Shaily Agrawal

To err is AI

Posted on Sep 30, 2026Sep 30, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

I recently read a blog about a certain writer using ChatGPT as their go-to information finder. I know there are loads of us who do that because it makes life a lot easier.

However, all Generative AI tools come with a disclaimer (the tiny letters at the bottom of the document to be read using a microscope 😄): Crosscheck the information it is offering because Generative AI can make mistakes.

What they don’t tell you is that some of it can amount to outright lying!

There is a simple reason behind it. Generative AI is not a search engine. It is a tool designed to sound like a person who knows stuff. You ask it a question, and it tries its best to answer. Unfortunately, if it doesn’t have the answer, it still tries. Sometimes when it doesn’t know its stuff at all, it lies through its virtual teeth, gives false information and false citations.

If you ever saw “Peep and the Big Wide World” on You Tube, its character Quack can give you a gist of the way Gen AI thinks. Here’s a link to one of my favourite videos: Link

I am saying this because we have seen AI behaving like Quack at work, several times over. For example, we were searching for information for a high-end leadership training we were creating. So, obviously I took AI’s help. Who doesn’t? I searched for 10 techniques leaders can use to enhance a particular skillset. I had also named a set of reputable websites to search the information from. The idea was to filter down the techniques and zero down on 3-4 most effective ones. As a response to the query, I received a long list of techniques along with citations from various reputable resources.

The knee-jerk response is to add everything given by AI. But we have been trained at office not to trust AI blindly.

So, I opened the citations and a couple of techniques were not there in the said citation. I tried other links and they weren’t there at all. All the so-called “researches” that “supported them” had never happened and the statistics were forged. It was a lie–plain and simple–to increase the number of techniques to 10 as I had asked for. Had I used the data, it could have landed me into a lot of trouble with the client.

What I am trying to say is that, if you are asking AI how many cat-crazy women are there in each country, understand that there is a high chance you will get an answer with detailed statistics, and it would be a complete lie because nobody has asked me yet how many cats I own. 🤣

Having said that, Generative AI is right around 80 to 90 percent of times. It is okay to use it. With caution. If you are searching for something important, double-check all citations it is offering.

Does the cited book exists?
Is it written by the same expert or backed by the same organisation as AI claims?
Did they actually say anything on your subject?
Did they say exactly what AI is saying or is AI interpreting the views too openly?

In essence, check the engine oil, fuel, water and anti-freeze before entering the car and flooring the accelerator. 😄

Just in Time | Science Fiction short story

Posted on Sep 26, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

This is a story from my latest sci-fi collection, A Window in Future. You can find the book for free here: Books by Shaily

Here we go again. Pop!

The car arrives in the middle of a deserted street. Houses on both sides are made of stone and wood. The silence rings eerily around us and it looks like everyone is asleep.

“I don’t understand. I made sure the command was correct this time. It must be Royal Street. It has to be.”

My wife is fuming by now, “Really? Well, do you see any signs here? I am sure Royal Street would have quite a few holographic shop signs typical of a high‑society market. And there would be lights.”

She was right, of course. This place has stone houses, and the whole place is dark as night. Well, it is night but not so late as to explain the dead darkness. Royal Street is usually active past midnight.

“It must be the wrong year then. Sigh!”

“More likely wrong century…around 15th century if I am not wrong! Look, I appreciate that you are a history buff, but I am not looking for any more history lessons tonight. I want to reach that show on time. Honey, we really need to ask someone the current year so you can add the correct number of years in the car instructions. I can see a chapel at the distance. They used to keep dated records.”

I know she is right, but I can’t take her advice right now, “That’s all right, Darling! I’m sure, we are in the late 17th century right now. I will get us there in the next attempt.”

Her voice is a little stronger now, “I hate to remind you that you promised me the same thing in the last five rides in the past one hour. We have seen dinosaurs, cavemen, early farming, battles in the middle‑ages and now a sleepy village…”

“Yes, and that means that we are moving forward in time and now we are really close. Just a few centuries more…”

“Probably. But then, we will be late for the show. Why can’t you just ask someone what year we are in? Why do men always have to be so pig‑headed when it comes to asking for directions?”

I try not to take the bait, “Well, it is quite late in the night.”

“It’s 8 o’clock!”

