Ten Greatest Fictional Universes Ever

Sometimes, this life doesn't feel enough. It's fun, it's beautiful and all that... But once in a while, we wonder if there's a better place, a better life, waiting for us somewhere. Well, I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but these are the ten worlds I'd love to be in. Ten greatest fictional worlds I've come across:

10. BERK:

Who wouldn't want to live with big burly vikings, drink yak milk and pillage villages for fun? Here, I can sail. And I can fly!

"This is Berk. It snows nine months of the year and hails the other three. What little food grows here is tough, and tasteless. The people that grow here, even more so. The only upsides are the pets. While other places have ponies, and parrots, we have dragons!"

Watch the movie.

9. COLLECTING DRAGON BALLS:

It's my life's ambition to meet a real-life super-Saiyyan. That, and Piccolo's makankosappo (or Special Beam Cannon) means that Goku, Bulma and company find their place in the list at number nine.

Come get me!!

8. WITH THE JUSTICE LEAGUE:

Yes, more superheroes! While Bruce Wayne's Gotham alone is worth experiencing, one finds the city devoid of The Green Lantern, J'onn J'onzz and The Flash. So yes, wherever the JL go, I'd like to go with them.

Note 1: Superman is gay: the only eyesore in an otherwise perfect universe.

Note 2: More than offsetting this problem, we'll have Wonder Woman. And she is...

7. ARDA:

Being one of the most elaborately designed worlds ever (the Mahabharata isn't really fiction), not wanting to live in Middle Earth and, later, Valinor should be considered a criminal offence! Silmarils, rings and legendary swords... I'm probably doing Tolkien grave injustice by relegating the world to number se7en.

6. AS A PGW CREATION:

As a matter of policy, I dislike God-interference. Some plots become murkier and murkier until one stage a solution seems impossible, when Presto! An impossible ending is conjured out of nowhere and all is well. These story-lines just don't make sense! However, there are two exceptions to this rule: 1. My life and 2. A Wodehouse novel.

Jeeves is a genius.

5. HOGWARTS:

Even though I consider Rowling a highly unoriginal author, I'm a sucker for this world. Come on! 'Wands and Wizards' - there's no way in hell I'd say no to that! Besides, house-elves could do all my work.

(For the record, I prefer elves who tall, beautiful warriors to the sycophantic elves.)

4. HERGEVERSE:

Blistering barnacles, of course! Tintin, Snowy and the cap'n almost skipped my mind entirely... I'd love to gallivant Borduria, Sydavia and places as far away as the Moon. This one comes above Wands and Wizards!

3. THE MAGIC FARAWAY TREE:

Moonface, Silky the fairy, Dame Washalot, Mister Whatizname, Saucepan Man and the Angry Pixie... Need I say more? What worse could happen to me here than missing the hole back to the tree! Enchanting, yes! And one of the happiest worlds I've lived in as a kid.

2. LONG LONG AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY:

Light sabers. Need I say more?

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no death, there is the Force.

1. CENTRAL PERK:

A quintessential Friends group and the bittersweet symphony of Life. The most real, happy place I've ever had the fortune of coming across! Thank you, David Crane and Marta Kauffman for redefining happiness and laughter.

I'll be there for you...

'Cuz you're there for me too.

One Last Breath

Greyness descended upon him even as his vision blurred. Colours seemed to fade away, as grass merged with dusty earth, in a cold steel grey. The pool of blood appeared black from where he stood. Once again, he crouched behind the makeshift wall to protect himself from sheets of savage arrows. Faces in the wall were a grim reminder of the dead who now constituted it: once his comrades and brothers, they now stared back through empty eyes. With swords in arms, they had all perished in the front-lines and now, in death, they protected him. They would not get a decent burial but dishonour and indignity are rarely felt by the dead.

A man enters a battle in fear, charged with adrenalin... but by the end, he is drained of energy and of tears. And he is fueled by unparalleled courage.

From his breastplate, he pulled out the shaft which had sought him out from behind the wall. The arrowhead smelled of his blood. He rubbed his wound; it did not hurt. He was alone and Death was near. He had sliced and cut his way here with his bloody broadsword before he had been sapped of his strength. He was alone in a losing battle now.

What is fear?

He picked up a fallen bow, instantly recognizing it, but thought not of its previous owner. With a final burst of energy, he sprang up from the dirt. With his one bloody shaft, he armed his bow. He could kill one more man. Through a cloud of approaching arrows, he spotted the chariot. A deep breath filled his lungs, as last breaths often do. He steadied his arms and squinted through the blur. The arrows descended upon him and they sliced through his chain-mail. Blood flowed freely now, even as he imagined that they had entirely missed their target.

