Microfiction

FLASH FICTION

REENA SAXENA from 27 November 2016 to 9 April 2017

1 - 100 WORD STORIES

Cafe Samovar

It was a private note of exchange between them, amidst the noise of celebrations. Just 7 words scribbled on a paper towel.

“See me tomorrow at noon. Samovar Café”.

The glance accompanying the note was evocative, and she almost knew what it was about. Hadn’t she waited for his confession?

Ten years later, she stood at the same spot. The Café had closed down, as if offering an excuse for that cancelled meeting. She wished to explore that unknown part of his life – was love traded for wealth?

Written for Weekly Writing Challenge-70 secretkeeper.net Weekly Writing Challenge #70

The Mission

The village had been deserted a few weeks ago, as terrorist threats loomed large.

His head struck a bag hanging from the ceiling. What could it be, in this abandoned place? His military training compelled him to check. It could be a detonatory device that would explode in a few seconds.

A heap of undelivered letters tumbled out – written by a girl to her lover, hoping that he would find them. His heart ached with thoughts of his lost love, and he picked up the bag – to be delivered at the given address.

His mission had changed. Love reigned supreme.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/

The Path

Oh, dear Path, I have traversed you every evening for a walk.

You go as far back as memory, and move as far ahead as imagination. You have been a witness to my thoughts, as well as an inspiration. You have kept my feet grounded to reality. The planes, kites and birds that I saw flying across the sky fuelled dreams. I learnt about steadfastness and regimens from the Sky and the Sun. The varying colors and form of the trees taught me about the permanence of change.

Where would I be without you, my eternal friend, guide and mentor?

Inspired by 100 word Wednesday – Week 1 Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 1

The Dream Express

The tracks inspired the villagers to reach their destination. Each had a different dream, and a different plan for the journey. She always wondered if those blue wagon cars had the capacity to hold all those rosy dreams.

The only train that passed through that village was called Dadar–Lucknow Express. She preferred to call it a Dream for Luck Now Express. She stopped at the grey cement crossing, and turned back from that point.

Life had stopped for her, when she bid goodbye to a loved one, at the same point, twelve years ago. He had never returned.

Inspired by Saturday Mix- January 14,2017 https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/01/14/saturday-mix-january-14-2016/

The Capsized Boat

The ducks, the birds and the mountain were familiar figures. He wondered where the boat had vanished. The boat was supposed to ferry him back home, where his family waited to have dinner with him.

It felt like ages, since he interacted with human beings. His shadow was not joined at his feet, any more. It had developed an independent identity.

A child just walked through him, without a fall or injury. His mother yelled at him, “Don’t go too far. This is rumoured to be a haunted island, occupied by passengers of a boat, which capsized 20 years ago.

Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday – Week 2 100 Word Wednesday: Week 2

Rolling back in Time

Yes, this is exactly what I visualized during past life regression. I ambled slowly through this tunnel, taking the time to choose a door.

“Step in,” said the voice, “and meet me. You and I are not two separate beings. But we have lived through different stretches of time.”

And there I saw this guru teaching in an enclave in the forest. He was behind a hazy mirror.

“And why did you give up a corporate career to be a life coach?”, my conscious voice asked.

Inspired by Friday fictioneers https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/01/18/20-january-2017/

The Robbery

Wheels on wheels? Wheels behind wheels? Wheels dominated your life. I wanted to be the grease that lubricated your life, to help it run smoothly. But it was not destined.

Life rolled on. You joined the army, married and had a family that loved you. I drove on aimlessly, alone on the highway of life, breaking signals and paying penalties.

You followed the patriotic code, and sacrificed your life for the nation. As the casket was brought in for people to pay their last respect, I towed away your jeep. It was your life that I had wished to hijack.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers prompt by Rochelle-Wisoff-Fields https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/27-january-2017/al_forbes-3/

Timed

I have always loved your way of doing things, Tim the Timid! You placed a boulder on my path, but left ample space for me, to bypass it, and drive ahead. And I don’t hold it against you, either! Your wife does not like me, and somebody has paid you to do this.

I have become so adept at ducking bullets and manholes. Life has never been easy. Good things happened, but always at the wrong time. Just like my ill-fated rendezvous with you! You will regret this soon, Tim, the Wrongly Timed! I do not forget or forgive.

Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge of Carrot Ranch February 2: Flash Fiction Challenge

Pause..Think… Do not give it away

History does not tell us, at what point of time, did we lose our rights, and patriarchy took over. Was it the fear of the womb, and the potential for undesirable results that it could produce? Was it the incapability or reluctance of men, to manage the household and children?

Or did we never have freedom? The only lesson that we need to pass on to our daughters, is not to relinquish freedom in the name of love – be it that of a wife, mother or daughter. Getting it back is a battle that will involve more than one generation.

Inspired by 100 word Wednesday -Week 5 100 Word Wednesday: Week 5

Folklore

Susan Rooke insisted on placing the chair on slippery ground, and seating herself there, to keep an eye on her grandchildren, while enjoying the view of the sunset. On a fateful evening, the chair got washed away in the high tide, and Susan was never seen again. The children had been warned well in time, and they survived.

The story goes that the villagers have got another chair installed there, on a platform below it. They believe that Susan’s soul still comes there in the evening. The kids are believed to be safe, as long as the chair remains there.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisofffields https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/02/08/10-february-2017/

Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge #1

I am and so I am

Why I am? Cringing with discomfort, seeing through the disapproving glances thrown my way and wondering, if there was a better place to be. The past life therapist said souls are born and reborn in clusters, and we meet the same people over and over again. I’ve never had a family in the past lifetimes. I have lived ascetic lives. Is that the reason that I am so detached? Why have those disciples and patrons not bothered to connect with me?

The embedded guru inside me spoke “Because my existence is independent of others. I am and so I am.�

Written for IBMC #01 by Prakash Hegde https://itsphblog.wordpress.com/ibmc/ibmc-01-phrase-a-paragraph-challenge/ Cover pic credit: presenttruth.info

Memories

Café Coffee Day….

The place where her first crush had shyly passed on a note scribbled on a tissue ….

The place where she met her first employer, and launched a career….

The place where she signed the deal with a publisher to launch her first book …

The place where she engaged her coachees, for a stimulating, mind-to-mind conversation The place where she bid goodbye to several friends with a farewell meeting ….

The joint was closing down due to stiff competition, from other coffee shops ….

The luscious, tantalizing chocolate cake they served will always haunt her.

Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday by Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 6

Revenge

Her arch rival was dead today.

How she had hated the guts and glory of the woman! Angela owned every art, animal and human being that she chose to love. Angela was admired, envied and widely written about.

For Angela Jackson was made of star material ‌. She broke records even with her funeral attendance.

Fans had thronged in thousands, for a glimpse of the coffin that carried her stately self.

Myra was too busy to attend.. She got drunk, carried out the bust that her sculptor husband had created, and broke it with a vengeance. Her revenge was complete.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff 17 February 2017 Coverpic: Liz Young, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff

If wishes were horses…..

The castle on the top of the hill, had kept her riveted for ages. She had heard stories about beautiful maidens being woo-ed by handsome princes, and taken there. She had waited for her knight-in-shiningarmor, but he never came.

The valley in between was too difficult to be crossed. She was but a shepherdess, guarding her flock of sheep, and rushing back home to feed her physically challenged mother. Today, she stopped in her tracks on seeing a balloon-like thing in the sky.

“Please take me to the castle”, she implored, “I would like to live my own life now.”

Inspired by Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge-2 by Jane Dougherty https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/02/19/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-2/

Dreams

An arranged marriage with Sameer had brought her to this country. Her life appeared to be gray and dreary like the surroundings, and her dreams frozen like the snow. Sameer had just told her, that he was already married to a German girl, and she would have to find her way back home.

A car screeched to a halt near her, and a familiar face peeped out. RAAJESH‌. he had been her classmate in medical school. Suddenly, her eyes fell on the yellow rocket-like shape on the roadside.

Hope dawned again. Yes, her dreams would take off into the stratosphere.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields https://rochellewisoff.com/

Fame and Fortune

How I love controversies surrounding my books? It puts me straight into the league of a Salman Rushdie or Taslima Nasrin. I wouldn’t mind paying someone to raise objections, but my iconoclasm does the job. I have never had to blow money on questionable pursuits.

Curiosity rides over shockwaves. The trolls enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame, and give me a longer lease. Everybody wants to know what was so intolerable, and possessing a banned copy becomes a matter of prestige. Book-legging is the bane of many organizations and governments. But my wife has made a fortune out of it.

Inspired by Prompt #2010 Word of the Week http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/02/24/prompt-2010-word-of-the-week-booklegging/

Floating on a Cloud

I had grown up reading an Urdu couplet which said (translated version) Develop your individuality to the extent That God asks you ‘Tell me what do you want?’

I stopped being a feminist, humanist etc., and just focussed on being an individualist. Relationships touched an all-time low, as my new avatar was not easily accepted. Rejection, disapproval, dissent, adversaries gunning for me … I was rising up on the cloud of individualism.

And there I met God riding a larger white cloud (mine was grey, I confess), “Tell me, would you like to go down with a thud or whimper?”

Inspired by Saturday Mix – February 25,2017 – Bastet https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/02/25/saturnday-mix-february-25-2017bastet/

Sunshine

The conspiracy was getting thicker and darker, with each passing day. She refused to give up work ethics, and the power corridors viewed it as an affront to their slimy tactics.

She was getting clear insights into how they had reached wherever they were, and it was certainly not capability, that propelled them. Capability was the last thing that mattered. Stooges were given ruling power and inside information, to strengthen their position. The only thing expected of them, was unquestioning loyalty.

Quitting needs strength, but she had plenty of that. The Sun shone again, after its journey through the clouds.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers at Rochelle Wisoff 3 March 2017

ReInvention

The old building appeared to be ensnared with electric wires, gasping for breath, just like the brand it housed, which could not keep up with changing times.

Reinvention and rebranding were non-negotiable. Jim realized this a bit too late, as he walked out of the building, with hunched shoulders, now unemployed. He had been a copywriter for twenty six long years. He had not bothered to stay updated with technology, and social media marketing. There were few takers for his creativity, as content was churned out, with just a few keywords punched in. Competence was not an insurance against unemployment.

Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday- Week 8 at Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 8

Unblossomed

She was a beauty – cherished, pampered and well-cared for, but had spent her life in captivity. The transition from babyhood to youth, passed away unnoticed. She peeped out of the window, and fantasized about the pleasures, which the outside world offered. A few books, carefully selected by her protectors, the ageing tutors and the glimpses of life from the window, fed her limited imagination. Those could never compensate for the lack of experience.

A bud could never blossom into a flower, and the criminal gardeners were never held accountable.

A beautiful flower withered away so soon knew only the branch.

Haibun inspired by 100 Word Wednesday- Week 9 at Bikurgurl.

100 Word Wednesday: Week 9

Passage through Time

He looked at the shadows of his past through the door. The wooden benches and antique pillar did not belong to this age, but told a compelling story. The sight of people beyond that door was familiar, though the language they spoke was alien. He tightened his grip on the globe, where he had perched himself.

One had to get out of the planet, to get a complete view. Maybe, in future, this body will look strange and unfamiliar. And he will try to make sense of all the extensions he has. Signals can be received through a single touch-point.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff Prompt picture: Shaktiki Sharma

The Full Moon

This picture from our honeymoon album is just so perfect. We kept looking dreamily at the horizon with its magnificent colors, unmindful of the hard rocks beneath. We believed that love would conquer all difficulties.

Darkness spread its tentacles into our life, soon. Jack suffered from a congenital health problem, and could not work. I had no issues about being the sole breadwinner, but he turned into a nasty and suspicious partner. The moon has its waxing and waning phases, and so does married life.

I live in anticipation of the Full Moon to shine in my life, again.

Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge at Carrot Ranch by Charli Mills March 9: Flash Fiction Challenge

Across the Sky

Angela was born with two hearts, but was unable to love the world. She was tired of being a guinea pig for scientists, who kept measuring the impact of various simulated conditions, on her unusual body.

She was strapped with monstrous machines, or draped in multiple layers of smart fabric. The money helped her parents make both ends meet, and she let them earn returns on their investment.

The angels watched in awe, as a human figure floated across the sky, without any help. It was only Angela who could have shown the courage to jump out of a spaceship.

Inspired by Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge by Jane Dougherty https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/03/12/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-4/

Choice

All the world’s a stage and all men and women merely players. famously said William Shakespeare.