“In the 17th century, dusk meant bedtime. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

Her voice takes a dangerous edge, “So, you mean that we will stay lost in time for the rest of the night because you are too well mannered to care about my happiness?”

I know when a threat becomes real, “As I said, we are close…”

“And as I said, we are still lost in time! Why can’t you just let go of your ego for once. For me?”

Her eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill and I am terrified. “Darling, it’s not my ego that I am worried about,” I reply, stalling for time.

“Then what is it?”

“Well, if someone realises that we come from a different time, which they obviously will—given our clothes, our car and our question—they might not take it too well. And witches were burnt at stake in the 17th century.” I finish quickly hoping the blow wouldn’t be too hard on her.

She sucked in air as she processed that piece of information. After a second, she takes a deep breath, “Okay, but people have been using time machines for so long. If they had visited around these parts, these people might know about them.”

“When we buy time machines, we are warned to avoid the times between 15th and 19th century. There have been accidents…people caught during these times were accused of witchcraft. Some of them never made it back.”

The threat of tears dissipates, now replaced with a fury I had never seen before, “I hate this piece of junk you bought. It always misses the mark—I end up in Newark instead of New York and prehistoric times instead of prehistoric museum. All I wanted was a basic space traveller so that I could see different countries like normal people do. But you had to buy this trashcan. So now, one little mistake in instructions and I land up in a different millennium all together. And we can’t even return right away because it does not accept the exact year in the instructions. I have to add and subtract the years to wherever it is stuck in time. Then I have to add days and hours and minutes. I have never done so much Maths since I was in elementary school.”

I try to placate her, “Honey, it is just a minor flaw in the instruction reader. I am sure I can fix it.”

“Yes, just the way you fixed the seven‑league boots, the toaster and the ancient electric bicycle!”

I could feel my temper rising, “You can’t put that on me. They were antique pieces. Anyone can blow up an electric toaster. Who uses electricity anymore?”

“Oh, yes? So, why did you buy them?”

“I… well…”

“Once we go back, you are selling this piece of scrap. I don’t understand why anyone would buy the first model of a Time Machine cum Traveller! They are ancient history. But you were so excited when you saw it in the online sale, I didn’t have the heart to stop you. But now, you are getting rid of it. I don’t care if it goes to a landfill on the moon.”

“But I care! It is a precious piece of human history. You know I love it.”

“Well, you can’t love both of us together. So, choose now!”

Knowing that I am defeated, I acquiesce, “Alright, I will sell it, probably to a museum. But, for now, let me take you home.”

“Add five centuries to the date. People had stopped persecuting witches by then and some of them were already discussing the idea of a time‑travel and working on Time Machines. We will ask someone the date and the year then.”

“But I can…”

“Would you prefer divorce papers?” The expression on her face makes it clear that it isn’t an empty threat.

“Fine! But I could have taken you without asking for directions.”

“Yeah, yeah. Should we go then?” So, here we go again. Pop!

Author’s note: Thank you, Google Gemini for the amazing picture. It took a few prompts but we got there eventually!

My life

Family That Wakes Together and Cries Together

Posted on Sep 25, 2026Sep 25, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Most of you might already know that I am married in a joint family. In broad words, a joint family is several generations of people living together, that eat together and pray together. It includes a lot of shared laughter and duties, and everyone helps in chores and raising children, where it is impossible to tell who the real mother or father is. ❤️

Last year, my husband’s baby brother (now 28) got married (a detailed report on learning how to do make-up without poking myself in the eye is in another post: Link). This year he and his wife welcomed their first child. 🐣

Since the last child to be born in our house was nine years back, we had developed a very romanticised version of what would it be like to have another child in the house. We had totally forgotten the tornado that struck this house the last time. 🌪️

The first three days were spent with running to and fro between hospital and home, alongside entertaining a few guests who had come to enquire. Once the mom and baby came home and we believed the worst was behind us, we realised it was just a trailer.

