In Control

The Setting

“So you’re going to kill me?” Jake spoke, putting iron in his voice and not showing a hint of fear. He was barely past his twenties, the last few weeks would make any person loose to the fear of death. 

“I’m afraid I have to”, the elderly man spoke with a clipped voice. 

Anyone could make out the anger burning in Jake’s face. He was strapped to the chair. His t-shirt was bloody and torn and his face was battered and bruised.

On the opposite side, sat a thin gentleman attired in an overcoat and a hat over his head. They were in a small empty room. Except for a single bulb that hung in the middle, it was in darkness. 

“You don’t have to kill me. I didn’t do anything wrong”, there was a cold calmness in the boy’s voice. 

“No, I don’t have to kill you and no, it’s not your fault, but you still have to die.” 

“So why don’t you do it? Why don’t you kill me. Put a bullet in my head!”, he screamed with his voice gritted.  

The 9mm pistol with a silencer waved in the wrinkled hand, “I’d like to explain something before I do that. You see, people believe in order, that someone is in control. Whether it be me or the President of the world. You understand that more than I do.” 

“You’re the most powerful person in the city, you can do anything you want. You can let me go”, Jake pointed out. 

“You see that’s what I mean. I just run the most powerful organisation in the city, but control... that’s beyond even me”, his shoulder shrugged as he continued, “I can control people no more than you can. You understand that better than me. That’ how we got here... Check the conspiracy theories of the world. They come up from the Illuminati to the Mason, all with the belief that these people all have control, that they swit-”

“Michelle and that god-damn Roderick!” Jake cut in. 

“Aye”, the elderly gentleman agreed , “I didn't control Roderick when he raped Michelle, just like I couldn't control you when took matters into your own hands.” 

“Your god-damn code is for you”, Jake countered, his brows furrowing, his anger multiplying as his mind recalled the horrors of the past few days. 

“Ah! You may say that. But, the city is on the verge of tearing itself apart. Killing you would be one way to put things in order.”  

Suddenly, the pistol appeared up like a snake that rears its head up. “So now you know, now you go”. 

Jake suddenly jumped up and charged forward with the chair strapped on his back. Two steps that’s all it took for him to reach the elderly man. 

A pull of the trigger was all it took for the most powerful man to end it.  

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Life of a Bus

Wheels on the bus go round and round

Once everyone sang my song, now, few do. Or maybe I just don't hear it. Well, it does not matter. My wheels still go round and round. The roads have become bumpier and my joints groan, but still I run true as time goes by. 

Once I was painted yellow. Children jumped up my frame and ran through my corridor with crying plenty of sounds like bird calls to monkey hoots. Restless hands rattled my window planes. Heads constantly creped out of my windows, only to jerk back in when a man called Chacha shouted at them. My thoughts went gaily to my years as a young bus. Those were good years.

Then, the accident happened. I cried, I roared, my exhausted wildly spurted out smoke and my engine clattered .... it was all in vain. When there's a driver at the seat, controlling you, What can you do?

She died, that little child. Her head was first knocked by my bumper, throwing her on the ground and then... then... round, rotating wheels crushed over her. I don't know if any one heard it, I don't know if anyone felt it, but I did. My tires crunched her bone and the sound rang out.

The bus driver ran out, he escaped somewhere far. Another man drove me to a relatively quiet junkyard. True, for the most part it was quiet, but occasionally I heard something. Cutting and crushing of metal. Even in the corner of the junkyard I heard them crying out. They cried to be saved, but what could I do? Buses, vans, cars, all of them cried out. With no driver how could I do anything?

One day they came to get me after gathering dust and rust. It was not the first time I've seen them. When I was new born, they were the first one to board me. 'Inspection' they called it.

In their shirts, pants and their writing pad, all of them nodded their head and then, once again I was driven.

What joy I felt. Breeze brushed against my windscreen, skidded by my sides, my old tired rumbled on the ground.

I was built brand new again! A new paint coat, new set of tires and a fresh layer of grease.

From rusty yellow, I took on bright red. Oh boy, I can tell you I was beaming.

People started using me. It was no more just children, they were adults, students and kidoos - a wide variety of people. The conductor was called Master. He squeezed through the crowd, always clattering away with his ticket puncher and haggling for change.

People charged to get inside and around the city I travelled. It was good, I was supposed to live forever helping people get from one point to another.

I died in a burning blaze. It was some political protest. Metal, plastic, paint, cushion, everything burned, everything part of me. I died.

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Exploding Rockets II

Tipu Sultan's Rocket Demolish the British Army

(This is Part II of last week Blog Post Exploding Rockets I, so if you haven't read it, do go ahead and read that one first.)


His hands worked swiftly grabbing the powder and musket ball from his ammunition bag. David Baird crouched as he reloaded his weapon, pouring gunpowder into the barrel, shoving the musket ball inside and finally lining up the flintlock with a little gun powder. Then his rifle rose in the air and with a bit of aiming, he pulled up his iron sights just above the target’s head, he squeezed the trigger. A puff of smoke blew out, a Mysorean soldier fell of the fort’s parapets and Baird repeated the process of reloading his weapon. A quick glance behind revealed Colonel William Baillie holding the rear and firing off commands. Scuttling forward, moving closer to the fort with his fellow comrades, Baird took aim once again.

He was about to pull the trigger when a light streaking across the dark orange sky distracting him. At first it was only one, but then several more appeared and then even more. The sky was suddenly lit up with lights. “Rockets”, cried out one of the soldier’s on the battlefield.

What were so many rockets streaking across for? Baird asked himself. Usually, Indian rockets made of bamboo were harmless and just used for signalling. From streaking up in the sky, the rockets changed direction and plummeted to the ground. As gravity pulled them down, the rockets spun out of control. Their guidance stick whipped through the air. Guidance sticks were mainly made of wood. Those guidance stick aren’t wooden, he realised, watching a sword attached to the rocket cut through soldiers before exploding.

An explosion rang out, enough to create a crater on the ground. Baird watched in horror as over fifty rockets crashed on to their ranks, sending out fireballs. His body froze. The sky looked empty for a second before more lights filled it and rockets once again, plummeted down.

Fear gripped him and Baird wanted to run, to escape, to flee, to find cover, to hide under shelter, but in an open battlefield, there was none. The smell of burning gunpowder never smelled stronger and came along with the smell of with burning flesh. It sickened Baird to the pit of his stomach.

An explosion rang out louder than the rest of the rockets and Baird glanced behind. The army’s whole rear was gone in a blaze of burning fire. The Colonel was nowhere to be seen. The ammunition cart was blown to smithereens. The soldiers stopped advancing, threw their guns and began to flee. Baird wanted to join them, to escape, to live; but he saw no escape. Rockets slashed soldier and blew them to bit. Arrows and musket ball rained down. The fort’s door creaked open and a cavalry force charged out. The Battle of Pollilur was over and the use of rockets as military force was introduced. 

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