This stage does not offer opportunities for a rehearsal. We just land in it, when the show, lights and loudspeakers are fully on. We play out our whims, fancies, attitudes, prejudices and then, blame the stage for being the ‘circumstance’, that we landed in.

Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, No. Shakespeare got it wrong. Life begins and ends with choice. We live, only as long as we choose.

The rest is mere Existence.

(100 words) Inspired by 100-Word Wednesday – Week 10 by Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 10

Monster Wheel

Of what use is a monster wheel, which is grounded? Does it qualify to be called a wheel at all?

David had just returned from the Municipal Corporation office. He was a social activist trying to get justice for the farmers affected adversely by the land acquisition, for a development project. They had

received a meagre compensation, but had lost the source of their livelihood. The bureaucrats had expressed inability to help, citing legal constraints.

David knew, he had to fight this Goliath on its own steam. He called a farmers’ meeting to plan the next phase of the protests.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers Challenge by Rochelle Wisoff

The (Dis)Connect

Art is a function of the spirit, and articulation is crafting that spirit, for presentation to the world. At a more abstract level, it is called expression.

Communication is the mundane, everyday version of passing on a message. This format will survive in absence of art. Sensitivity will disappear, so will strong responses. Connectivity will replace connectedness. Relativity will be the ‘If….’ for artificial intelligence tools, to determine the ‘…… then’, for completion of a process. AI will measure both intent and impact, and close the loop, if certain parameters were fulfilled. Humanity will not be an essential factor.

(99 words) Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge by Charli Mills

Loyalty Unrewarded

“What makes you so vain, Mary’s little lamb? Four legs and a tail? You are cared for, because you provide warmth, and satisfy hunger. Mary was never your friend, and never will be. Trust will lead to the end of your existence, as merciless humans shave you away, till they reach the innermost layers of your being.

They see the form, not the soul. They worship the exotic, they worship mystery, they worship beauty. I have concealed my form beneath the long gown. Watch how my deception succeeds, and your loyalty fails…”

So said the mermaid in a child’s disguise.

Inspired by Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge-5 https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-5/

Death has no Mercy

I smashed all mirrors around me, as I could not bear the ugliness of my life and actions. I was not born to be a criminal. I was not born to cheat and kill. Circumstances made me what I am today.

I stand on the border of life and death, and see no mercy or forgiveness. The clarity of the universe reflects my grotesqueness back on me, down to the tiniest detail. The places I lived and the moments I erred ‌. I am answerable. I am guilty.

I stood at the crossroads long ago, and made the wrong choice.

(100 words) Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday – Week 11 by Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 11

Metaphor

Yes, the doctors call it Aichmophobia – the fear of sharp objects. I hate this fence, rather, dread it. The roundness of the few curves and arches do not help much. Autumn increases the unsightliness, with the sharpness of bare branches. The twigs lying around the porsche, represent my hapless life –of being separated from the roots, and of being isolated.

The beast that I once loved, has chosen this house behind the fence (ouch) to incarcerate me. He will not have to pierce me with knives to kill. He will kill my soul, metaphorically – to inherit my mega millions.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff 24 March 2017

The Honcho

His plane had crashed into this desert. Habitually, he opened his mouth to swear, and condemn all, with the filthiest words. The corporate honcho was known for his foul mouth and intimidating manner. He stopped at the sight of a tribal group, moving ominously towards him. The brutes were armed with spears and knives.

The honcho was speechless for the first time. The social recluse had never interacted with anyone other than his tongue-tied team. The obliged slaves just bowed in obeisance, as he reviewed their performance and hurled insults. Overpowering this audience would need a totally different strategy.

Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge by Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch Communications March 23: Flash Fiction Challenge

‘Un’Friend

Silly me! I thought, I could play with a troll, just as I play with my adorable puppy, Love. And then, I lost my diamond. Love would have fetched it for me, from anywhere. But Troll ….. this guy hid it in his bushy head, and now complains that the prickly piece of jewellery is hurting him.

It is almost noon, and I am compelled to sit in this cave, as Troll fears turning into stone, if he stays out.

Do I really care? But, Mom and Love are waiting for me. I need to get back with the diamond.

(100 words) Inspired by Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge- 6 https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/03/26/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-6/

The Busy Harbor

Today, I complete three decades of service in education. I have tutored more than 3000 students in this time span.

Some of them have moved on to become icons in their chosen fields, and some languish in the dark corridors of ordinariness. My inputs were only incidental to their capability and destiny.

The arched gate of the institution mocks my incompetence to move on. I have remained rooted to the same ground, while the ships that I harboured for a short while, have found their glorious destinations.

I chalk out the navigation path for the next batch – the busy harbour.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers prompt by Rochelle Wisoff https://rochellewisoff.com/

Closure

I do not remember the first Hello, or if there was any excitement behind it. Nor did I say Goodbye. The wounds inflicted by you were too deep, to enable a civil conversation. I just walked away, with my head held high, not wanting any emotional outburst, to bring my hurt out in the open.

I will survive. I will succeed, and without associating with multiple-faced people like you. Yet, the lack of a closure rankles at times. Do you even realize the impact of your actions on my life? You will, when you go through a similar situation.

(99 words) Flash Fiction Challenge at Carrot Ranch Communications. The theme is a Hello or Goodbye.

March 30: Flash Fiction Challenge

The role that females play

The white mare, Ballerina, had looked lost since she was brought here. She refused to mingle with the inmates of the stable, and was often caught looking at the high wall surrounding the race course. She smelt different. Ebony had long suspected, that she was in love with a cross-breed horse in the race course, a cross between a Friesian and an Appaloosa.

He wished that the owner of the farm made her understand, that she was brought here, to give birth to cross-breeds, not to fancy them. Ebony and Ballerina could then, be the proud parents of another winner.

(100 words) Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday at Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 12

Living on the edge

Life-purpose acquires meaning on the edge. Life takes all the trouble to build a bridge, and takes one close to deep waters. It then, lets you decide. One cannot swim ashore, nor find a boat to save dear life.

The choice is all yours.

One can invent equipment to measure the depth, or enjoy the drama from the side-lines. One can write a story about the whale that carried a human on its back to the other end, or the sharks waiting for the fall.

The only pathway that life does not provide is going back, unlike this constructed structure.

(100 words) Inspired by 100 Word Wednesday at Bikurgurl. Take the challenge at 100 Word Wednesday: Week 13

Fruits of Labor

Albert wondered where the old bicycle would be lying now. This sketch was done by his eight-year old son, James, reproduced from the stories that he had heard from Albert. Albert had displayed it on the wall of his plush office.

The picture reminded him of his roots – his father who sold ice-cream on this bicycle, to pay for his son’s education. Albert wanted James to always remember that the lush foliage they now owned, were once nurtured by someone else. And that unfortunate man did not get to taste the fruit of his labor. They bowed in gratitude ….

(100 words) Inspired by Friday Fictioneers at 7 April 2017

Fearless in FearVille

At the crack of dawn, the residents of Fearville realized that they had been taken for a ride. The cardboard decoy stood there, while the actual criminals had taken off under the cover of darkness.

A few shots were fired at the figure in frustration, which drilled a few holes in it. But the figure just swayed in the morning breeze. It did not fall. One had to get closer, to see what kept it glued to the ground.

Real horror struck now. At the base was a casket, with the dead body of the fearless social worker in Fearville.

Inspired by Wednesday’s Visual Writing Prompt by Nikolad92 Wednesdays Visual Writing Prompt by Nikolad92

The Conversation

“I have invented a synthetic molecule”.

“Have you replicated nature, or invented something that did not exist before?”

“I draw inspiration from existing patterns, and then, improvise on them.”

“Great! But has Nature run out of stock to cater to the needs of the planet?”

“The population has ballooned by quantum leaps. Competition between human beings, plants and animals has increased. My genius can help me in building a comfort capsule for myself.”

“Is that creativity, or an unwise survival strategy?”

“I do not really know. “ “This God fellow has never educated anyone, just created platforms to learn.”

Inspired by the Flash Fiction Challenge by Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch

April 6: Flash Fiction Challenge Coverpic: theconversation.com

Grey inheritance

“Hey, buddy! Come up on the terrace! It is sky-watching time. Grandma says the Sun used to have a bigger and brighter orb in her youth, and they had distinct parts of daily routines, called Night and Day.” “Right! My online tutor told me to observe the grey orb.”

“And what is that made of?”

“The search engine says – particles of dust and soot, emitted from Earth, and collected in the sky over a period of time. It has created a dimmer world.”

“Any solutions?”

“A clean-up of polluting minds, to purify the flow of energy in the world.”

(100 words) Inspired by Saturday Mix by Bastet https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/04/08/saturday-mix-april-8-2017/

2 - 140 CHARACTERS

Dreams

It starts with one word – dreams. It grows into ambition, success, greed, obsession or crime. The end depends on how the world reacts to it.

(140 characters)

Inspired by Twittering Tales by Kat Myrman Twittering Tales #21 – 14 March 2017

A Socialite’s View

Ugh! The print on your backside, and the patterns on your shape… No wonder, your walk is labored.

You need a stylist, before you hitchhike (140 characters) Inspired by Twittering Tales #22 Twittering Tales #22 – 21 March 2017 Coverpic: pexels.com

UnRomanticization of Love

Gone are the days, when actors hung from helicopters, with songs to capture the attention of their love.

You are being stalked, darling‌.

(137 characters) Inspired by Twittering Tales #23 Twittering Tales #23 – 28 March 2017 Image: pixabay.com

Disappointment

Deeply disappointed is the romantic me When my heart goes aflutter in the depth of the sea, they kill imagination, these guys with long hair.

(140 characters)

Pic: mymodernmet.com For Twittering Tale #24 Twittering Tales #24

3 - 200 WORD STORIES

Jettisoned

I wonder who left the cargo there, with no sailor or passenger in sight. Was it jettisoned, and those who dropped it there, just flew away into the horizon? Hats off to that white dinghy, looking lost, yet waiting for someone to appear. Something far more intriguing than that, is the red stool under the tree. Was it placed there for an overseer?

A strange feeling grips me. I sense the presence of invisible people there, who feel as helpless as I do.

These are people who have been unable to detach themselves from the scenario. I wait for them to burst upon the scene and take charge. They might come charging from behind the trees, or descend from the blue sky. The red stool exists for a special purpose – of retaining a separate identity in the colors of the outwardly calm scene.

I pull out my device, and start recording the similarities with my life. Where do I place myself in this story? Or do I just sit back and wait for a new story to emerge? I hope to find a better role in it, with more power than that of an idle onlooker. I start writing ‌.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fictioner https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/01/29/sunday-photo-fiction-january-29th-2017/

The Concrete that Moved

The decanter made of crude etched glass, and the ceramic old man with a beard, were relics from my grandparents’ home. My wife, Lynda, found no place for them, in her plush residence, and had discarded those pieces in junk. I was no longer the rustic lad that I used to be. She had married a bureaucrat, who imposed rules and regulations in his territory. She never had the opportunity to meet my grandparents’ either. So, how could I expect anything different?

Yet, I wanted to create a space for these items, maybe in the study, where I spent several hours in solitude. The creation of compartments, to accommodate me as a whole, was not easy. It sliced me into

several pieces, and I could not recognize my splintered self, but Lynda had never sensed my discomfort.

How I wished, boundaries were flexible, and we could move the concrete to suit our needs!

The next morning saw an old lady in my office, who wanted the thick wall surrounding the old age home, to be replaced with a wire fence, so that the inmates could stay in touch with the world outside.

Regressive move, but I had signed the orders‌.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction – February 5th https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/05/sunday-photo-fiction-february-5th-2017/

An appropriate platform

The hands look hardened with stress, more like a manual laborer’s hands, than a musician’s.

Jack plays on to alleviate stress. The world had knocked him down several times. He had built hotels and homes, but was never invited to take a peek of the finished work from inside. He created comfort for others, but had never experienced it. A priest had recognized musical talent in him, and had gifted him this guitar. He would probably build a cathedral next, which would not bar his entry to the inner precincts.

A car stopped by, and out stepped a very sophisticated gentleman, wearing a tail coat and hat.

“Will you play on my band? We have a concert on Saturday, and my guitarist has fallen sick.”

“Sorry, I can’t. I do not have the kind of clothes needed to enter those hallowed auditoriums. I have been refused entry to concert halls, which I have built.”

“All that will be taken care of.”