Mayhem ensued. 🌪️🌪️🌪️

As most babies do, he sleeps during the day and wants to discuss gravity and poetry at night. 🌃 (I believe, in the first fortnight, his father actually managed to write several pieces full of enough pain to secure him a place in State Level Urdu Poetry competition.) Everyone was droopy. 😴 There were children’s things covering every surface while we were digging for baby clothes 👚, diapers 🚼 paper towels 🧻, milk feeder 🍼, baby food 🥫, nappies 🚼, handkerchiefs, more clothes 🎽👚, more diapers 🚼🚼…

Suddenly the pristine house looked like war zone. ☠️⚠️ We were all talking in whispers 😗 and tiptoeing around, afraid to set off the landmines that covered the floor of the house. We were praying for the baby’s mom to recover completely from her cesarean procedure so she’ll be able to take complete responsibility of the child. The day seemed close enough. But she developed post-surgical complications 🏥 and we were left to care for the baby as well as entertaining the numerous guests that now arrived in droves unannounced to offer congratulations and blessings.

Meanwhile, the baby 👶who is the most serene child 👼when with his mom🤱, wouldn’t stop crying 😭 while she was gone for her treatment three times a day.

It’s not like the new dad didn’t try feeding 🍼🍼🍼 him, but he was afraid. The baby is so tiny! Father couldn’t pick up the child without shaking with apprehension and having him in his lap was enough to give him high blood pressure. Burping him was an experiment he wasn’t ready to engage in.

By the fourth day of treatment, both Mom-in-law and I were in tears. Literally.

The baby’s glass feeder 🍼 had broken late last night and he wouldn’t feed without it. By the time a new one was bought seven hours later, he had rejected all our attempts to feed using a spoon 🥣 cried endlessly and we were ready to kill someone. Men in the family who hadn’t even tried holding him since they were afraid of hurting the pint-sized bundle, were wise enough to stand at a distance where we couldn’t reach them while holding the baby in our laps.

Thankfully the treatment ended at the end of fourth day, and the new mom became the primary caregiver again. The baby, after four days of crying jag, decided to go on sweet-and-quiet baby mode 👼. We are still helping the mom in every way we can, pitching in when she is too tired (He still wakes during the night and ensues endless discussions on a variety of philosophical subjects, insomnia being the main one). But we have a system in place, food in place, clothes in place, and his father has resigned himself to the fact that he is half the caregiver, sharing feeding, burping duties (now that the baby looks bigger than a new-born kitten). We are trying to promote him to diaper duties, but…

Well, I’ll think of a plan once I’ve slept for more than five hours. 🤣

Blogging, Random Thoughts

Borrowed Dreams (Coz who is paying anyway)

Posted on Sep 14, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

When I wrote this post, I hadn’t posted in a week…two weeks, I think. But apparently, my stats were booming. The highest read post was my first book I wrote 4-5 years back. Weirdly enough, no one was buying. How insulting. 🤣🤣🤣 You would think that how AI is “borrowing” my intelligence, it will at least pay for it.

Well, what can I say. I have surrendered to fates. Someday when I am dead for fifty years, someone will compile my stories, publish a bestseller and make money with them. That someone will clearly not be me or my family.

It is unfortunate how so many classic writers lived unrecognised (and died as paupers). It looks like a trend and makes me hopeful for the distant future; that may be I am not so hopeless; there could still be the lifetime service award, posthumus “Padmashree” award or Knighthood awaiting me.

Let’s see…ahem…I mean…the world will see (I will be gone for fifty years, remember). I guess, I shouldn’t be telling you…we don’t know which of you is going to outlive me, and I don’t want you complaining against me in heaven that I had sold you a lie…because that is all anyone is buying from me 🤣🤣🤣

Weirdly enough, it doesn’t put me off writing. Infact, it takes off the pressure. I always had stage fear and the fact that no one will consider my work for another 50 years makes me feel relaxed. If anyone writes a thesis on the Portrayal of female characters by Shaily Agrawal, and they call me a feminist or worse, a sadist, at least I will be sitting in my own happy cloud. 🤣

My daughter might be around to face the music but she is clever enough to spin a tearful tale of the painful childhood she had dealing with a crazy mother who saw a murderer mushrooms and fighter fairies. She will make millions out of that autobiography–“Being raised by a lunatic”.

All in all, not a bad deal with hope at the horizon–both for me and my daughter. Postumus Knighthood, here I come!

Random Thoughts

From Minimalism to Impressionism

Posted on Sep 13, 2026Sep 13, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Once again, I am using my daughter’s work to gain views. Why? Because I am cheap like that! Afterall, she gets a lot more views than I do. 🤣 So here it is.

Some of you already know of my daughter’s early escapades with minimalism. As a three year old with a sketch-pen for the first time, she created several minimalistic masterpieces on the walls of the little refrigerator box “playschool” I created for her as a birthday gift. Among those was a cat with her litter of five and an adopted monkey baby.

