanderer’, it’s now been rechristened to ‘Wanderer of the Scorching Sands’.


The Wanderer

The hot sun blazed overhead, searing the skin, and the hot sand burned Rickard’s bare feet. Wrapped in black samurai clothing, he cut a lone figure in the flaming land. On closer look, one would have noticed that his clothing was ripped and blood stained. Feet red with blood, he walked on. Deeming his cloak to be useless – it was torn and provided no protection in the wild wind, flailing away – he threw it off, exposing a muscled and agile torso beneath.

Eyes burning with hate, he walked on, carving a new path along the shifting dunes. Moving towards his destination, he prodded forward on sheer force of will. No end in sight yet with an end in mind, he walked on. After a lengthy march, having walked a hundred leagues, he reached his destination. The cursed village of Dominica was in sight. Cursed because he was born there. Cursed because he had come back alive, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He had tried to help them once, and he had been rejected. His helping hands had been taken for those of a demon and rejected by the council head of the village.

A hooded figure stood at the gates, approaching him, he whispered, “Good day, Maticus.”

Shocked out of his reverie, he looked at the newcomer and whispered, “Rickard! You return!” slurring his words in his drunken state.

“Yes my friend, I come back to take what is mine. I come to take my due.”

Leaving the gatekeeper behind in shock, he passed within the gates. “Time to rise sleepy heads”, he smiled.
He went straight to the council heads house, passing beneath the light of flickering lamps. Stealthily passing beneath the vision of his guards, Rickard entered the head’s bedroom.

There, the council head was sleeping with two of his concubines unbeknownst to his wife, lying still as a child with face between her breasts. She couldn’t have been more than 15 years of age, while the other one was closer to eighteen. Both were near his daughter’s ages, and his shamelessness enraged Rickard. This was the man who ruled the village, who had made all the villagers go against him, and had rejected his offer of help against the demons who ravaged the region ten years back. Calming himself, he tapped on the wall and said,

“Enjoying yourself Sire?”

Equal parts fear, anger and bewilderment filled the Council-Head’s face, as he searched for the source of the disturbance.

“No, you!” he shouted. “You were supposed to be dead. I sent my best men to do it!”

“Then it is my ghost come to haunt you, your greatness,” mocked Rickard. Then, with one swift strike of his sword, he cut off the lord’s head .

The girls lay paralyzed with shock, at this act. “I do not have the time to castigate you, for you were here not by choice but by this wicked man’s use of force. Leave now, and I will spare you. However, if I see you again tonight, then may God help you.”

Hearing his words, the girls fled and Rickard walked through the house, carving a path of blood, killing all in his path. A blood bath. A blood dance. The red samurai was back to his home town.
The following day, the sun dawned on the village of Dominica in silence. Or rather on what remained of the village. The samurai had done his job, and he went towards the gate.

Exiting the village, he roused Maticus from sleep, “Goodbye my friend, my work here is done.”
“Come back soon, Rickard, you’ll be missed.”
“The dead do not feel, Maticus,” he whispered, too low for his friend to hear, however his expression must have been awry as Maticus looked a bit alarmed. Perhaps he felt that Rickard had too much of drink the last night.
“Goodbye then…” said Maticus, and left to go into the village for his usual round of drinks at the local inn.

As Rickard walked on, he began his incantation, and slowly the village began to glow blue in the distance. A light hue of blue, and suddenly a sharp sound pierced the desert quite.

“No!” wailed the sound, perhaps someone had seen the carnage he had left behind. Perhaps he had missed killing one of the girls later in the night.

“No-” came the wail again, much different from before, wretched, filled with despair, before it was cut short abruptly.

And as many similar cries filled the once silent air, before slowly being consumed in their own horrific fear, Rickard walked on, away from what was once his home. His work was done. The dead do not speak, as out of the remains of all the dead villagers a new creature was born. A terrible Daemon, one which would haunt the world for a long time to come.

“Goodbye Maticus,” the Wanderer whispered to the winds, as a final dying scream rent the world apart.

Of Love & Other Demons


I think I have been in love but once,

And since then though I liked a few folk well,
It’s never been quite the same.