“But, why should I oblige you? What is your offer?”

“People were incapable of appreciating the poetry in stone which you carved. You have an alternative talent to touch hearts, and I have the platform. That is my offer.”

Inspired by Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner for Week #7- 2017 https://flashfictionforthepracticalpractitioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/07/320/

The Circus

Those circus tents were back in town. The white, snowy exterior induced a chill in his spine.

The tents used to be colourful in his heydays, to attract children to the clowns, animals and the artists in shiny costumes. He had spent the best days of his life, there. He shuddered to remember the day, he had fled from bondage.

He had inherited the circus from his father. The business hit a low spot, as alternative means of entertainment sprung up, and people no longer queued up for tickets to the circus. Losses were mounting up. They were unable to pay the bills, as the overheads piled up. They had to feed and house the human and four-legged artists.

He lost his father to a massive myocardial infarction. The staff feared that he will run away, leaving debts behind. Hence, he was incarcerated for a few days.

He was not sure if he should walk into those tents again. Maybe he will be attacked and locked up. Yet, his feet dragged him in that direction. Maybe, just maybe, the girl who had helped in his escape, was still there, awaiting his return. It was his turn to return the favour‌ Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction — Week of February 12,2017 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/12/sunday-photo-fiction-february-12th-2017/

Cover pic: Sascha Darlington

A new chapter

I had been driving around in the wilderness for too long, with no directions.

The sight of an inverted umbrella boosted my sagging spirits. Maybe, there was a brilliant, young mind at work somewhere close, who was on a network. If this was a dish antenna, there was some hope of being reconnected to the civilized world for help.

I drove closer, and called out “Is there someone around? Are you listening?…….”

The sound just dissipated in the wilderness. i decided not to lose hope, and kept walking around that umbrella. I needed to conserve gas, till I reached help.

I touched the umbrella, and there it was, in my hands. It was not fixed to the ground. So …. It was just an umbrella, and not a dish antenna. I swirled it around in disappointment, and decided to keep it. It might be of some use for protection against against unknown elements. As I closed it, my eyes stopped at a name “Alice Jones”, in red paint.

Oh, my God! So, Alice was somewhere near, trying to get over the break-up, just as I was. In what state would I find her, and how?

A new chapter of the story began.

(200 words) Inspired by Wednesday’s Visual Writing Prompt https://allaboutwritingandmore.wordpress.com/2017/02/15/wednesdays-visual-writing-prompt/

The Dinosaur

“I have won an award, Dad.” “Congratulations, son! But where have you been for the last 4 days?”

“Digging dinosaur remains in the desert. We are combining it with Virtual Reality and 3D printing, to create a real experience for kids”, Sammy was babbling with excitement.

Jim Morris, his father, was lost in thoughts.

“Oh, Dad… I guess it is all Latin and Greek to you. Let me update you with some videos and articles on the subject. Our professors have done tremendous research, before the team could create an acceptable product. We are going to take the kids’ world by storm, Dad. Just watch out…. “ The teenager pulled out his tablet to show something, but Jim was not in the room. He reappeared after half an hour, with a wooden toy in hand.

“Son, I have dug up the attic, if not the desert. Remember this toy hung on your cradle?”

“Not really. But I have seen it in the attic. What about it?”

“I had assembled this from several broken toys, because we couldn’t afford new ones for you. This gave a fillip to your imagination. It may be Latin and Greek to a dinosaur like me.”

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction – February 19th, 2017 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/19/sunday-photo-fiction-february-19th-2017/ Inspired by a news article

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-02-17/dinosaur-virtual-reality-3d-using-future-tech-to-visitpast/8278348

The Writer’s Block

He was greeted by a curious sight on the beach. The bottle he saw yesterday at the junk seller’s shop was lying there, amidst sea creatures, which looked like monsters guarding it.

How did the bottle reach here? Cyrus had sold off his books, to pay for his stay in Goa for two more days. The writer had come here to find inspiration for his next book, but had found none. The beach was dirty in the monsoon, and attracted very few tourists. It meant low tourism business despite the ads, and fewer stories.

Was there a life trapped inside the bottle, to be rescued by a Prince Charming? How and why did destiny conspire to bring the bottle in his close view for the second time? He looked deep, and saw the shape of a woman’s body inside. The monsters waiting outside, would perhaps pull her back into the sea with them, and she would be lost to civilization, again, for aeons. She was perhaps revisiting this place, looking for someone, maybe for Cyrus, to give her a new life.

Cyrus threw the bottle against a rock, to release a new story. He had finally overcome the writer’s block.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner-2017 Week #08 https://flashfictionforthepracticalpractitioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/15/flash-fiction-for-thepurposeful-practitioner-2017-week-08/

Jilted

Rahul walked to the pantry for a quick shot of coffee. Men are not supposed to cry, and it was foolish to cry in the workplace. But that is the place which really makes one want to cry.

He stared at the glass partition separating the tables from the vending machines on the other side.

Something had caused the water to splash out of the glass, so it was obviously, not drinkable. He pulled out the red flower from his lapel and placed it in the glass. The flower was not needed now. He had just seen his ex (what else could he call her now?) making out with his boss in a parked car. This was the boss who had made life hell for Rahul, and she was well aware of that.

A stain at the center of the screen, looked suspiciously like a lipstick mark. Was she ‌‌ ? Doing what? He wanted to smash that dirty glass partition to smithereens, and let the shards pierce their flesh.

All he could do was chastise the pantry boy for not cleaning properly. He grabbed his coffee, and walked out to buy cigarettes. Brand DISLOYAL on her flesh with it?

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/02/26/sunday-photo-fiction-february-26th-2017/

The Last Day at Work

It was his last day at work, at the age of 60. He had taken time to wind up his desk, and allocate the files before he left office.

The parking lot was empty, as people had left the workplace at 6 pm. He stood there idly, and thought of all the people whom he had trained and mentored, and the careers he had helped build. He remembered the bosses whom he had served loyally, shouldering the entire burden, while letting them take all the credit. He blessed his children who were now well settled in their lives. They were all like the cars parked on this lot, driving off as the day ended.

He meditated on the maze of white lines on the ground, and saw a reflection of various segments of his life. It was now, time to obliterate the lines, close down the parking lot, and reconstruct his life on the ground that he owned. The cars were welcome to visit for a short while, but he would not take responsibility for their safety and security.

He walked towards his lone car in the corner. His wife and dog were waiting for dinner. But, for how long?

Inspired by Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner https://flashfictionforthepracticalpractitioner.wordpress.com/

The Speaker’s Thoughts

I love making long speeches. I don’t need to prepare for it. I look at the size of the audience, and go on rambling about my thoughts on the subject, and all my golden memories associated with it. I think of the increasing number of people with ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) in the world, as the crowd starts thinning. I pity the idiots! They are in the audience, because they lack an intellectual bent of mind. I have taken years to learn all that I have, and reach this dais. They will not find these gems of wisdom on their devices.

Well, that reminds me … I saw somebody filming the speech, and then the guy vanished. Which part has he captured? I do not remember what I was saying and how was I gesturing at that moment. I do not like playing to the gallery. It is for the wannabes. But will he share the clip? My secretary will make notes from it, to write the next speech.

I see the next speaker fidgeting. I tell you, people have no patience these days. He is thinking about his next Twitter and Facebook update, and is already counting likes.

Satire inspired by The Writing Reader Prompt #2013 The Long Speech http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/02/27/prompt-2013-the-long-speech/

The Space Ride

“Hey, there!”

The voice was unmistakably familiar, but the sight alien. I had forgotten to close the window, before going to bed. Has a rocket or missile entered my garden?

I could barely move my limbs or lips, but I wanted to say, “Hey, whoever-you-are, Mr. Alien! Stay for some time, as my son would love to meet you. He has to write an essay on space travel to other planets, and your inputs might help.”

A deep throated, muffled sound said, “I have come to take your son with me. Mr. Elon Musk has organized a special space ride for kids, on Children’s Day….”

“No. I don’t care about Mr. Musk or his outlandish promises. But I cannot risk sending my only child out there. No adventure or thrill is worth losing him. He is so precious to me….”

My voice trailed off with emotion, as tears trickled down my cheeks.

“Hey, Dad! Wake up! It was great to hear that. You threatened to banish me into outer space, for not completing my homework yesterday….”

My son, pulled off his space suit, and broke into giggles. What a relief it was to hold my son in my arms again.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction

https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/03/12/sunday-photo-fiction-march-12th-2017/

His father’s clinic

Mohit entered his father’s clinic after several months. This was the room, his father, Dr. Varma, used before his demise. It was the era before computers, and his prescription pad and pen were still kept on the table. A garlanded picture of his Dad adorned the wall behind the chair. Dr. Varma was known for his social service and charitable bent of mind, as much for his diagnostic brilliance.

Mohit had built a state-of-the-art hospital, with all modern facilities. He just could not give up the set of values, which he had imbibed from his father. He did not allow malpractices in the hospital. He refused to refer patients to the diagnostic labs, for investigations they did not need. The poor and needy were treated free-of-cost, and he had to cough up the specialist’s fee from his pocket. The doctors on the panel gradually quit, and revenue took a downward turn.

The administrator had issued an ultimatum, “We are running a business, not a charity. I am afraid we cannot continue for more than two months.”

The hospital had to be put up for sale. Mohit was back to his father’s clinic, to continue his practice in the years ahead.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2017/03/12/flash-fiction-for-the-purposeful-practitioner-3-122017/

Influence

You have been a guiding post.

I envied the articulate, aggressive woman who moved the world, with her words. Her strong and silent partner, standing like a rock behind, but never ever obstructing her, haunted me. I chose to remain single, because I could not find anyone like him. Men have always been around, but none who could measure up.

Words were your tool to influence, mine is the brush. My art is understood and appreciated by very few, and I have always felt inadequate. Why did I not possess the ability to reach the masses, with the written and spoken word, like you could, so effortlessly? Images have a strong impact on me, and I can express myself only through the visual medium. I have scanned all the words that you ever wrote, but my mind recorded and processed those, only in images. Words as I see and hear, are images, and I am a living collage of all that you poured out.

Mom, I do not remember your living presence around me. You repaid Dad for his unstinting support, by following him in his grave. I grew up, only with this picture of yours, hung on the mantelpiece.

(200 words) Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/03/19/sunday-photo-fiction-march-19th-2017/

The Missed Boats

The loose ends of the thin, uncoiled white rope indicated, that the jetty had seen better days. There were no boats to be moored. It still managed to hold the tides, and control littoral deposits. The coastline was protected against erosion. But, there was nobody there to acknowledge the contribution. The timber was gradually wearing off, and required maintenance.

Anand often came there for a walk in the evening. He still considered himself to be the patriarch of a non-existent clan. The members had moved away to lead their own lives, and paid him notional respect, if they happened to come face-to-face. He looked back at his own journey through life. The bonds that held the family together had gradually disappeared, like the timber poles on the sides, as Anand walked towards the shore. He thought of all the boats he had missed, and the clarion calls which he had chosen to ignore. He chose to stay put in the same place, and it was perhaps a wrong choice.

The fishermen stopped on their morning jaunt, to see a human body washed ashore. Anand had taken the boat to another world. The white rope hung loose, weak and lifeless ‌.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction – March 26th, 2017 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/03/26/sunday-photo-fiction-march-26th-2017/

Kazira’s Grandmom

The historical fortress had turned into a bustling tourist spot. Kazira loved spending the weekends there. His grandfather, Sardar Singh, had once led the warriors that guarded this fortress. The telescopelike equipment which the tourists playfully touched, was the radar that helped him spot enemy boats.

Sardar Singh had once spotted a boat, floating around without a sailor or mast, with a woman lying unconscious in it. She was perhaps left there to die. He managed to pull the vessel ashore, with the help of the Naval Commandant. She lived on to become Kazira’s doting grandmother.

The island was rocked by a terrorist scandal, when projectiles from one of the cannons were fired at an approaching boat. The ammunition used was illegal, and Kazira was soon arrested. No harm was done to anyone, other than the people on that boat. The boat had capsized into the sea, with the force of the projectile.

He bowed before his grandmother, before being taken away by the police.

“Grandma, you are now a free woman. The people from your past, who came for you, are dead.”

The old woman wiped off her tears silently. She had lost her future, too, with Kazira’s arrest.

(200 words) Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction-April 2nd, 2017 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/04/02/sunday-photo-fiction-april-2nd-2017/

The Agnostics

Why did they have to hang themselves with invisible ropes? Who had deactivated their wings, to prevent escape? This was a strange planet, and they hadn’t bargained for this.

