Short-story
The Court of the God

Ayush Bhagat
Grade: 8
Kothari International School,
Noida
Shadows snaked around the swaying willow, which danced as if a corpse hanging from a fraying noose rather than the majestic tree that towered high above. Around the ancient tree, many graves lay tucked deep into the veins of the dying earth, but only one was of relevance to the sorceress that skulked at the midnight hour. Ishtar tucked away from the strand of black hair that fell upon her ebony eyes, scanning the bewitching darkness.
Sprinting across the cold earth, she found the grave she desired. “Raven Moonshadow”, she read, her cheeks stained with a trail of clear, saline water. She shook her head, reminding herself what she had come for. Her gown, the hue of midnight, flew in the chilling wind, howling in terror. A circle of black candles lay surrounding the gravestone, anointed with blood. Ishtar gasped, staring at the iron knife as if to bore a hole into it. Was she doing this?
Yes. Yes, I am. It was too much.
Never would she hear his stifled laughter whenever he was failing to hide something from her or see his radiant smile that lit up every day. She put the knife to her palm, blood blurring her vision while she carved the symbol into her flesh. Crimson splattered all over the stone.
The wind howled, the willow, once serene, now thrashed about like a feral animal caught in a cage.
Eyes shut tight as if to expel the pain, she spoke, her voice deep.
“Hear me, god of the dead! I command thee!”
Rain pounded on her, and her bare feet ached against the now burning cold of the earth below. Grey, saddening clouds converged, and a metallic odour began to fill her nostrils. The stench of rot was sickeningly fragrant. The world twisted around her, warping into a barren landscape, where hellfire and darkness ruled.
“Return my beloved to the realm of the living!!”
“Bring back that I love, and I will pay as you wish!” She begged, continuing to hurl her power at the seams of the world. Silence. An imperial figure stood on the bridge. It was raised above the caverns, and Ishtar was confident that centuries would pass before she touched the end if she fell.
The figure was pale, its fingers skeletal, and wings bony-white.
“Who dares to summon me?”
“I do. I am Ishtar, and I wish to resurrect Raven Moonshadow,” she replied, examining the god. He had many names, some forgotten in the pages of time, others popularized by the modern world.
“A Moonshadow? Leave and never come back”, the god replied.
Ishtar sighed.
The Moonshadow bloodline had performed a powerful ritual to summon Death itself in the old days. They had attempted to place Death upon a neighbouring enemy, but the eldest had another idea. He offered him water. It reached out for it, but at the last moment, the boy sent it into the face of Death. It was saltwater, lethal to spirits.
All Death stood still for one moment.
He reached for Death’s shroud, and the god shrieked at him. A bone-shattering scream that shook the underworld but that did not deter him for long, as a vial of toxic liquid flew into his hand—the soul of his grandfather. Later on, he would resurrect his beloved grandfather at a high cost. A price he would pay long after he drew his last breath.
Death never recovered, and the chthonian god never forgave.
“That’s an age-old matter.” Ishtar pleaded.
“Mind your tongue, witch, lest I tear it from your mouth”, he roared.
Ishtar’s eyes widened; her hands flickered with darkness. Then, the floor began to quake, and she grasped the handrails. Another figure stood alongside the first. She had an ethereal blue glow, and her hair flowed across her shoulders. She stared at the girl before flying towards her. Her touch was like cold fire, and she struggled to avoid flinching.
“You come and dare to ask orders of my family? Make your case, witch,” She whispered, her voice accompanied by drums in Ishtar’s mind.
“Make your case…in the Court of the God.”
Short-story
The Abandoned Soul

Short Stories – Kumbh Series
Garvit Agarwal
Lucknow
Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers
The sun hung low over the Kumbh Mela, casting a warm golden hue across the throngs of devotees gathered along the banks of the sacred Ganges. The air buzzed with chants, laughter, and the rustling of colourful saris flapping in the wind. Pulkit and Ragini moved through the crowd, their hands intertwined but their expressions distant.
“Look at them, Ragini,” Pulkit said, forcing a smile as he gestured toward a group of children splashing in the water. “So carefree.”
“Carefree,” she echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Must be nice.” Her gaze drifted to their son, Akash, who stood a few paces behind them, his eyes wide as he took in the chaos around him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a habit that had grown more pronounced in recent months.
“Let’s just find a spot,” Pulkit replied, his tone clipped. “We can’t stay here all day.”
As they settled near the ghat, the chanting grew louder, drowning out the silence that had settled between them. They exchanged a glance, a shared understanding of the growing weight of their decision.
“Pulkit,” Ragini began, her voice shaking slightly. “Are we really—”
“We have to,” he interrupted, the determination in his eyes hardening. “It’s for the best.”
Hours passed, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows on the ground. Ragini watched as Pulkit knelt beside Akash, who was now fixated on a butterfly fluttering nearby. “Hey, buddy,” Pulkit said, his voice softer than before. “Want to chase that?”
Akash didn’t respond, lost in his world. Ragini felt a pang in her heart but quickly pushed it away. They were here for a reason, after all.
“We should go,” Pulkit said, rising to his feet. “It’s time.”
“Pulkit, I—”
“Ragini, we’ve talked about this.” He took a deep breath, his brow furrowed. “We can’t keep pretending everything is fine.”
With a heavy heart, they turned their backs on their son, leaving him by the ghat. “I’ll be right back, Akash,” Pulkit called over his shoulder, though he didn’t look back.
As they walked away, Ragini felt the weight of their decision settle in her chest like a stone. The laughter and chanting faded into a dull thrum, replaced by the sound of her heartbeat.
Later, as they listened to the preachings of a saint, a shift occurred. The saint’s voice boomed through the crowd, reverberating deep within Ragini. “Love is the greatest sacrifice,” he proclaimed. “To abandon those we love is to abandon our very souls.”
Pulkit stiffened beside her. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes!” she whispered, her heart racing. “We need to go back.”
They rushed back to the ghat, but the crowd had thickened, and panic set in as their eyes searched frantically. “Akash!” Ragini called, her voice rising above the chaos. “Where are you?”
“Stay calm,” Pulkit urged, though his voice trembled. “He can’t have gone far.”
Hours turned into days, and the relentless search for their son felt like a nightmare from which they could not wake. Each day, they returned to the ghat, calling his name until their voices were hoarse.
“Why did we leave him?” Ragini sobbed one evening, her tears mixing with the river’s water as she knelt by the bank. “What have we done?”
Pulkit sank to the ground beside her, his own eyes brimming with regret. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured, his voice breaking.
“Where is he?” She cried, her heart shattered. “What if—what if he’s alone and scared?”
They were lost in their remorse, the vibrant colours of the Mela fading into a blur of sorrow. The river flowed steadily beside them, indifferent to their pain, as they clung to the hope that somehow, some way, they would find their son again.
Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay
Short-story
Triumph of Connection