But the word today is so oft overused,
It’s worth grind to dust and bone
Love must be greater than mere touch of lust,

Greater than gifts and mere needs of flesh
For wars were waged and world’s rose and fell for love

For men battled death, and women crossed the realms of unforgiving Hell for love
In books and plays and poems and words can one feel the call of love, through time, beyond death

In tattered letters of loved ones surviving years and years can be felt the smooth caress of love
It’s what makes us more than flesh, blood, bone and ghost

It’s the eternal story that keeps us alive across dead civilizations and dying centuries
Mountains have crumbled and seas have stormed,

Lightning has fallen and long fires have burnt, leaving bodies wrecked and souls shattered,
For love.

I have but felt its soft touch once,
And perhaps I yet do not know what I love you means,

Maybe all it means is do not leave me here, all alone, shivering under freezing winds,
Do not leave me without the warmth of your presence, comforting like crackling hearthfire,

Stay by my side.
I beseech you, stay.

– Pritesh Patil ©

(Inspired by Neil Gaiman’s Dark Sonnet)

Fernweh: A Song of Adventure & Wanderlust

Gift yourself,
A lifetime full of adventures
Of mystery, of discovery.
Of moments spent by shimmering seas,
Under the darkling carpet of starlit night
Ride over clouds,
And climb misty mountains
Under the amber sky.

Live a little,
Then live some more.
Leave home behind,
And go on an adventure.

Let the forests sing to you,
And as the night grows cold,
Let the crackling firelight hug you
As you dance to the music of life.

Follow roads unknown,
To lands unseen
Towards experiences new

Let songs unknown
Guide you to home & hearth.

Gift yourself
Some magic, some adventure.

Pritesh Patil.

Knight of Time: Sneak Peek

Knight of Time by Pritesh Patil

Knight of Time:

Gandhi and his followers massacred all who dared stand against them. He drove the colonists out with fire and blood. Hitler was a firm proponent of non-violence and won the Nobel Peace Prize. His work enriched the lives of millions, bringing Europe under a single banner.

Julius Caesar ascended to God-King, as he mutilated Brutus, Cassius and three score people by the Senate. Rome was his to rule for eternity. He burned his descendant Nero in the forum for daring to go against him.

On Halloween, the Dark Lord killed the prophesied Hero, casting his dominion over all the lands, a shadowed pall spreading over land and under sea.

Xerxes and his Persians defeated the Grecians in a fell swoop, bringing peace to a land tormented by the Spartans, freeing the people chained with blood magic and cruel sorcery.

The Titans won the Blood War. Zeus was chained to a mountain. Cursed forever; a legion of vultures would feed on him, yet he would remain undying. Fresh meat for the carrion birds every day. Hera was cast down into the dank depths of Tartarus. Poseidon and Hades were thrown into the world of mortals, cursed with misfortune; their hopes to turn to ash. Kronos ruled supreme.

The Rakshas fled the old holy lands as the Gods of Asia rose to a frenzied madness, slaughtering all in their way. Rivers ran red with blood, foaming as they cascaded into the open seas, cursing the water with the blood of the fallen.

In a place where Space had no meaning, the aspect of Time, Chronos, was pulled from beyond the veil, and cast down on those jagged rocks overlooking a crimson sea, a sea stretching to the horizon and beyond. A land of madness, despair and death. A desecrated land, where even the Unending, Undying, Immortals could die.

And there the Old Ones descended upon Chronos in wild fury, that ancient enemy who had thwarted them at every turn, and they fed…Oh how they fed…

Thus, passed Chronos, Lord of Time, He-Who-Was-Infinite.


…And in a land faraway, where Time had stopped, the skies had opened, and the Old Ones returned, victorious, raining hellfire and black-death on the hapless denizens of Gaia.

There, by the shores of the burning sea, by the light of the slowly dying Sun, amidst the agonized screams of falling humanity, the Knight of Time turned back the Clock once again, and the world blinked out of existence, perhaps for the last time.


Image Source: http://fesbraa.deviantart.com/art/The…

(Fair Use)

A Dream Unfettered

A Dream unfettered

What happens to a dream unfettered?

Does it soar wild and free?

Like a Great Dragon from the myths?

Or burn hot like passion – And then bloom?

Does it fade like an old memory?

Or crystallize and harden – Like a twinkling diamond?

Maybe it just dies,

Like many a hope and wish.

Or does it rise unto freedom?