If you are wondering who is who, please feel free to check my older post Lessons on Minimalism: Link (It will still not make sense but you can try. 🤣)

Six years later, she made another cat out of a whim.

She looked at a picture of a cat for a couple of minutes and then drew this. The colouring was all hers. I swear I didn’t teach her or help her in any way. I can’t draw animals unless I am looking at one.

I know she got her artistic side from me but what she has managed to accomplish in her first 6 years is much more than I did. She still tells stories too. I hope to tell those to you someday. 😀

Fiction, Science Fiction

Beautiful | Part 3 of 3

Posted on Sep 12, 2026Sep 13, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the third part a Science fiction story from my latest short stories collection: A Window in Future. You can find the complete collection for free here: Books by Shaily You can find other parts here: Part 1 and Part 2

I jerk back realising something is actually dangling in front of me. It was the operating system of the car trying to hear my orders. I must have been speaking under my breath…

But why are we still in my apartment’s parking? Oh no! I forgot to give the destination location. Instructing my automated driver to take me to office, I continue my wool gathering.

I really like Mark—he is unlike other people I have known. He is respectful and funny, and his sense of humour is kind. I love spending time with him. Even though he comes from a very rich and famous family, he does not have the airs. He avoids paparazzi by using Image Converter outdoors. He even attended Derek’s wedding using the Image Converter too…or that’s what I assume—Derek told me that he came, and I couldn’t find him there. Well, it was better that way, considering that I had attended as my real self. (What old schoolmates think be damned!) The office staff was told that Derek’s bearded partner was out of town for a family emergency.

I had met Lee there. He didn’t recognise me at first, of course. I had to remind him of the day I wanted to kill myself because my boyfriend dropped me for having Werewolf syndrome; and of his valuable advice that day about using Image Convertor. When I told him about the avatar I was using, his wide-eyed look was worth a picture!

But he didn’t laugh at me. In fact, he was sweet, attentive and funny. While he danced with me, he held me longer than needed, and he even asked me out on a date. I wanted to go—to have a chance at love. But somehow, he reminded me of Mark too much—the tenor of his voice, the way he spoke more from his eyes than words, the way he never made fun of anyone and, yet, always had something funny to say…

And, at that moment, I wished it was Mark holding my hand and asking me out on a date. I realised I couldn’t do that to Lee.

I tried looking for Mark. For all I know, he could be one of the bridesmaids. (He can do that for a laugh!) I wanted to tell him about myself. In that moment of drunk insanity, I had thought that if Lee understood, then may be even Mark would. After all, hadn’t he also spent half his life hiding from people?

But later when the drinks were out of my system, I realised it was just wishful thinking. He might not understand at all—at least, he couldn’t overlook my potential of sprouting a beard and more. I can’t jeopardize our friendship for a chance at illusive love. I could have done that initially when he was just a client. But over the last few months, I have worked too closely with Mark. We have also gone to football matches cheering for the same teams. We have had too many breakfasts, lunches and dinners together along with heart‑to‑heart conversations.

Last weekend, we had gone to the dream arcade after dinner. While selecting our dream holiday destinations for a one-hour virtual vacation, I had declined taking an AI partner and Mark asked if I would take him along instead. It was the most beautiful and the most difficult hour of my life. Having him sitting next to me watching waves crashing against the rocks, hearing the seagulls cry and smelling the ocean, and later strolling along the rocky beach—

Even when we stepped out in the real world, the effect lingered. Mark was quieter than usual, his eyes deeper, and our parting handshake was one second too long. That second was enough for me to wish I had donned the Diva avatar.

When I told Derek, he insisted that I must come out clean and tell Mark the truth. I can’t take his advice though. While I have stopped being affected by other people’s opinion of me over the years, I can’t risk Mark’s amusement or even indifference. He is more than a friend, at least in my books. If he made even one joke about my beard, I’ll die.

*****

“You are at your destination,” my car reminds me. My car is now standing in the company’s parking lot and ignition is off and so is the air conditioning. The door has opened itself but, apparently, I am too lost to notice it all. I get down quickly and rush towards the lift, leaving the car to lock itself.