Do-gooders were not kindly looked at, here. They interfered with the smooth functioning of several other machinations that ruled the world. The people who tried to invoke Gods, were just raw, immature kids with no experience. They were just exposing themselves to punitive action. The fact being that there were no Gods on this planet, and entry from other worlds had been blocked by invisible energy screens.

The existing ones had to exercise a choice – either opt for the new scheme, or disappear from cyberspace. There was no significant existence outside cyberspace. Curious kids like this one, may like to visit the museums, to look at species that once existed. The neo-establishment hoped that the visitors learnt their lessons from the experience of outliers, and fall in line.

The ones that hung themselves out there, laughed silently. It was the laughter of the shamanic, the agnostic beings. They had seen it all, and sensed the futility of battles on both sides of the invisible screen. The ultimate Truth lay somewhere else.

(200 words) Try the Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge -7 at

https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/04/02/sunday-strange-microfiction-challenge-7/

The Karma Wall

The words were written on the wall, in blood, and had haunted Ritvick for two years.

He was an actor that millions swooned over, and female fans swore love for him, in letters written in blood. He had always laughed at the silliness of it all. What they saw on screen, was not his real face.

Why go to macabre lengths, to say “I like your work”?

That was all that his namesake had demanded – recognition for his work. But Ritvick was a slave to Power, a high priest of the Establishment. The plea did not find a way to him. Or did it?

He had a choice to respect ability, but he did not do so. He succumbed to the culture of nepotism and dictatorial rule. The guiltiest people in the world, are those that have the power to change things, but do not exercise it. Ritvick topped the list of the guilty, but ironically, could not be booked under any law of the land. He had managed to cover up the blood on his hands, and convince his conscience of innocence.

The Karma Wall had not forgotten him. He stood in the queue, to receive his just desserts.

(200 words) Inspired by the April Prompt Challenge by Author Hope Ann April Prompt Challenge

AN ACQUIRED TASTE

“That was in rather bad taste, Henry! You should not have created a scene in the birthday party”, fumed Martha.

“What exactly is good taste? Your claim to superiority above others? I am a son of the soil, and have my feet firmly rooted in the ground”.

“Taste is what makes food and the world palatable.”

“But, not necessarily wholesome. Or, bitter medicines would not restore health. Your supercilious friends needed a dose of that medicine.

And there is something called ‘acquired taste’. It is your strategy to blend better, and people do it gladly to enter the elite circles.

I suggest you do it to attune itself to reality.”

Martha would have happily divorced the crude fella, if he was not running for presidential elections.

She had to stop judging, and craft a new identity for herself.

The doctor’s words were ringing in her ears Place the capsule on your tongue, sit in an upright position, and take a sip of water.

Place the tablet on your tongue, and ensure your lips are tightly closed around the tip of the water bottle.

Soon, the world would learn more about this acquired taste, while she would reap benefits of patience.

Inspired by Tale Weaver no.114 https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/04/06/tale-weaver-no-114-april-6-taste/

Pic: twitter.com

The Mother’s Whim

“But, Mom, all my friends are going…..”

The desperate pleas fell on deaf ears. She just would not allow her kids to go to the Childrens’ Park.

Her husband thought she was being unreasonable.

Betsy knew that they will not understand why. They were not aware that she had spent six years of her childhood in that park, till her parents divorced. Her father used to work as a caretaker there. Betsy enjoyed all the rides and games, where she was allowed to enter. On that particular day, her father had directed her not to go near the bird-shaped boat, perched on metal supports. It was under maintenance, and closed to the public. Curiosity got the better of her, and she sneaked in there after dark to see what was happening.

Her voice had choked with fear, as she saw blood streaming out of a man’s body, and an open suitcase with shiny gold bars. She was horror-struck with a large hand covering her mouth. It was her father, and he held a gun to her temple with the other hand.

“You will never speak about this, all your life, or you will meet the same fate, as that man”.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction at https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/04/09/sunday-photo-fiction-april-9th-2017/

4 - 300 WORD STORIES

Shahjahan

Wonder why the clock tower has huge gaping holes, instead of the face of a clock?. Time had stopped ticking for Emperor Shahjahan, after he was imprisoned in this tower by his son, Aurangzeb.

The holes were just large enough for him, to see the Taj Mahal, the monument he built to his love and life. The tight vigil around the tower ensured that he did not escape to stage a rebellion. He had however, lost the will to live or rule, after the departure of his lady love, Begum Mumtaz Mahal. He often

wondered if he had done the right thing by building that monument, with the help of epic talent and then, cutting their hands off to prevent duplication. Mumtaz had spent her life in strict ‘purdah’, and her multifarious talents were known to very few. She was now incarcerated in the depth of the basement Taj Mahal, on the banks of the river Yamuna.

The memorial should have been an ode to her personality, rather than his love for her. He had been rather selfish in projecting himself to the whole world. Mumtaz was yet, known only as Shahjahan’s beautiful wife, one of many.

He looked at the blue ropes with a string of lights that held the decrepit tower. Onlookers failed to see the weak foundation of the structure, and did not realize that it needed support to stand. How well did the structure mirror the state of its royal inmate! Regret, repentance and defeat had broken him down.

He asked for the state attorney to be sent for his final will to be recorded. He was to be buried in the same dark basement, besides his lady love. The exile and incarceration were his penance for the injustice he had done to Begum Mumtaz Mahal.

Written for Thursday Photo Prompt – Time – #writephoto Thursday photo prompt – Time #writephoto

Reclaiming the Planet

Virus looked at the beautiful girl, and smiled. How badly did he want to hug and kiss her, feel her creamy, smooth, flawless skin, and ……. change the landscape forever?

Yes. The landscape had changed, and Virus was trying to breathe again. Oxygen smelt so different from the nitrogen, that it was used to. He felt like he would melt in the heat, but Dr. Change had assured him, that he would live again …….. after a hundred years under the snow, buried in tombs, encased in dead bodies of human beings. How incredibly stupid are these human creatures, who have destroyed the gifts that Nature bestowed on them! They had succeeded in conquering the ancestors of Virus, and laying it to rest several years ago. His descendants breathed their last at least 40 years ago, in 1977, and the world had not heard of them later. Scientists claimed that smallpox has been erased, and human faces would remain forever beautiful, with a little cosmetic care.

His friend, Methane knew better. He was confident of their release from the cryogenic frozen world of Siberia. There were stronger forces in the world than them – called Ignorance and Evil, which poisoned the minds of human beings. And they created the circumstances for the release of Methane and Virus. The ocean was warm beneath them, as the icy layer that held them captive disappeared gradually. They were seeing the world above, with all its brilliant idiosyncrasies. Did he use an oxymoron? Within a few years, he would banish oxygen, and mock the human morons. After all, it was forty times more powerful than its close cousin, Carbon and could easily asphyxiate the inhabitants of this planet.

Virus looked at Methane, and both moved ahead with confident strides. At last, they had reclaimed the planet.

Inspired by Prompt #1960 The Lurking Danger of The Writing Reader http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/01/05/prompt-1960-the-lurking-danger/

The Shock

The Inspector General of Police, was crestfallen. His department appeared to be hitting a blank wall, in the major cases being handled. He anticipated punitive action, or at least an inconvenient transfer to another place.

The schools in the city wore a desolate look, deprived of their chirpy inhabitants, as parents refused to let their children out of the house. And it wasn’t the weather this time around. The city was shaken up, by a spate of murders of children, and their bodies being found in a pond. There were reports of their disappearance earlier, with no demands for ransom. The children had just vanished. And now, a few of them were found. In this manner …..? The police search did offer some clues, but no conclusions. Public ire was mounting, and there was political pressure to resolve the case at the earliest.

The next shock delivered today morning, was that of a suicide. Anjali Roy, the wife of a rich industrialist who had been running his business empire, after his mysterious disappearance a few years ago, resorted to an overdose of sleeping pills to end her life. She was a human rights activist, well-known in social and political circles. She was rumored to be a candidate for the next parliamentary elections.

She had visited the families of the child victims, two days ago, and shared their concerns. Her close aide, Shashi, confirmed that she had plans to launch an initiative on child safety, and was in discussion with experts in the field. There appeared to be a link. But what? Shashi was taken into custody for interrogation.

The last text sent by Anjali Roy to Shashi said “Who could have imagined that my husband has been running a paedophile racket for the past few years, operating with a different identity?”

Inspired by Prompt#1967 The Disappearance of Lord Lucan http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/01/12/prompt-1967-the-disappearance-of-lord-lucan/

The Janitor

Grandfather clocks have always fascinated me. I hang on to the tick-tock of the needles, and anxiously wait for sundown. My partner, Jim will appear, when the clock strikes twelve. It is a New Moon tonight, and we will only have starlight to support us.

The shiny statue of the janitor, at the base of the staircase has one leg twisted. That is all that I could manage to do during the day. It was not an easy task, and the tip-off appears to be correct. There are bags

of gold coins hidden inside the statue. The owner of the building is reported to be long dead, and the statue was dumped in the junkyard. It is not easy to carry the whole statue, or dismantle it. It has to be a neat job, done in parts, and with all the skill required not to raise an alarm. Jim, possesses the required expertise, so the plan is fail-proof.

I could not resist my curiosity to see what the bags look like, and how much did they weigh. Maybe I can ask Jim to carry suitable cases to transport them. Eeks … there was a creepy reptile crawling on my hand, and AAAARGHHH… The clock struck twelve, and Jim beat a hasty retreat. He found his friend’s body covered with twelve deadly cobras. The statue was opened up, with the leg separated. The janitor had done its duty. It had not spent several decades there, in vain.

Jim froze in his tracks, with a serpent entwined around his leg. He could hear a deep, resonating voice, speaking in slow syllables, and he felt that the words took aeons to reach him.

“I have waited for a long time. Only the two of you were aware of where the treasure was hidden….”

Inspired by Thursday photo prompt #writephoto by Sue Vincent Thursday photo prompt – Waiting #writephoto

Low Tides

I could never resist the temptation of a morning walk on the beach in Goa. I loved to see the beach glow in the light of the morning sun. I also had to negotiate my way, around the dead jellyfish and water snakes washed ashore. Their world did not need them anymore.

The low tides in life, are nothing but the recession of high tides… of the euphoria and cheer that encircles success. What would happen, if I conquer the peak of a snow-capped mountain? The sun would ensure the melting away of snow, leaving me to my devices, to traverse the path downwards.

Do I need to time my movement for survival, or just follow my instincts? The inevitability of the cycle is like the stark certainty of Death. One could only delay, not avoid it.

The sunrise is a reminder that the night will end. It is also a reminder that tumultuous heat waves follow the cool calm of the night. The intensity of sunlight leaves nothing to imagination. In a low tide, you know who stands by you, and who has returned to the whirlpool of life – the same place where you are not needed. They will come back to the shore, again and again, to dump a few more …. till they find themselves amongst the dumped. The descent from the mountain needs a different set of equipment, speed and alignment to the terrain.

The sunrise is only a reminder that the day breaks. But, it is not the same day, which you have lost. The future beckons, and we trod over the past – just like those jellyfish on the shore. One must stay aware that it will all end.

Hold me as long as your self interest permits, till whirlpools suck you away.

Haibun inspired by Sue Vincent’s #writephoto contest Thursday photo prompt – Low Tide #writephoto

The Lipstick Mark

He found himself in police lock-up, after an attempt to break into Daisy’s room through the window. He had managed to bypass the security guards, and climb up quick on the water pipe, to reach her window.

Daisy was fast asleep with a magazine lying upside down on her bosom. He stood frozen in that moment, with his legs on a shaky base, but mind wandering back to a year ago. She was a girl from the big, bad city visiting her uncle in that small town. They lived next door, and he had mooned over her beauty and grace, for several days. His joy knew no bounds, when she borrowed a book from his library, to read in the lazy summer afternoons. The book was returned by her uncle, after she returned home, and it carried a lipstick mark on a particular page.

It was just the life line that the young lover needed. It was a signal, that she reciprocated his sentiments.

But, she left no contact details, and he was too scared to ask her uncle. It was a conservative place, and his attempt would have been frowned upon. But, the first flush of youth, and first love carry their own charm and power. He took time to save enough money to travel to the city, locate her address and there he was, standing at her bedroom window, and watching his love in deep slumber, so oblivious to his agony.

