Gursharan Singh wrote over two hundred drama scripts. Many of these were original plays, others were based on short stories, novels and even poems from contemporary writings. In 2010-11, writer and artistic director, Kewal Dhaliwal, published seven volumes of Gursharan Singh’s collected plays and released them in Chandigarh in the presence of Gursharan Singh. We discovered a few more scripts after the publication of these seven volumes. These will be brought out in another volume in the coming year. The seven volumes are being added with much gratitude to Kewal Dhaliwal, who is also a member of the Trust.
Now, he was back. And he called himself the PROPHET. The colony ship Aurelia’s Hope hung in a decaying orbit, its systems barely patched. Inside the dim war-room, Thorne sat shackled to a chair that wasn’t built for a man with crystal veins. The colony’s surviving council—twelve scared, desperate people—stared at him like he was a ghost and a bomb all at once.
The PROPHET opened the airlock and stepped onto the bleeding soil of the world that had read him, edited him, and finally—impossibly—let him live. Outland Special Edition-PROPHET
His skin had taken on the opalescent sheen of the native crystal flora, and his eyes were no longer human. They were dark, bottomless lenses reflecting a sky that didn’t exist anymore. When the rescue team pulled him from the pulsating geode he’d made his sanctuary, he spoke his first words in three years: Now, he was back
Thorne smiled. It was a terrible thing to see. “Outland does. It’s not a world anymore, Commander. It’s a reader. And you’ve been characters in a story it’s been editing in real-time.” He told them the truth no one wanted to hear. Inside the dim war-room, Thorne sat shackled to
One of the council members, a botanist named Elara, stood up. Her hands were trembling. “If the planet is a reader, then who’s the author?”
And Outland had responded by trying to kill everyone who could hear it.
Now, he was back. And he called himself the PROPHET. The colony ship Aurelia’s Hope hung in a decaying orbit, its systems barely patched. Inside the dim war-room, Thorne sat shackled to a chair that wasn’t built for a man with crystal veins. The colony’s surviving council—twelve scared, desperate people—stared at him like he was a ghost and a bomb all at once.
The PROPHET opened the airlock and stepped onto the bleeding soil of the world that had read him, edited him, and finally—impossibly—let him live.
His skin had taken on the opalescent sheen of the native crystal flora, and his eyes were no longer human. They were dark, bottomless lenses reflecting a sky that didn’t exist anymore. When the rescue team pulled him from the pulsating geode he’d made his sanctuary, he spoke his first words in three years:
Thorne smiled. It was a terrible thing to see. “Outland does. It’s not a world anymore, Commander. It’s a reader. And you’ve been characters in a story it’s been editing in real-time.” He told them the truth no one wanted to hear.
One of the council members, a botanist named Elara, stood up. Her hands were trembling. “If the planet is a reader, then who’s the author?”
And Outland had responded by trying to kill everyone who could hear it.