As expected, Mark is on time. But instead of the café, he is standing at the lift door and waving at me with a heart‑breaking smile. I sigh secretly and then, with a smile, I wave back, “Hi there, Derek couldn’t make it due to a personal situation.”

“I know.” he said, sheepishly. “I owe him one for that!”

He must have noticed my raised eyebrows because he added hastily, “I need to speak with you about a personal matter.”

I groan inwardly. I am used to Mark sharing his latest failed dates with me—somehow all his dates always fail since he expects genuine people and gets only bundles of make‑up and plastic smiles. I am usually okay with the discussion, but something has shifted inside me after the stroll on that virtual beach.

“Sure, tell me.” I try to infuse enthusiasm in my voice.

“I…uh…I wanted to talk about that virtual vacation we went on?”

Those words put me on high alert. I am sure he is thinking I am gay and lusting after him and wants to friend‑zone me. So, I try to play casual, “Yeah! It was nice but rather quiet. I am thinking, next time, let’s take AI partners, like a double date?”

He seems taken aback but then he gives an understanding smile, “I rather like nice and quiet vacations, especially with a pretty girl by my side.”

As my eyes widen at the word ‘girl’, he adds, “Well, the avatar you use is one of my favourites too. And you aren’t really that good an actress to pass off as a gay man, you know. Since you are a girl posing as a man, I assumed you…uh…like girls. But when I met you at Derek’s marriage, you told me the reason for your choice. It all made sense then.”

“But I never met you there at the marriage!”

“Yes, you did. You thought I was Lee!”

Incredulousness and incomprehension must be clear on my face because he smiled, “I was just using one of the lesser-used avatars, you know. I realised Lee also used it once I was in the middle of the wedding crowd and a group of Derek’s friends from college came to talk to me. Mostly, I just nodded. Some of them told me I looked taller…”, he smiled apologetically, his eyes pleading for understanding.

Seeing me speechless, he continued, “I always liked you…adored you actually. But after holding you in my arms at the wedding dance and later at the dream arcade the other day, I realised that I didn’t ever want to let you go.”

After a second of hesitation, he added softly, “You can keep your beard if it makes you happy. I love you either way.”

End

Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash

Fiction, Science Fiction

Beautiful | Part 2 of 3

Posted on Sep 11, 2026Sep 13, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the second part a Science fiction story from my latest short stories collection: A Window in Future. You can find the complete collection for free here: Books by Shaily You can find other parts here: Part 1 and Part 3

Derek was supposed to meet Mark at the office gate first thing in the morning. Since he has bailed, I am supposed to do the honours. And I am running late. I gulp down the breakfast while my mother’s recorded message drones, “Eat slow. Chew well.” Normally, I would slow down just to honour her words. But today was not normal.

Well, it’s not like Mark would throw a fit. He will just sit in the café outside the office, buy coffee and croissants, and call me to meet him there. That is precisely what I want to avoid.

I quickly don my comfortable sandals that morph into formal men’s shoes and run out of the door as the house seals itself, and the house planner switches off electricity. When I jump in the passenger seat of my car, I realise that I forgot to cancel the dinner settings on the oven. Mark will insist that we go out for dinner. He has been like that lately. Butterflies take flight in my stomach at the thought of being alone with him over a dinner again.

But then all the butterflies shrivel and die—he believes I’m a man. So far, I have been pretty okay with this arrangement, even if people suspect me to be gay—there are stringent laws protecting people with different sexual orientation. There is no law, however, protecting people like the real me. At least, none that actually count.

*****

I and Derek had gone to different colleges. Since I was on medication, I had assumed the hairy mess to be behind me. I had met someone I liked. But his ex‑girlfriend dug into my past and plastered the college walls with that old Halloween post. After that, even though he already knew about my ‘condition’, he was unwilling to share my notoriety and broke up with me.

I had video‑called Derek that day and cried my eyes out. He had listened patiently for hours, interfering only when absolutely needed.

“Euthanasia is not a choice…”

“Your suicide will cause pain only to those who love you…”

“If you want, I can fly down to your college. I can break any noses that turn up on you!”

That was when his classmate, Lee, had come on the call, “Have you heard of Image Converter app? It can help you go incognito in college for the rest of your days there. Since your classmates won’t recognise you, they won’t sneer at you either.” I had my doubts, but he insisted, “I have been using the same app in college. You see, my family is a little too famous, and the paparazzi never left me alone. So, I use it to go incognito as well. I can walk you through the process and the required government documentation if you want.”