The next thing that he remembered was an alarm raised by the security guard, and being driven to the police station by Daisy’s father. All his pleas fell on deaf ears.

It turned out, that Daisy was in the habit of falling asleep, while reading, and her painted lips might have accidentally left marks on the page.

Inspired by Prompt 1991 on The Writing Reader http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/02/06/prompt-1991-chance/ Coverpic: rauldiego.es

Going up and down

Pandharinath had come to the city for the first time, to meet his son. The janitor informed him, that he had to take the elevator to the fifth floor, where his son stayed in Flat no. 507. He stood in the queue, trying hard to memorize the numbers. The door opened, and he entered a tiny room, with a lady holding a baby. She said, “Press the button, Baba! I will go to the 9 floor.”

He pressed a button, and the door opened again.

“Oh, no, Baba! Not that one. Press the number of your floor and 9.”

Fifth, 507, 9…. What was he supposed to do?

The lady had meanwhile, pressed 9, and the room moved. He first felt a downward push, and then, a smooth, gliding movement upwards. What was happening?

“Are you new to this place, Baba? Whom are you visiting?”

“My son, Mangesh, lives in room no. 507, the guard said. His wife should be at home to open the door..”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me that. We have reached the ninth floor. Now, press 5, and it will take you to the fifth floor.”

The door opened, and out stepped the lady. The baby was smiling at him, perhaps at his foolishness. He hadn’t seen such a specimen on his evening pram rides before. th

The door closed again, magically, without anybody giving it a push. He remembered what the lady had said, and pressed 5. A downward push, and he felt, as if he was moving towards the netherworld- Patal Lok. Magic happened again, and the door opened. He stepped out swiftly, before that room started moving again.

He had pulled out his glasses, and was looking for the number 507. Deva … tell Mangesh’s wife to open the door for me, just as the other one opened. The city was a wonderful place….

Written for IBMC#09 The Be A Baby Challenge by Prakash Hegde https://itsphblog.wordpress.com/ibmc/ibmc-09-the-be-a-baby-challenge/

Coverpic: mom365.com

Blaband

The parrot that flew away is a legend in Azerbaijan. Tourists flock to Blaband village to see the empty cage. The cage now has a paper bird in it, to symbolize Pally, the parrot.

Blaband is an island village in the Lerik Rayon. A fisherman’s boat landed there in 1954, emerging from the stormy seas. They had lost direction, and decided to stay put in the village, till the storm subsided, and they could find suitable directions to return home.

A young lad, Roger, was in the crew who played the mouth organ beautifully. Pally worked hard at exercising his vocal chords, to imitate the musical notes. He learnt to do it perfectly, and enjoyed the villagers gathering around him to listen.

The quiet, uneventful place was rocked by a scandal, when they found that the Chief’s daughter had eloped with Roger on the boat. Pally’s new musical skills drew ire from the villagers, as it reminded them of the villainous Roger. The Chief pelted stones at the cage, and threatened to kill Pally, if he ever raised those notes again.

Pally learnt to imitate the pastor in the church, and delivered sermons, but the residents of Blaband would not forgive him. The girl returned after a year, heartbroken and deserted by her city-bred lover. She opened the cage door one evening, and let him go.

“Fly to distant lands, Pally, where your talent is appreciated. But never trust a stranger.”

Tourists are surprised to hear sounds of rock music, jazz and dialogues from movies, which have never reached the isolated shores of Blaband. Villagers say that Pally brings them news from afar, but never shows himself. He loves his birth place, but has not forgiven the hatred. It is a small attempt to integrate them with the world outside.

Inspired by Writing Prompt – February 19th – Randomize https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/02/19/writing-prompt-february-19thrandomize/ Wikipedia random post Blaband Bilabənd (also, Bilaband , Blaband , and Balabant ) is a village and municipality in the Lerik Rayon of Azerbaijan . It has a population of 766.

Random Image Promp t : imageafter.com from the given website.

5 - 3LINETALES

The Birthday Dinner

The table was laid, and she looked wistfully at the slightly wilted blooms.

The butler awaited instructions with bated breath, as he made preparations for dinner, but did not start cooking.

The lady of the house, framed in the picture, looked at her lonely husband, and wondered if her children would dissolve their differences, and come home for his birthday dinner.

Inspired by Three Line Tales, Week Fifty Three Line Tales, Week Fifty

Dangerous Liaisons

She moved swiftly across the bridge, looked up, and jumped in the deep, dangerous waters.

The crowd behind her cheered and applauded, expecting her to resurface.

Insensitive? No. She was a dolphin, and they gathered every Sunday to watch her playful antics.

Inspired by 3 Line Tales, Week 51 #3LineTales Three Line Tales, Week Fifty-One

Red

Oh My God! Why did Lily have to be so over-the-top with her declarations of love?

I remembered that it was Valentine’s Day, and the boy on the street was coaxing me to buy red roses.

They reminded me of blood, and my choked arteries, as I hid the angiography report in the drawer.

Inspired by 3LineTales – Week 54 Three Line Tales, Week 54

Flying High

I could see many hands waving at me, from the window in the chartered plane, of people from my village, who were proud of my achievements, and wished me well.

They had no clue about their imminent displacement, in the land acquisition drive for a development project, which I had conceived and was planning to execute shortly.

Dreams have wings, also riders, and I had to accept the conditions stipulated in the venture funding agreement.

Inspired by Three Line Tales Week 55 Three Line Tales, Week 55

Woman

The red truck parked in the middle of the road, coupled with her looks created discomfort in the bazaar.

Unaware of the ripples she was creating, Carol looked wistfully at the colorful clothes around her – the floral and animal prints, the ruffles and embellishments and the swish of the luxurious fabrics.

A lifetime spent in uniforms, driving around pick up trucks had not subjugated her feminine instincts, and a love for beauty.

Inspired by Three Line Tales, Week 56 Three Line Tales, Week 56

The Unicorn

Her father had scoffed at Angela’s romantic dreams, and her insistence on marrying a start-up struggler.

Today, her father was the largest buyer of the company’s shares, instigating fears of a takeover attempt.

A billion-dollar company was the stuff of dreams, and both Angela and her father had invested in the same stock, unknowingly.

Inspired by Three Line Tales – Week 57 Three Line Tales, Week 57

The Other Side

Life exists on the other side – beyond the maze of hopes, expectations and overcoming roadblocks.

Painstakingly, I chalk out strategies, create a brand and define clear goals and objectives, till….

I see you – my antithesis, my nemesis, my distorted mirror image – and realize that for you, this is the other side.

Inspired by 3LineTales – Week 58 Three Line Tales, Week 58

Inane Love

Love blew her away only to disappear again with the wind.

Inspired by https://ronovanwrites.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/ronovanwrites-weekly-haiku-poetry-promptchallenge-141-breezeblow/

The Messenger

Your appearance at a fixed hour every day, for several months, sure carried a message.

Till then, I was not educated on reading the signals that aerial messengers carry.

The knock of Death at that exact hour, brought awareness to the surface, but consciousness was fading.

Inspired by the picture prompt at 3LineTales by Sonya at Three Line Tales, Week 61

6 - 400 WORD STORIES

Who was the Queen? #writephoto

The dark colors and rough edges of the stone, against the vivid colors of the sky looked ominous. White paint splattered on the stone appeared to be symbolic of something, as if somebody wanted to convey a message, but could not express completely. The straw hut outside the gate, towards the sea, looked quaint,

but desolate. Could a human being ever have lived there? Why was this arch built here, with no fortress or palace behind it? It looked like a gateway, but to which place? Was there a world beyond the sea?

A strong feeling of déjà vu gripped her. She had been here before. But it was the first time that young Misha’s parents had planned a holiday in this historic place. They had never been here before.

The guide had an interesting story to tell, about a banished queen, who was compelled to stay in that small hut. She had dared to rebel against the King. History books say that she committed suicide after a few lonely years, by jumping in the sea. The locals have a different story, of the boat being shot down, while she tried to escape by sea route. The people who had helped her, were also shot at, and maybe their blood was spattered on the stones. It had been washed and crudely concealed with white paint.

Misha felt a strange pain engulfing her, of being shot in the back, while she was running. Her mother tried to comfort her trembling body, while her father called the doctor, “Dr. Sen … we are on a holiday. Misha is getting one of her fits again. Will the tranquilliser pill suffice, or should we find a doctor?”

His voice choked, as her hands encircled his neck. The grip of his daughter’s frail hands felt strong and unyielding. He tried to extricate himself, while she was speaking in a different, husky voice, “It was you. I have waited for you for decades, to avenge my plight.”

The guide ran towards the village, to weave a new chapter in the folklore. Misha’s mother stood there, paralysed by fear, as she saw two bodies floating on the surface of the water. She looked at the sky, with emotion choking her voice completely. He daughter’s pretty face appeared to be smiling from behind the clouds.

“Mom, I have liberated you from this monster. Lead your own life, now!”

(400 words) Inspired by Thursday photo prompt- stones #writephoto , by Sue Vincent Thursday photo prompt – Stones #writephoto

7 - FICTION

On the backside of Time

Seeing a woman’s back had always aroused his curiosity. He loved the anticipation associated with the moment. What if she turned and smiled at him? A breathtakingly beautiful woman, whose eyes reflected

the light of the stars. His mesmerized eyes would not steer away from the soft glow of her face.

It bothered her, that probably her clothes looked outdated. She had always been conscious of her appearance. It was not her fault, that a long time had passed, and she had lost the resources to update her looks. She had lost count of time, not only resources. The seamstresses and maids of honour, who worked to keep her beautiful had all disappeared, so had the ardent admirers.

All except the faithful friend behind her back. His love was unconditional, and the devotion boundless.

Her determination was matchless, and she kept her gaze fixated on the dense forest, which separated her from the world of her dreams. And her desire for success did not recognize boundaries. A shaft of light illuminated her path through the waters, as she planned her next move.

He stumbled on a stone, and froze. It read “Princess Sahila of Egypt,1805-1827. She wanted to be an actress, and was killed by her brother�.

Had the mummies escaped the pyramids? And the devotion of the four-legged friend brought tears to his love-seeking eyes.

Written for Microfiction Challenge #24 The Moonlit Night https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2016/11/25/microfiction-challenge-24-moonlit-night/

The Young Widow

The grieving mother had just returned from her teenage son’s funeral. Death had prematurely claimed both father and son, and left her alone to face life. Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she recalled all the testing times she had been through.

Her marital bliss was cut short by an accident, and the young widow was looking for love.

The untimely death of her husband, and the subsequent legal battle for her toddler’s share in the family estate, had left her exhausted. The inheritance came with a tag, that the natural guardian will hold the money, but could not remarry till the child turned eighteen, and claimed his share.

She met Him on the day she sold the property. She needed liquid assets to bring up the child. He was a Sales Officer in the real estate company – young and charming with an enviable zest for life. He had lost his father early, and seen his mother make sacrifices to bring him up. He could relate to her struggle, and offered support at every step. At that stage in her emotionally shattered life, he was just the medicine she needed.

They lived together, and he saw success in all walks of life. Having seen poverty in the early years, he was driven by a passion for money, and all that it could buy. He never tired of calling her his lucky charm, and the source of all happiness in his life.

They had to combat the social stigma of ‘living in sin’. Wedding anniversaries were celebrated on a fictitious date. He was the much admired ‘feminist’ in hallowed social circles – espousing a woman’s

right to keep her maiden name, and not be bound by shackles of any kind. Together, they put up a good show of being a happy couple, hopelessly in love.

Privately, she knew that all was not well. The fact that she was older than him, and he had a glad eye for young women, continually fed her insecurity. She heard stories about his infidelity. The son’s inheritance had multiplied manifold, and was inducing defiant behaviour in his teenage years. She painfully watched the uncomfortable relationship between her son and paramour. She insisted on shared parenthood to deepen the bond, and they had two lovely kids. Though not exactly happy, she could never muster the courage to leave. She was emotionally invested in him.

Then, she faced the most trying time of her life. Her son had turned eighteen, and she was free to legalize the marriage. The rebellious teenager had a row with his stepfather, and left the house.

The ringing phone broke the eerie silence of the night. Disaster had struck. Her eldest son was the victim of a ‘hit-and-run’ case, and was found dead on the highway.

Back from the funeral, he broached the topic, that would surface all the simmering tension between them.

“Despite you, I made it in life, and do not need your ex-husband’s wealth. But now that the legal claimant is no more, it needs to be invested in the future of our kids.”