Short Stories – Kumbh Series
Rutbik Gupta
Bilaspur, Chattisgarh
Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers
The Kumbh Mela pulsed with life, colours swirling like a painter’s palette. Krish and Shreya squeezed through the throngs of pilgrims, their parents trailing behind, eyes wide with wonder. The air buzzed with chants, the scent of incense thick around them.
“Look at all those people!” Shreya shouted, her voice barely rising above the chaos. “I feel like we are in a river of heads!”
“Just stay close,” Krish replied, his grip tightening around her hand. “We can’t lose each other here.”
Suddenly, a small voice broke through the din. “Mama! Papa!” A boy, no older than six, stood alone, tears streaking his dusty cheeks. Krish’s heart sank.
“Shreya, we have to help him,” he said, kneeling to the boy’s level. “What’s your name?”
“Teerth,” he sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I can’t find my parents!”
“Don’t worry, Teerth. We’ll help you,” Shreya promised, her voice softening. “Where did you last see them?”
“By the river… I was looking at the fish,” Teerth whimpered, glancing around, panic rising. “They were right there!”
“Okay, follow us,” Krish said, standing tall, determination setting in. “We’ll find them.”
They moved through the crowd, the rhythm of drums and chants echoing around them. Krish scanned each face, searching for a hint of recognition. Shreya whispered encouragement to Teerth, who clung to her hand.
“Look!” Shreya pointed, spotting a frantic couple searching through the crowd. “Teerth, is that them?”
Teerth’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Mama! Papa!” He bolted towards them, the sound of his small feet hitting against the ground.
Krish and Shreya exchanged relieved glances, hearts racing. The couple raised Teerth into their arms, tears streaming down their faces.
“Thank you! Thank you!” the mother cried, her voice breaking.
“Thank you so much, children. You’ve been our saviour”, said the father, with teary-eyed.
“No problem,” Krish said, a smile breaking through the tension. “Just doing what’s right.”
As the family embraced, Krish and Shreya shared a knowing glance. The chaos of Kumbh Mela swirled around them, but at that moment, they felt the triumph of connection.
Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay
Short-story
Fury of Tomato

Advika Bhatnagar
Shikshantar School, Gurugram
Grade 3
Alice, a nine-year-old boy, lived in the countryside of Tinseltown with his Granny. He was a stubborn and edgy child. He liked to eat whatever he wanted and didn’t care much about Granny’s words. This made the old lady very sad.
“Granny, Granny, hunger pangs! I want pizza and chocolate ice cream for dinner,” said Alice
“Wait, child, I’m making delicious chicken soup, healthy multigrain bread, and a fresh salad,” answered Granny.
Alice got angry when he saw salad on the dining table. He yelled, “Again, cucumber, bell pepper, carrot, and tomato. Is that what I will eat? “No, no, no, never, not at all. No dinner tonight.” Granny got worried and left the house to get his favourite food.
Alice was all alone. In anger, he picked up the tomato and threw it at the wall. The red pulp of the tomato almost covered the mid-wall. He was shocked to see the pulp turning into a monster.
“Ha, Ha, Ha, you stubborn boy. Every day I see you trouble your Granny for food. When you hit me against the wall today, I felt hurt. I will teach you a lesson. I am the new king of vegetables. I rule the meals,” said the tomato monster. And then the monster followed him everywhere in the room.
Alice was so scared that he was running in different directions. Sitting under the table, he quietly prayed, “Oh God, please save me from this deadly monster.”
Alice rushed to his Granny’s room, wears her hat and robe. He picks up the embroidered, favourite napkin of the Granny and moves slowly towards the wall. He wipes the tomato pulp, and the monster disappears right away.
Alice gets the lesson of his life to value all food. He vows to take care of Granny, as her belongings protect him. When she was back, he hugged her and said, “I love you so much. I will eat whatever you cook for me.”
The writer attended Takhte Writers & Publishers’ Story Writing Writeshop at Kalasthali, Gurugram.
Photo Courtesy – Andre Taissin (xRUJcUTEp6Y) Unsplash
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