So, with the college counsellor’s help, I changed my identity to the bearded guy and started my new professional life. Familywise, I was okay to be myself. My family loved me. They wouldn’t care two hoots if I was a real werewolf. My brother would occasionally howl at the moon for my benefit, but I could always punch him in the guts. All I needed was a cover at work so I wouldn’t be judged professionally.

As far as love went, I couldn’t care less, or harbour any hope…that is, until I met Mark.

Derek never approved of my hiding behind a male identity, but he understood and supported me. When we started the company, he made sure our work‑culture was inclusive. Still, he keeps suggesting that I should come out of the closet. Is Mark another carrot he is dangling in front of me?

*****

I jerk back realising something is actually dangling in front of me. It was the operating system of the car trying to hear my orders. I must have been speaking under my breath…

But why are we still in my apartment’s parking? Oh no! I forgot to give the destination location. Instructing my automated driver to take me to office,

Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash

Fiction, Science Fiction

Beautiful | Part 1 of 3

Posted on Sep 10, 2026Sep 13, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the first part a Science fiction story from my latest short stories collection: A Window in Future. You can find the complete collection for free here: Books by Shaily.

“What avatar would you like today?” The Image Converter app starts interrogating me as soon as I step out of bath and begin pulling on my comfortable skirt.

“The usual, please,” I reply, gritting my teeth for what is sure to come.

“Are you sure, you don’t want to try the latest Diva or Corporate Femme avatars? They are more popular and would suit your personality better.”

For a moment I am tempted to try the Diva avatar just so that I can impress Mark. But who am I kidding?

“The usual, please”, I repeat, habitual of resisting the daily offer. Earlier, I had tried explaining my dilemma to Image Convertor; that I have Werewolf Syndrome or what doctors call as Hypertrichosis; that I do not want to present myself as a perfect woman since I am not one. But Artificial Intelligence seems to lack emotional intelligence. So, now I just keep repeating the order until it gives in.

After a few failed attempts at making me look feminine, it relents, “As you wish.”

In the mirror across the room, I can see my clothes converting into an electric blue formal suit and a neat beard growing out of my clean face, Ironically, I also have smoky eyes and lipstick. Sigh! “Make the suit grey and remove the make‑up.”

My Image Converter gives an exaggerated sigh and removes the virtual make‑up, turning me into a regular bearded man. From prior experience, I know that my voice has changed too. The beard is for irony, of course. Afterall, my facial and body hair is the reason I use the Image Converter app. There was a time when I wanted to look like a normal girl and have a normal life. But as a woman with a potential of growing an actual beard, I am the biggest irony of all.

*****

I rush into the lounge. The Day Planner app activates at my footsteps and begins reciting my day’s engagements. I curse Derek under my breath for ditching me yet again for this meeting with Mark. I would rather be sleeping and dreaming about that man than meet him alone face‑to‑face.

The food processor alarm breaks my reverie and my breakfast of eggs and bacon slides in front of me along with a mug of iced latte. I shovel food in my mouth as I read emails displayed on the wall‑screen. If I wasn’t so angry at Derek, I would have taken time to appreciate the effort he took to install the wall screen. I always complained that palmtop screen in the office was just too tiny, but there is client privacy to be considered. More importantly, Derek keeps sending stupid jokes that I can’t let the staff see; there is reputation to uphold—his and mine. So, he installed the wall screen at home for the days when I am working from home—today was supposed to be one.

But he had called me this morning bright and early that I had to rush to office on my work‑from‑home day because he was bailing on me for ‘unavoidable reasons’. He must be taking Stacey out for shopping again. He has been doing that a lot ever since their marriage. Usually, I don’t mind but today, we were supposed to meet Mark for an on‑site meeting, and I hate the thought of being alone with him all day long. Well, not really hate…

In fact, I like it too much… which scares me witless.

*****

Ever since his engagement, Derek has been pushing me to take over some of his older and stable clients to free up his time. Mark is one of them. This is the fifth time in Derek’s two-month-old marriage that he left me alone with Mark.

I wish Derek isn’t my bestie, so I can kill him without remorse. But he is and so I can’t. We started school together when I used to be a normal person. When I hit puberty and my facial and body hair started growing beyond the normal length, he was the only one who stuck around a ‘werewolf’. Considering my great-great-grand aunt had the same affliction, my parents were somewhat prepared and got me the medical attention, but I was still underage for the highly restricted medication and by the time I received government approval, I looked closer to a wolf than a human.