Her thoughts revolved around the recent tragedy being an accident or murder. The retort was uncharacteristically sharp.

“Despite you, I saved it for their future. Just that they are my kids, not ours. You were not the only one having a good time.”

Written for Weekly Writing Challenge #65 of secretkeeper.net 5 words for the writing prompt STAGE | SHORT | YOUNG | TEST | LIVE |

Sita and Mareech

( Background : Ramayana has a story on how the ‘golden deer’ Mareech entices the protagonist Sita, and the chain of events leads to her stepping out of the security zone. She is then kidnapped by

Raavan, and the act of her rescue leads to an epic war. Here, the deer Mareech returns to meet Sita, after she has been abandoned by her husband …..)

“So, today, you come in your honest, original form, without the golden skin. You are welcome, if you have realized your folly. I can see how frightened you are, without the political support you once enjoyed.

You have witnessed the mass destruction that a single act of yours caused.

But, Mareech, that single act of yours opened up a world of discovery for me.

I walked out of a royal palace to the forests, to prove my love, but could not resist a golden skin that could have adorned my humble abode. Glitter and Glamor never lose their hold on the human mind.

Laxman ignored his own assessment of the situation, and chose to act as a loyal soldier to his brother and sister-in-law. Unquestioning Loyalty led to disaster.

An accomplished scholar like Raavan, gave in to an ego battle and the instinct of revenge. He was in a process of experimenting with his self. He tested his power at every step, be it an act of deception, war or self-control. But, the Master Manipulator underestimated betrayal from his own kith and kin. Spiritually, he had surrendered to the Higher Power, conceded defeat. In the outer world, he fought the battle to the end, as a King’s duty called for. Most of us mortal beings fall into this slot.

And my husband, the esteemed Lord Ram …. He was perhaps, tired of role-playing and being good.

There was immense conflict between his roles as the ideal ruler, warrior, son, husband and father. He fought his internal battles for several years, and then caved in under pressure. Was it only the washerman’s remarks on his wife’s purity, or a validation of his own suspicion, that led to the Desertion?

The conflict between values, beliefs, instincts and behaviour is Eternal, and will continue to be the canvas for several more Epics to be written.

Mareech, please enter this world with full consciousness. This is a dark place that I have chosen to shield me from my past. The stained glass in the window depicts distortion of reality. The world will see you, as they wish to see. My feline companion is my window to the outer world. She is alert, realistic, self-oriented and protects me from the ravages of idealism. It is not an easy place to be in.

I have accepted myself as I am, and do not let the judgement and expectations of others affect me. If you are willing to partner me on this path, bereft of all illusions and shiny exteriors, you are most welcome, my dear friend! The journey had started with you.”

Written for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction-challenge-27-rescue https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2016/12/16/microfiction-challenge-27-rescue/

Navigating through life

The number of bird hits had drastically increased, putting a lot of lives in jeopardy. Pilots were sent for repeat safety training programs, and research was on to improvise the detection mechanisms.

The King of Ornithal, was equally perturbed. Several subjects of his kingdom had met with premature death, leaving behind orphaned babies to be fed and cared for. The warrior birds were intrinsic to the system, as they executed the onerous task of security. The Warrior Chief, Jack, was sent on a special mission to survey the aerial environment, and outline a plan to protect the birds.

Dodrio, the three-headed Pokemon bird was supposed to carry him across the skies. Dodrio was equipped to traverse across both land and the skies, with its enviable capability to run fast, fasther than it could fly. The King called Jack over for a discussion, before he took off on the mission.

“Jack, you know that Dodrio’s powers have kept the kingdom afloat for centuries, and his competence and finesse in his craft are beyond doubt. But you need to navigate in a manner, to avoid attacks from the left and right.

Dodrio’s first head on the left represents Joy, second Sorrow, and the one on the extreme right is Anger.

He is capable of regrowing them all, but at a different pace. Anger regrows at the fastest pace, and continues with its job of strengthening Sorrow and weakening Joy. The regrowth speed of Sorrow is

average, but it does so with certainty. Joy is the strongest during its lifetime, but unfortunately, takes a long time to regrow, if slayed in battle. It is therefore, paradoxically, both strong and fragile.

It may appear plausible that you sacrifice Anger, as it causes Sorrow. Elimination of those two will allow Joy to prosper. But that will also weaken your defence system against the enemy. Anger is what makes you rise to protect your own interest.

Hence, use your wisdom in taking the enemy head on, and respond from your intelligence. Dodrio’s three heads are called Emotions, and though necessary, they need to be managed to win.”

Jack walked out of the King’s Nest, a wiser being.

Written for Prompt #1943 Visual Prompt – The Mythical Flight http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2016/12/19/prompt-1943-visual-prompt-mythical-flight/

Standing Alone

It takes a lot of courage to stand alone, shorn of all glamor and glory, and yet, taller than others around you. Jaya had often drawn inspiration from this leafless tree.

She stood like a thorn in the path of the royal inhabitants of the castle. The castle appeared hazy in the dense fog, but had overshadowed her existence for a few months now. She had dared to expose the residents, the descendants of the revered Maharaja Shakti Singh — the atrocities that they committed on the villagers around them, and the shady lives that they led. She used to be a star journalist, but was unceremoniously asked to quit. The Singhs happened to be the major source of revenue for the newspaper.

Unsavory allegations were thrown around to malign her, and she was trolled in social media.

But Jaya, the whistleblower was on a winning spree. The Supreme Court had ordered an inquiry into the allegations made against the Singhs, despite their royal lineage.

Written for FFAWC – 94th Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

Living in the Past

It was an elaborate Christmas table, with the white lace cloth, red candles and the best china and crystal that she could afford.

She cut four slices of the Christmas loaf, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

The family that she lost long ago, in an accident, smiled at her from the framed photo on the mantelpiece, and sang in unison “ MERRY CHRISTMAS ….. “

Written for 3LineTales Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Seven

Hallelujah

The CEO leaned back on her plush chair with half-shut eyes, and muttered “It has been a tough year”.

Despite making record profits, the company image was shattered by a scandal, and several months were spent in damage repair, while still dangling on puppet-strings, struggling to maintain her balance.

She looked at the silver-framed mirror in the front, to check her carefully constructed expression, before the Board meeting.

The phone rang, and her friend’s (this was the last one left) urgent tone made her sit up, “Don’t say you were not warned. A move to sack you is being tabled in the meeting”.

HALLELUJAH …. She wanted to dance, but just about managed to walk with the decorum expected of a CEO. Written for Patricia’s Place – In other words, Hallelujah In Other Words, hallelujah

The Smog

Visibility was a huge challenge in the dense fog. The morning news had preferred to call it a smog. But she knew better than that.

The air was heavy with manipulation and deep conspiracies. She found herself gasping for breath. It was created to weaken clear vision, to make people stumble on their path, and facilitate smooth movement of the conspirators. The opponents had to be ambushed. She saw several figures moving around with gas masks on their faces, and she stepped into the car gingerly, while balancing herself on the sharp stilettos that screamed ‘Power’.

The only option was to darken herself – totally black. It didn’t matter if the color concealed all her goodness and her real identity, but it was her last move. The thought of being lost in oblivion scared the go-getter. She had toiled thanklessly for years, in the glamor world, and pined for Fame and Fortune. It would disarm the competition, and victory was assured.

The vision of the tree with its tentacles towering over the winter sky enraptured her. She clicked a picture, and asked the chauffeur to speed up. The audition began at 9 a.m, and the ‘casting couch’ awaited her.

Written for Thursday photo prompt – Fog #Writephoto

Thursday photo prompt – Fog– #writephoto

The Desperate Riders

Where are these two riding away, unmindful of the tracks changing from dry to wet, and from sand to sea? What is the single-minded determination that drives them? The faithful brown horse carries the child, who is not an adept rider, and totally depends on the directions that his parent gives, and the loyalty of the horse.

The sea is deep and tumultuous, and not the ideal terrain for the brave animals that carry them. They need to get on a faster mode of transport. Will a helicopter pull them up, or a whale help? Will they find a fisherman’s trawler, familiar with the routes?

That ship sailing in the distant blue waters gives hope. One of his parents is on that, and they hope to reunite. Will they?

Resolution

Mom always said, I was not OK , and I needed to improve a lot.

An imposed discipline, a forced regime, an apologetic promise were created to assure her, that I intended to be good.

The New Year Resolutions were framed and hung on the wall, to remind me of my inadequacies.

I can’t recall when Mom’s/ Boss’s voice became my inner voic e , and I continued to rebel against myself.

Resolutions, like promises, are meant to be broken. After all, I’m OK .

Written for Patricia’s Place – In other words, resolution https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/10919228/posts/1275980440

The Sparkler

The sparkler spread warmth, light, hope and demonstrated multiple paths to branch out.

It consumed itself in the process, the memories remaining red hot, albeit for a short time.

The transience brought back memories of her mother’s suicide.

Written for 3LineTales , Week 48 only100words.xyz/2016/12/29/three-line-tales-week-forty-eight/

Dilemma

She watched the cheesy top of the soufflé rise in the oven, and felt choked with revulsion.

Her mother had invited Ron over for dinner, and he would soon be her step-dad. Her Mom was looking happy, seven years after her father’s untimely demise in an accident.

Janice was consumed with guilt about her inability to share her mother’s joy. But the future happiness of the family was at stake.

How does she tell her mother, that Ron’s conversation with Janice was moving from cheesy remarks to obscene gestures?

Written for Six Sentence Stories SSS Cue- cheesy https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/01/01/new-year-new-cue/ Coverpic: karenknowsbest.com

Genie

“Can I meet the sculptor of all these masterpieces, Genie?”

You have brought me to the Valley of Existence. All these faces carved in stone, with their frozen gaze fixated on me, scare me out of wits. These are my faces from the past – emanating from various reincarnations. They smile when confronted with lovely memories, and mock me at my monumental failures. They remind me of my insignificance, with their jeering and cheering expressions.

Your deeds are frozen in time.

You cannot go back to undo the damage, or reclaim the rewards.

Go back, create and recreate more.

Maybe, the Karma will absolve you of sins untold, and the repercussions of what you stopped short of doing.

He turned back to look for the tiny lamp and stone, which looked even tinier in the backdrop of these giant faces.

“Genie, let me meet the Creator of this Valley. Only that holy encounter will liberate me”.

The genie looked on helplessly. Here, she was as insignificant as her master.

Written for FFFAW – 96th Challenge

https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/01/02/fffaw-challenge-week-of-january-32017/

Love pulls

The crowd stopped at this point, and very few dared to venture beyond.

They were the faithful dogs, the illiterate or those who had intensely loved and lost.

This signpost was placed by a prankster, outside a graveyard.

Written for Week 49 of 3LineTales at Only100words https://only100words.xyz/category/three-line-tales/

What time of the day is it??

If the sky is still blue, where does this golden light emanate from? Where does this doorway lead to? Is somebody trying to confine the sun, but is unable to contain its brilliance? The Sun emits signals of its existence, and rays of hope to all those who need it. The Earth needs it, the Moon needs it to shine in the night. I am sure many other planets do. And the Sun just cannot shirk its duty.

And which supernatural force is that, trying to change the schedules of Day and Night? The world measures time with the movement of the Sun. Aaaahhhh…. I get it now. This force is Time itself, telling the world that it is an Entity beyond the movement of planets and the Sun. Time does not move around an orbit. Time is not controlled by the hands of a clock. Time is not a calendar or diary, or a table on an excel sheet. Time is much larger. It is the framework on which we etch our measly life stories, and dare to dream of eternity.

It is Time that is Eternal, while we keep moving on linear and non-linear paths around it. It is Time that controls us, while we scamper around trying to manage it. It is Time that smiles with all the laugh lines, when we claim to have stopped it with our anti-aging treatments.

Walk through this Doorway of Enlightenment, and discover the true nature of Time and the Universe.

The Sun will heave a sigh of relief, to be accepted for its own strengths – Heat and Light, not a guard of Time.

Written for Gold Willow #writephoto by Sue Vincent Gold – Willow #writephoto

Picnic Island

The sailors had been ferrying people from the port to The Picnic Island for several years. The decks had seen a lot of partying and merrymaking, as they sailed on choppy seas in the dark, and brought back the revellers safely to the shore.

Very few stopped to notice a forlorn-looking waitress, with empty eyes, serving the guests. She stopped by, observing a few carefully, and then, quickly slunk away into oblivion. She was not pretty enough to attract attention, or ensure repeat business, but her solid dedication had helped her in retaining the job, for ten years, now.