He managed a final chuckle and let the arrow fly.

The Old Man & The Pot

The mud track took one last turn around the hill, and a smile vanquished the last of those fretful lines upon his face. The boy, tired as he was, was finally nearing the end of his almighty quest. The meandering road had taken him through several villages and shanties, over treacherous rope-ways and some insanely beautiful scenery. But he was glad that it was all over now, for his legs: they were pumping acid; and his vision was blurring from fatigue. And thus, he threw himself around the bend with whatever energy was left in him, unconsumed.

Voila! The sight he beheld astonished him as much as it bewildered his senses, for beauty in its most consummate form can hold one in a trance forever; he held the vision in veneration and fear. The trees were taller than many mountains he had seen in his life and they were richer than the richest of kings. Snowflakes, like little stars, floated down through their almighty canopy into the bursting stream which ran down the hill. And in front of him was the most queer looking house, made of logs and bricks and stone - and yet it didn't look out of place.

He was rejuvenated by the glorious sight and he felt like he could run all the way to the house. For it was for the house that he had undertaken this perilous trip once again. Memories of his previous encounters with the wizened inhabitant of the house flooded his thoughts. It had been two years now...

* * *

"Welcome, welcome..." the old man had said, stroking his flowing beard. “What must I owe this delightful honour to? Not many lads come by these days," he had sighed.

"N… nothing sir..." the boy had stammered. “ I am merely an admirer of nature... and a lover of unadulterated beauty.”

"Oh, come now... Let me boil you some tea," the man had said, as he ushered the boy into his austere dwelling. "But you don't have to lie. I know why you have come. I know why all boys come!"

Then he had meticulously boiled the tealeaves in a large kettle and he had returned to the boy's beside only when he carried two mugs of tea.

"Sip on it when it's hot," he had commanded and the boy had obeyed. All of a sudden, he had found himself fully strong: renewed. The old man then posed the question: "Now that you are better, tell me... What are you willing to trade? I know that you have come for the Pot."

"Trade?!" the boy remembered himself faltering, shocked by the old-man's deduction.

"Of course... A trade! It's only fair, isn't it? And how is it you don't know about the trade?!" He had asked. The man seemed menacing now; no longer friendly and definitely not affable. "The pot isn't free of cost. What will you give me in exchange for the pot?"

"I have some gold...?"

"GOLD!" He had laughed, but without mirth. "You can keep that! It is worthless to me. I am looking for something far more precious."

The boy had stayed silent. The old man had played this game far too many times to lose at it. He always won. Every lad eventually gave in! They all knew that their lives would remain miserable without the pot. It was their only way out!

"You know what it is..." he said, slowly. “I know you lead a wretched life! You have nothing more than a pocketful of gold... You believe Life is unjust to you and you have come to me. But you have something I can trade the Pot for..."

The boy had stared mutely.

"Your dreams, your heart! Your soul..." The man went on. "I am willing to trade."

"My heart is mine to keep and mine alone to give. One cannot forcibly claim it. My dreams serve me as an infinite staircase to eternal glory... If you want me to trade that, you are fooling yourself sir. I might be poor, destitute, distraught and ill-omened, but I'm willing to walk back home empty handed. There will be no trade today. Now, will you give me the pot? Or must I walk?"

The man had then smiled, like he had smiled before. "Bravo, boy! Bravo..." He had cried, for never before had he listened to such words. People, usually, willingly submitted. “For you lad, free of cost!” And he conjured a small earthen pot out of thin air. "Just promise me that you will never trade. Otherwise you are not worthy of the Pot."

* * *

The boy was once again at the door of the strange tenement, and he stood on the threshold staring at the large oak door. He had once sworn to himself that he would never make this trip again. And now, he was here. He had promised never to trade, even for something he valued as much as the pot. His life had dramatically improved ever since he had sipped some of its magic. And Life had become fair and beautiful and lovely and grand. For two long years, he had ruled his world, but now he found his pot empty. He felt things would go awry once again. He was afraid: afraid to lose it all and return to square one. He felt now like it was worth a trade.

Suddenly, the door sprang open. But there was no old man this time: in his stead was a little boy.

"What do you want, friend," he asked to which the traveller replied that he had come to see the old man.

The boy looked sad now, and he replied: "You have come to meet grandpa! If only you had come sooner... He forgot to take his daily sip yesterday. I'm afraid he's no longer with us!"

The traveller stared aghast.

"Yes," nodded the grandson solemnly. "Grandpa used to sell Luck."