I missed the year at school and stayed at home until the medicines stopped the hair growth and I shed the ‘fur’. I had also stopped socialising to keep the news from spreading, but the story leaked out somehow and someone took a picture of me at my worst and published on the school newspaper.

After this incident, I was a laughingstock. All my friends shunned me, fearing that my exceptionally low social status would rub off on them. Only Derek didn’t care about what others thought. He would tell people off when they wouldn’t leave me alone, meeting snarky comments with snarky comments. Once, he even punched a guy who posted that same photo on social media as a Halloween joke.

And Derek’s friendship is the reason I didn’t commit suicide after my horrendous last year at the college. And that is why, I am currently suppressing the fantasy of strangling him to death and concentrating on getting ready at full speed.

To be continued

You can find other parts here: Part 2 and Part 3

Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash

Fiction

Deserted | Gothic | Short story

Posted on Aug 21, 2026Aug 21, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: It is a photo-prompt story, which used to have a photo of an office in the middle of a desert. But over the four years it gathered dust in my archives, I managed to lose the picture.

Disclaimer: Gothic content with references to violence–reader discretion requested.

This office doesn’t bear any sign, nor can I see any stuff to sell. All that I can see inside is that the place is neat. No dust, no wares. Only an antique phone and an old register sit on the table. Not sure what the old hag uses it for.

Honestly, I don’t even see the point of having an office in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen a single soul in the area for hours. So, who would drive all the way through this hot-as-hell desert to reach this office? But I’m sure glad to find it—anything is better than walking aimlessly with an open wound that still drips blood after so many hours.

I wonder why I had assumed I could find my way through the desert alone without the guide. I shouldn’t have killed him until I reached my new hideout. But he had somehow realised who I was and I acted on instinct, which was to kill. I was already wanted for 17 murders; one more wouldn’t change anything. Or so I thought.

I had slit his throat with the penknife as he had stabbed me in the side with a screwdriver. At least, he died quickly. I, on the other hand, have been in agony ever since—as if he is still twisting that damned screwdriver inside, even after the hours that I have spent blundering around in the desert.

I’m sure I had a cellphone when I started the journey, but I can’t find it anymore. It probably slipped out of my pocket when I lost consciousness and fell. Anyway, I can’t think of anyone I could call for help and where to ask them to come for me, for I have no idea where I am now.

The pain is driving me mad, and I would welcome death if it would bring relief. But it seems to be avoiding me for some reason, drawing out the torment. My money bag feels like it weighs a ton—I can barely move my feet. I want to take it off my back. Yet for some reason, I can’t make myself to.

When I finally found this office in the middle of nowhere, I was too relieved to care about the consequences of entering a building. My wound isn’t conspicuous and anyone helping me would certainly enquire. Thankfully, with more than four hundred thousand dollars tucked in, I have enough hard cash to bribe my way out of any situation. I just hope they aren’t too honest to bribe, or too corrupt to kill me while I sleep under any heavy medication I am administered.

I stand at the door indecisive as the old hag—I can’t think of calling her anything else, she is too ugly—manning the register eyes me with suspicion. For her sake, I hope she would help me without causing a trouble.

“I need a doctor,” I whisper. My mouth feels like a sandpaper, and my voice comes out raspy and breathless. I could kill for some water. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

“I’m sorry but we don’t have that facility here.” Her drawling voice sets my teeth on edge. I don’t have forever! Her eyes have a dreamy look with no care in the world, which is weird. With the blood on my clothes, I had hoped she would be scared. That way, she’d do my bidding. But you can’t have everything, I guess.

So, I ask again, “I need a doctor. Call one. Tell him I need stitches, antiseptic and painkillers. I’ll pay whatever he asks for.” I add urgency to my voice, but it is a struggle, considering the crippling pain.

“You are a little too late for that, darling,” she drawls again, eyeing the wound.

The pain is maddening, and I think of pulling out the penknife again. But who would call the doctor then? So, I give her one more chance as I step in trying to look threatening. “Well, that’s for a doctor to decide!”

She adds with an exasperated voice, “Do you know what this office is for?”

“No.”

