The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta, A Collection.

By S. Fulton Bell

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta is a collection of short stories, spread across genres and worlds alike. First is the title story, about a teenager with an unusual problem: The neighborhood ghosts are moving into his Neem tree! Following that is a Science Fiction/Fantasy hybrid story about a warrior monk tracking down criminal bosses. Until she runs into a particularly nasty problem. A comedy follows as an Evil Genius deals with divorce (a minor bummer) and something wicked lurking under his bed. A pair of satirical Fantasy tales come next. A dark tower where fantasy realms are generated is the scene of our tale about what happens when random chaos reigns. It is complimented by a heart-warming holiday tale...err...Perhaps not so heart-warming, more along the lines of evil needs to go shopping during the holiday rush too. However, they just send in the minions! The collection rounds out with a steampunk tale set in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. This group of stories has something for just about anyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Fulton Bell
• Release date: Jun 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476098395

S. Fulton Bell

I live, write and work in Central PA. Presently, I am hard at work writing a series of Steampunk novellas, short stories and flash fiction. Stay Tuned!

Book preview

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta, a collection.

Steven F. Bell

Published by Steven Bell at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Steven F. Bell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Table Of Contents

Introduction

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta

The Narsico Fontanelle Job

Quantum Cat

The Tower of Random Generation

The Pretty Pink Princess Fantasyland Play Set

To Use A Gun No More

Acknowledgements

Final Matter

About The Author

Introduction

Welcome! Gathered here are tales spanning a number of genres, age groups and worlds.

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta is a tale about a teenager in India, and the strange goings on in his backyard. It is a paranormal urban fantasy about home and being displaced. An NPR radio article by Sandip Roy inspired the story. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=114180081 This short story first appeared on http://www.quantummuse.com

Following a paranormal urban YA is a Science Fiction/Fantasy sort of hybrid. This story comes from a very silly email discussion that bears no resemblance to the final tale, anime influences and a whole lot of sci-fi/fantasy roleplaying games. The main character is a warrior monk. She has taken a series of jobs as an assassin in the future city of Xira. Her latest job, while appearing standard is anything but.

Quantum Cat is just a very silly piece about an evil scientist who also owns a cat. There is a catastrophe in the lab, and the problem goes from bad to really bad. If you have ever owned a cat, one with a distinct personality, and hands off attitude, then you know the evil that lurks under the bed here.

Diana Wynn Jones wrote a series of books called The Tough Guide to Fantasyland. She came to our attention through Howl’s Moving Castle the film based on her book. The Tough Guide is like a travel book, the reader is the tourist and it covers every single fantasy genre trope you can imagine. Now imagine someone being silly enough to write a short story about how those worlds are built. Mix equal parts Disney, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and the Tough Guides and you will have a good flavor of this tale.

The next story is one of my favorites. Games like Overlord and Dungeon Keeper lent the perspective for the protagonist (as unlikely a term as military intelligence.) This was written for the Holiday special issue of Quantum Muse, and while it borrows heavily from well know Decemberish holidays, it has little to do with them.

Now we reach the final story. It is the one that I am most proud of, in this collection. It is a steampunk tale concerning itself with the origins of Ignatius St. Eligius, hero of a series of novellas now being written. We are introduced to him at the onset of one of the most difficult times in his life. To say it is formative is an understatement.

Please, sit back, enjoy a cup of something and allow me to tell you a few tales…

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta

In the small courtyard just outside of my window grew a splendid Neem tree. It stood proudly in the middle of the space, stretching up towards the sky. At night, I would often lie in bed listening to the wind rustle as it blew through the leaves. There was little relief from the heat and humidity of Calcutta; however, the shade of the Neem tree offered a small reprieve. Outside of our courtyard, the city was ever changing, as it consumed houses and yards alike.

Construction sites birthed square generic apartments at an ever-increasing pace. Sometimes as I lay in bed I wondered if that was going to be our fate, forced from the home in which my sister and I grew up in, into a shoebox apartment, with only a window box for marigolds. I was just fifteen, and the monsoon season was upon us, a mixed blessing at best. There would be breaks in the humidity, when there would be torrential downpours of rain as though the heavens were expelling every drop of water.

One evening, as a storm approached, Mother made a point of going throughout the house turning lights on, just before twilight fell. The wind rolled over our house and blew through the tree, shaking it as a child might shake its rattle. Dark clouds sped overhead, and before long rain pounded on the roof and splattered against the outside walls, on the tree. My mother had a worried look on her face during dinner and each time the lights would flicker, she would mutter a prayer to Ganesha.

My sister Kusuma and I would exchange glances and raised eyebrows, because Mother was not usually one to demonstrate any measure of devotion. After dinner, Kusuma and I went upstairs to my room to watch and listen to the rain. Its rhythm lulled us, and brought us a measure of relaxing pleasure, like a private symphony of percussion.

As the humidity and heat retreated, Kusuma and I sat near the window. She was playing with her doll while I sketched her in profile. Lights from nearby construction shone over the simple wall into the back courtyard and illuminated the Neem tree’s branches. Occasionally, a particularly hard gust would blow the fronds towards my room. It was as if the tree were waving to us. Night fell along with the rain. Eventually Kusuma left for her own room while I continued to work on her picture.

In the light of an oil lamp, I was filling in background. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a sheet of rain slash through the tree and for an instant it looked as though a woman dressed in a sari was perched in the tree. I turned my head quickly to check my vision, but the tree moved its branches to cover itself from my prying eyes. Several more times I looked at the tree, but did not see the figure again. Distractedly I rubbed my eyes and found them tired from a long day. I set the sketchpad and pencil aside and climbed into bed.

The next evening at dusk found both another monsoon and Mother moving through the house turning on our lights again. Over Papadums we watched her fret and mutter more prayers. Being the kids that we were we rolled our eyes out of her sight. In the fading light, we went upstairs to draw and play again. I choose the tree as my subject, flipped to a clean page in my sketchbook and began to draw. After about an hour of working on the picture, I handed it to Kusuma and asked her for her opinion.

It’s very nice Raj, but why do you have a woman and a headless man in the tree? she asked politely.

What do you mean? I didn’t draw anyone in the tree.

Sure you did, they’re right here in the branches near the wall, she insisted. I took the sketchpad back from her, and sure enough, there were two figures in the tree.

I like the technique you used, the soft charcoal makes them look like ghosts, Kusuma added.

I glanced around me, and didn’t see my charcoal stick anywhere. My sister kissed my cheek and ruffled my hair before skipping out of the room. As her footsteps receded down the hall, the lights suddenly went out. Instinctively I glanced out the window at the Neem tree and the branches parted as I looked revealing the woman in her sari and a man sitting next to her holding his head in his lap.

I heard Mother downstairs yelling a prayer out. I blinked several times. The lights came back on and the tree closed itself up. This night I stared out of the window for several hours waiting and hoping to catch another glimpse. While I kept vigil, I thought about Kusuma.