Her deep, dark eyes searched for the one, who had announced their break-up on the island, a decade ago, and disappeared, leaving her behind. She could have easily travelled back home, but stayed back in the hope, that he would return some day.

Inspired by FFAWC – 97th Challenge – Week of January 10,2017 https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

Reflections

Water is a colorless liquid that changes the properties of several other fluids. Water is an unassuming element that never asserts its own identity. It unleashes destruction on the planet, when powered by dark, underground forces, seething in its belly. Is that really a chosen role assumed? One suspects stronger powers forcing its hand, using it as a tool to wreak havoc.

Water has navigated through victory, despair and helplessness, as the ships navigate through it. It houses a lot of life in its underbelly – life that very few human beings have ventured to discover. Its silent, immeasurable, unknown depth has always perplexed humanity, so used to the loud, echoing valleys.

Water has watched the Ugly Duckling being ridiculed, unaware of its own unique beauty. The erstwhile ugly duckling, now transformed into a swan, is also unaware of the golden light that it leaves in its trail.

What a pity, that a creature so unique, crafted in leisure by the Creator, does not know that it was sent here for a purpose. The Golden Swan was created to pull the world out of the dark abyss of ignorance, which drove them to petty comparisons.

Ironically, the Golden Swan flapped around in the water, trying to imitate the quacks, and not seeing the light that it left in its trail. The Water drew on its entire muddy base to stop absorbing light, and created a dark surface. It bowed in gratitude, as the sun set. It created a mirror for the Golden Swan to see itself, and spread the glow.

The message to Humanity was loud and clear. Ignore the ducks quacking around you, and focus on the water which nurtures you. It is waiting to help you find your depth and purpose, and then emerge as a beacon of light.

Inspired by #writephoto – swan Thursday photo prompt Thursday photo prompt – Swan #writephoto

The Puppet

Today, her steps faltered, and her graceful movement did not sync with the music.

She fell to the ground with a thud, as her Master fell behind the curtain, killed by a cardiac arrest.

Her painted lips parted in a genuine smile, relieved at the end of her ordeal.

The Puppet had longed to have an identity of her own, be a part of the cheering audience and live.

She would now lead her own life, or meet her end – in a story conceived, scripted and delivered by herself – her solo performance, at last.

Inspired by In Other Words, Relieved https://patriciasplace.me/

Seeing the Unseen

The devil in the vase smiled at her again. It was a mocking smile that scared the wits out of her. She screamed and ran out of the room.

It was followed by torture in the mental asylum. She hated the nurses in white uniforms, with indifferent expressions that bordered on cruelty. She detested the doctors who delivered the painful pricks and the unbearable electric shocks. Her stomach churned to see the sick people around her, nonchalantly indulging in horrendous, repulsive acts.

Why had life turned so dark? She remembered her blissful childhood in the arms of her mother, and the luxurious vacations they spent together abroad. Her world had turned upside down, with the untimely death of her mother, and the entry of a stepmother in the house. People said she was a renowned actress, and the palatial house was a perfect framework for her picturesque beauty. It made her wonder what beauty meant. The calm, serene expression on her mother’s face, peaceful even in death, or the face fixed by hairdressers and makeup experts, on her stepmother’s tall frame.

She was the only one who could see the devil in the vase. And nobody had ever believed her.

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction – January 15,2017 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/01/15/sunday-photo-fiction-january-15th-2017/

How many turns?

The pain was unbearable, as the familiar hand stabbed her in the back, and the trusted face twisted into a contorted smile.

She turned away, not letting him see the blood or the pain.

She had deprived him of a sense of victory.

There were many more waiting out there, with a similar set of tactics.

Taking a turn usually implies, moving in a new direction.

She kept moving in circles, taking turns at every degree of existence.

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/32812974/posts/1300038458

Pulling it down

She had spent several hours in the balcony, behind the branches of that tall tree, reflecting upon life, and writing. Her writing had won global acclaim, and yet, she remained unknown to the world.

She looked in the mirror every morning, at the unsightly scar on her face, and could never dare to venture beyond the door. She could not bear ridicule and rejection. In the process, she had stalled the advances of someone, who admired her work.

Today, she was shocked to see the friendly tree being pulled down, by a familiar face at the front door.

Minutes later, the courier arrived with a parcel – a new book with the author’s name in blazing gold on the black cover. It was her name .

She had graduated from being a ghost-writer to an author. She wanted to wave in acknowledgement from the open balcony.

On second thoughts, she stepped out of the door, to thank him.

Inspired by FFAW 98th Challenge – Week of January 17, 2017 https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/01/16/fffaw-challenge-week-of-january-172017/

Jimmy’s Bar

Jimmy’s Bar was throwing competitors out of business. It was at best, a wooden shack, deep down the road, towards the sea.

There were no half-dressed bartenders. He did not believe in being crass. The drinks on the menu were the same old favorites, served for several years, and without enticing names like “Sex on the Beach”. The customers were served with utmost politeness, and then, left alone.

Writers spent long hours there, with their laptops or writing pads. Couples enjoyed the cosy togetherness, which the place facilitated. And young lads and lasses came to just get a feel of the place.

The competitors could never get the secret of Jimmy’s success. It was all so simple and mundane.

Except for one brilliant piece of art by his wife, a cleverly done stained glass, installed in between the wall, facing the sea. The lamps and doorways painted on it, provided different views, at different times of the day or night. It depended on what the sea was up to, or the people on the beach. The colors of the sky mingled with the glass to produce magical effects. And there was always an interesting movie clip on show.

They inspired.

Inspired by #writephoto Thursday Photo prompt by Sue Vincent.

Thursday photo prompt – Lantern #writephoto

Windows

Shucks! The back view of a hotel was always so depressing. I don’t care if people paid premium charges for the sea view from the rooms. I found them depressing. What was happening in the lives of people behind those windows? Were they living with fake identities, executing secret missions, relaxing after a hard day’s work, or just relaxing? They were all shady in my eyes.

I loved the plush lobbies, the high-end restaurants, spas and salons, as long as they were on Level Zero.

I just couldn’t enter an elevator, and move upwards in those fancy glass capsules. My wife would happily send me to a shrink, to cure the claustrophobia. She thinks elevators and hotel rooms asphyxiate me. She is tired of staying in cottages and tents on vacations, and wants to experience the luxury of a plush, highend hotel.

I had toyed with the idea several times, but, just couldn’t bring myself to share my childhood memories, and my nightmare …. the sight of my mother’s body lying in a pool of blood, behind a hotel. She had jumped from a window to meet her end. People say that she was hired by some guests for …….

Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/01/22/sunday-photo-fiction-january-22nd-2017/

East meets West

I hate Chinese food. And yet, I run a Chinese eating joint in Dona Paula.

The statue of Dona Paula depicts Mother India and Young India – one facing East, and other the West.

My mother could not bear the idea of her son marrying Paula, a British girl. Paula hated British food, but loved Chinese. I hated Chinese food, but loved her. I loved my mother, too.

My mother succumbed to a long history of cancer. She had no one else but me. I consider myself lucky to have loved and lost – both of them, rather than never having loved at all.

I run this Chinese joint in the hope that Paula might visit Goa again, some day, and want to eat at this quaint joint. East meets West here, with the large number of white tourists that I host. I will welcome her husband and children, too, if life gives me an opportunity to see her again.

Inspired by FFAWC -99th Challenge- Week of January 24, 2017. https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

The Journey

Alas! I have reached the end of the whirlpool, after a gut-wrenching experience of being tossed and turned over, as if my destiny was intertwined with the machinations of this monster. Just when I visualized the Agents of Death coming for me, I saw Light.

This round window offered a glimpse of Hope – that Life exists outside, only if I can manage to open it.

And open, I will‌. The entire journey of learning, suffering and re-learning cannot be wasted. There are

many others out there, who can benefit from my experience. And Providence has chosen me. I will deliver‌ Inspired by 100 word Wednesday- Week 3 by Bikurgurl 100 Word Wednesday: Week 3

Illusion

The fish had always loved this. It was a view of their home in the ocean, with several memories associated. Free movement, symbiotic existence with other flora and fauna. It also reminded them of the eery feeling as they saw divers in strange costumes, huge vessels and large nets approach the depths of their haven. They belonged to another world, and the intentions were suspect.

The suspicion was confirmed. After a brief struggle with air- breathing, they found themselves in a tiny, glassy home. The humans had made a feeble attempt at replicating the ocean, but the artificiality of it all always hit hard. They did not have to hunt for food, though. And they loved the movement in this beautiful view. It would take an effort to reach there, but some day, they would succeed. They wondered why the fish there did not move, despite the luxurious growth around them. They spent the day imagining the picnic that they would have in the green waters. Maybe the lazy fish there needed a nudge.

The illusion kept hopes of freedom alive. It was but a picture on the wall, opposite the fish aquarium in the living room. Illusions nurture life.

Inspired by FlashFiction for the Practical Practitioners — Photo Prompt for Week #05 – 2017 https://flashfictionforthepracticalpractitioner.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/flash-fiction-for-thepurposeful-practitioner-2017-week-05/

The Portrait

Gloria put her ledger in the secret compartment, under the false bottom of her desk drawer. It was a rather strange looking corner for an artists’ abode. Brushes and a sinister-looking pot of paint were seen, but no palette or canvas. The compartment had a very surreptitious-looking handle, as if the artist was turning its back on the viewer. The ledgers belonged to an accountants’ desk, not that of an artist.

What was being accounted for? And what was the artist ashamed of? Princess Gloria was connected to the outer world only through her past. She had once lived in this palace, till she was killed by her brothers, in a battle for the throne. The eldest one did occupy the throne, but the kingdom and palace remained in bad shape, mired in controversies and internal battles. Four of the seven brothers died mysterious deaths, soon after they got their portraits done. The portraits earned notoriety as bad omens, and the ritual was stopped.

Gloria recounted the number of her enemies still alive. Her revenge was interrupted, and she would probably have to change her strategy. The brushes and poisonous paints had become obsolete. What would be her next tool?

The evil that constitutes you

colors your picture and seeps inside.

It slowly spreads through the blood like the ethics and honor you once allowed to slide.

The mirror mocks with your darkened face, the portrait of a prince fallen from royal grace.

Tainted glory leaves resurrection fails.

Weapons are sharpened till life derails.

Inspired by The Writing Reader Prompt #1983 http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/01/28/prompt-1983-first-line-of-the-week-corrinekenner/

Abstract Art

He wondered who drew those colored patterns in the water. His physics teacher had explained how a thin film of petrol on water creates those patterns. Who cared about Physics anyway?

The chemistry that his creative mind shared with nature overruled everything. He did not think about his mother waiting for his return from school, with chocolate milk and biscuits. He had to recreate these patterns with the Camlin water colors that he owned. He hoped to graduate to oil paints and canvas in the future. But there was no money to go to art school. His mother was a single parent struggling to make ends meet.

Today, he would paint with full focus. He needed buyers for his abstract art. That was his only hope to get into art school. An artist was seeing his future in those patterns.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers’ Challenge – 100th Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/01/30/fffaw-challenge-week-of-january-312017/

Silent Screams

The girl screamed once, only the once.

Yes, Inspector Rebus Novel has got I right in “Knots and Crosses”.

She could scream only once, as she lost her sanity after witnessing the reality of the world around her.

It is the same world that you and I inhabit, but have made it so uninhabitable.

Do we really have the liberty to scream, in this ‘propah’world? One will be scoffed at, for lack of sophistication or interpersonal skills or self-control, or whichever virtue the world can think of.

I cannot recall the last time I screamed aloud, but I scream in silence quite often.

I scream at the favouritism and nepotism around me.

I scream at blatant authoritarianism.

I scream at the victory of evil manipulators.

I scream at attempts to dominate or interfere with my life.

I scream at the strong bonds that negative people create with each other, and the helplessness of the righteous in breaking through those complex webs.

I scream at the inability of people to see through the evil designs of manipulators.

I scream at the unwillingness of people to rise above their self-interest.

I scream at injustice in any form.

I screamed at my inability to combat injustice or choose death, and that was perhaps, my last scream.

I vowed to make others scream after that. Am I really a criminal? My silent screams continue to remain unheard.

Inspired by The Writing Reader Prompt #1987 http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/02/01/prompt-1987-only-once/

Success

The solitary flower looked majestic, amidst thorny cactuses, as if mocking my weariness. I came to the big, bad city looking for modelling assignments, a year ago. The steps on the ladder to success were paved with thorns. Yes, all those thorny and horny guys, wanting to pierce into my flesh‌. in return for an assignment.