“Well, it is the receiving room for hell.”

“Receiving room for hell? You mean I will be sent to hell from here once I die?” I try to keep panic out of my voice. I never believed in heaven and hell. I always considered it as church’s way to manipulate unsuspecting people. But the prospect that they might actually exist is not pleasant for someone who is certainly due hell.

I am wheezing with pain, but she calmly continues. “Most people are better informed when they come in through the door over there,” she pointed at new door that just appeared on the opposite wall.

A man comes in through the other door, crying and begging for forgiveness, as the old lady quietly checks her register and then points him to the door I came in from, “For Thirty Years.” His feet lift from the ground against his will, and he is thrown outside through my door. Through me.

Looking at my stricken face, she says, “But there is always a special case like you who is sent directly.” My feet lift from the ground against my will, and I am thrown back in the desert, wishing for death as unendurable pain of bleeding wound forces me to double over, “For Eternity.”

Fiction

Mushrooms

Posted on Aug 18, 2026Aug 18, 2026 by Shaily Agrawal

Right now, I would give anything for that mushroom lady!

It has been ten days since we started on the three-day trek, eight since we realised we are lost and three since we are having two thin slices of bread a day. Needless to say, we are all pretty grumpy.

When we started, it was more of a joke on the other team of soldiers that got lost on this trek before us. Some weird activity was recorded on the radar 29 miles in the North-West—typically a one-day-trek for our level of training. The team was sent on a three-day trek for scouting—one day to reach there, one day to scout and one day to return. They made it back in ten days. They all claimed they didn’t remember anything first night onwards.

After too many rounds of interrogation, one of them admitted they were picking mushrooms for food and found it to be a wood nymph with mushrooms on her antlers; and that she magicked them back on the right path! After that, their Captain admitted that they found some mushrooms they thought they recognised on the first evening, which they ate and have been hallucinating ever since; they only came to their senses a couple of days before and it took a long time to return in their weekened state. Needless to say, they were discharged from service immediately.

So, when we started, I ensured my team of five was better prepared—canned food for four days instead of picking random stuff from the forest, a reliable physical compass, physical maps, GPS, radio, and tracking devices in case we are lost.

We were doing well until late noon until I realised we were lost—by then, the path backwards was lost too. I wouldn’t say we are going in circles—we are too well-trained for that. More like, we don’t know where we were going. GPS and radio aren’t working, and the compass needle is pointing wherever it wants as if it can’t make up its mind.

The forest floor is hard even with the sleeping bags we are carrying. We are too high-strung to sleep anyway—the heavily canopied forest is dark and scary even during the day, let alone at night. The slightest sound of twigs cracking or leaves being disturbed unnerves us. The slightest shadow or a lack of birds’ calls bring doubts of being stalked, though we are still to see a predator here. We are all fidgety and at the end of our nerves.

We have been frugal with the supplies we brought. With our food supplies dwindling, we tried looking for food. But with the onset of winters, the trees we recognise are bare of any fruits. The only fruits are hanging from trees of unclear variety, and we are afraid of trying them, in case they are toxic!

Fourth day onwards, I had the team try hunting and fishing. We can see the fishes jumping out of the river and splashing back in, as if teasing us, but we can’t catch them. Same with animals and birds—crossing our road, peeping at us and running away, dodging bullets and knives. All of them! We have all had intensive survival training, including hunting for food, and yet not one of us has been able to catch so much as a mouse. We are completely dependent on the packages we carried here, and there isn’t anything left for tomorrow.

Though it hasn’t rained since we started, we fear the slightest wisps of clouds as they pass the sky. In our feeble and worn-out state, we won’t be able to deal with extreme cold on top of our lack of food. We still have a tracking device on each one of us, but no one has found us.

Surely, they must have realised that we are missing, right? They must have sent a search party already. Will they find us alive? More important, would they know their way back or would they be just as lost as we?

I really wish this entire journey was just a mushroom-induced hallucination. It would be better than starving to death!

A slight noise on the left has us alert and we ready our weapons. The thick bushes are parted slightly by delicate fingers, revealing a breathtaking woman wearing a dress made of flowering vines and mushroom antlers. Rolling her eyes in exasperation and shaking her head in resignation, she points a thin branch at us.

We will have to agree upon a better cover story than the last team!

Thank you for the inspiring photo, Alexander Mass (on Unsplash).