Television channels were flashing news of a veteran model, being caught with drug dealers. That is where they landed on the slippery paths to success.

I had managed to hold on to ethics, so far, and hopefully will, continue to do so in future.

Inspired by Friday Fictioneers from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ Pic: Roger Bultot

Winter evenings

The pigeons flew back home, and parked themselves on the stack of juicy sugarcane in the backyard. Their coo-ing announced the approaching dusk. It was a winter evening, which invited bonfires.

Not for me though ‌ the pigeons had been my time sensors, since I lost my sight in that fateful fire‌.

Inspired by Writespiration #101 ttps://sachablack.co.uk/2017/02/02/writespiration-101-52-weeks-in-52-words-week-5/#more-5472

The Lost Self

And who was Daisy May? The movie page says “a delicious and hot country gal who’s dying to discover the secrets of hillbilly humping – and so much more”. So much more, for sure, as I see a part of myself separated from the other, lost in the woods.

When did I lose myself, and get entangled in the world around me? Responsibilities, commitments, the pursuit of excellence in every venture and proving my worth in the immediate environment. But there was something that I could have excelled in, with much less effort, because it was so ‘me’. And I left it behind.

This picture has ignited the past, and an urge to reconnect with my lost self. Yes, words and thoughts stimulate me, beyond the emails and messages that comprise my life. There you go, baby! A writer is born today.

Inspired by FFAWC -101st Challenge – Week of February 7th https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/02/06/fffaw-challenge-week-of-february-72017/

Juxtaposition

Juxtaposition has always helped a writer, a politician, adman or anybody seeking publicity.

Julia drew attention to the virtues of a woman, by finely defining the characteristics of the vamp.

But, the writer in her got stumped.

Did intelligence lie in being dumb, virtuous, articulate or interesting?

The most successful characters were the ones who were remembered.

The mention of bread, always brings forth the memory of Marie Antoinette and the cake.

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/02/08/9792/

A Tough Choice

The bridal henna was fading away, but Kitty had not allowed my husband to come near me. It was a tough choice between love and loyalty.

(135 characters) Inspired by Twittering Tales #16 by Kat Myrman Twittering Tales #16 – 7 February 2017

After the Party

I needed to incite envy, to arouse Ruby’s interest in me. I spent the evening dancing with Julia, though she was not my type pf girl. Who cared, as long as I succeeded? Ruby did not appear to care either. I walked out alone, crestfallen, not knowing which one was the ex.

Inspired by Writespiration#102 by Sacha Black https://sachablack.co.uk/2017/02/08/writespiration-102-52-weeks-in-52-words-week-6/#more-5474

Rainbow in the Puddle

I loved RainBow till I studied Physics. The charm of the rainbow gradually disappeared. The arc transformed into a circle of knowledge, and lost the open element of awe. I was picking up wet laundry from the clothesline, after a shower, rather than look for the rainbow.

I am sure, RainBow was mighty disappointed, and missed my childhood. It was pretty lonely, amidst dense, gray clouds on the gray sky. There it came ‌ down to earth with a thud, in a puddle of water. And the Sun helped the world in noticing its existence. Damn the physics lessons‌.

Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge – February 9 February 9: Flash Fiction Challenge

Footsteps and Fingerprints

Tips and toes – Fingers and Feet – Fingerprints and Footsteps …… I wonder why language refers to achievements in terms of “footsteps in time.”

Is it because they exert more pressure, with all the body weight that they carry? Fingers are more nimble, creative, refined and talented and can do so much, while feet could only dance, kick, stomp, walk or run. Feet could walk over others, and the memories that they leave are negative. Fingers are supported by the palm, and can yet, function independently.

Is there a message in there for us? It needs force to succeed and be remembered, not just work. I wish to leave my fingerprints on the life that I touch, not footsteps in time.

Inspired by Saturday Mix Bastet https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/saturday-mix-february-10-2017-bastet/

Being Homeless

I have tried my hand at Erasure Poems before, which work on a similar concept, so this was fun.

Our aim was To abandon our girlfriends you could sell those suckers for five bucks apiece in New England.

They’re crazy. we’d look for KFC buckets for donation we were flat broke, Homeless. hawks on fenceposts, grizzly bears.

THE LORD IS COMING SOON we’d play an Improve Your Vocabulary tape, learn words like eclectic and satyr.

(Original story: Alaska by Tom Franklin (an excerpt) © by Tom Franklin. From the collection Poachers.

Our aim was this: Alaska.

To abandon Mobile at dawn without telling anybody, not even our girlfriends or our boss at the plant.

Bruce knew a bail jumper who got a deckhand job on a crab boat off the Alaskan coast where she made five hundred dollars a day. Bruce was divorced for the third time and I’d never been married, so we planned to sell our cars and Bruce’s house trailer and buy an olive drab Ford four-wheel-drive pickup

with a camper, fill it full of those sharp green pinecones hard as hand grenades. Bruce’d heard you could sell those suckers for five bucks apiece in New England.

They’re crazy up there, he said.

Driving through Georgia and Tennessee, we’d look for tent revivals where they had faith healing. If we found a good one we’d stop and visit a service. Bruce would fake heart disease and I’d be an alcoholic— to make it convincing, he said, I’d have to belch and stumble and splash on rum like aftershave. He would grimace, moan, and clutch his left arm, until we had the whole congregation praying for us. When the ushers passed the KFC buckets for donation, we’d shrug and say we were flat broke, just poor travelers.

Homeless.

Bruce had stolen his second ex-wife’s Polaroid camera, which we’d keep handy for making pictures— hawks on fenceposts, grizzly bears, church marquees that said THE LORD IS COMING SOON, then right under that BINGO 8:00 EVERY TUESDAY. We’d have a stack of books-on-tape from the public library, too: John Grisham, Stephen King, and even self-help. In the Badlands of South Dakota, when we pulled off the road to sleep in the back of the truck with our feet sticking out, we’d play an Improve Your Vocabulary tape, learn words like eclectic and satyr .)

Inspired by Whiteout Wednesdays #1 https://blackcatalleyblog.wordpress.com/2017/02/01/whiteout-wednesdays1/

The Chandelier

She stood upright, with the earth moving under her feet. She was the force which did not fear fire, flow with the floods or shake with the earthquake.

All those who were fortunate enough to be on her team, experienced her warm protection and loving care. They saw the gentle, glowing light of a tall, white candle, which re-ignited their own flickering flames. Together, they illuminated the chandeliers, which shone in places of worship. She taught them to use discretion before trust, ethics before action and the intention before the declaration. The gentle breeze of her affection pushed them on the path of action, allowing them to pause and choose. They could quit whenever they wanted. The nod of her head, and the quiet confidence of her smile spoke volumes. She knew it that the torch-bearers of truth would come back. If virtue and strength unnerved the others, they were not of her ilk.

Yes, she believed in sharing strength, not trading on weaknesses.

Inspired by Prompt #1999 on The Writing Reader http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/02/13/prompt-1999-he-was-the-wind-that-bends-trees/

The Nexus

The city was notorious for having the highest crime rate in the country. It was all attributed to crossborder terrorism. The local administration had received huge grants from the Central Government to

combat terrorist activity. Plans were formulated and approved every week, but with no perceptible relief to the public.

A convoy of police vehicles suddenly dotted the streets at zero hour, overshadowing the illumination with the blinding glare of their headlights. Windows lit up gradually, as the residents woke up in anticipation of a planned encounter, or bomb alert. What would happen next?

The politicians and local bigwigs were desperately looking for a place to hide. They could not move fast in their drunken stupor, or differentiate between camera flashes and vehicle headlights.

It was a mafia don’s wedding, and they were all enjoying his lavish hospitality.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge – February 14, 2017 https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/02/13/fffaw-challenge-february-14-2017/ Photo credit: Sunayana at MoiPensieve

The Catwalk

They sashayed down the ramp with promises for the future.

Clad in funny outfits (unsuitable for the catwalk), they hoped that their ridiculous shapes would go unnoticed, and their gaffes forgiven.

They had a lot to promise for the future, and wished to be evaluated on potential, not past performance.

The audience cheered on with amusement, as they witnessed a mega-entertainment show that was staged only once in five years.

After all, elections were round the corner.

Inspired by Patricia’s Place – In other words, sashay In Other Words, sashay…

Coverpic: dalase.com

Envy

SINK was the envy of all the women in the neighbourhood – ambitious, strong and successful.

Most of them were struggling with single parenthood, broken relationships and difficult marriages.

Secretly, she ridiculed the sympathy and support which they drew from the ecosystem.

Why could they never be meticulous, perfect and organized?

She did not like the nickname that they had given her either, SINK. It meant – Single Income, No Kids. How would she have loved to have a family to admire her?

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/ Pic: confusedsandals.com

The Divide

They are all people, who think and talk like me, go through the same trials and tribulations in life. They too, love their dog and hate their boss.

Some entities invented various divides to suit their political purpose. And then, social media to serve a dual purpose — feeding and bridging differences.

Inspired by WriteSpiration #103 by Sacha Black Theme “The distance, in between …. ” http://sachablack.co.uk/2017/02/15/writespiration-103-52-weeks-in-52-days-week-7/ Coverpic: salishsun.com

Absurdity

IBMC #05: The Not So Quite Quote Challenge Kevin Joseph had landed himself in trouble once again. It was ‘love at first sight’, the umpteenth time. He had lost count of the times he had fallen in love, in his teenage years.

The first love ended in disaster, when a lady professor, Marianne D’Souza, delivered a tight slap to quell his advances, and lodged a complaint with the Principal. Several other girls complained about his misbehavior, and there he was, sitting with his parents in the Principal’s cabin. Prof. Marianne D’souza was also present.

Kevin looked at the charge sheet, and then, the professor.

“At times, we pretend to think on one and actually think everything else. It is not about those girls….”

“Mrs. Joseph, I think your son needs to be sent for counselling.”

“But, Ma’m, he behaves quite normally at home. I really don’t know…”, his mother was holding back tears.

His father was irate, and looked with contempt at both mother and son.

“I knew it, that I don’t know, and you don’t know. Everybody else in the world knows. Your son has grown up. Madame D’Souza, is there a way to avoid the rustication bit? He can study at home with a tutor, and I will look for a counsellor.”

“The decision lies with Principal Sir. You can address your concerns and questions to him.”

Kevin’s heart cried at her morose expression. He muttered to himself, “You need not answer all the questions! You can just laugh and laugh again. I will spend a lifetime on the college gate, waiting for you to drive in.”

“What d-i-d y-o-u s-a-a-a-yyyy ?” The Principal’s stern voice was addressing him.

Kevin could hear his voice coming from afar. He was talking to himself.

I am confused at times. Should I sound? Should I echo? I don’t mind seeing a counsellor. Hope she is prettier than Marianne, and smiles a little more.

Today, he was in a similar setting again. Only that he was alone in this office with the counsellor, Dr. Jones. The esteemed doctor was looking flabbergasted and dishevelled. He had just managed to escape from his patient in the cabin.

He called up the client’s father, “Mr. Joseph, I think the diagnosis by the psychiatrist was incorrect. Your son is gay. A different line of treatment needs to be adopted.”

Kevin just smiled at himself, “Thoughts – they do what we don’t ask for!”

Will it be the asylum or the remand home? He was just sixteen years old.

Details of the challenge at https://itsphblog.wordpress.com/ibmc/ibmc-05-the-not-so-quite-quote-challenge/

Coverpic: calendarholidays.xyz

Thane Creek Bridge

Neha Kulkarni was a regular commuter in the ladies’ compartment, on the 9.17 pm Ambarnath local from Dadar to Kalyan. She worked in the afternoon shift, which ended late evening. The slow train would stop at every station, and unsavory elements entered the train at some notorious places. The late evening ride made her nervous, and she had spoken to her boss, about changing the shift. He said it would take a couple of months to accommodate her request.

The tabloids were going berserk on a woman’s murder that took place on the same train, a couple of weeks ago. The alleged miscreants were reported to be a gang of four from Badlapur, including one Russian guy who had come here in search of work. The police had not succeeded in nabbing them, yet.

Neha was relieved to see a lady in a navy blue sari and a mangalsutra, seated in the compartment, that evening. She could converse with her in Marathi.

“I am so relieved to see you here. I hate travelling alone in this coach, and the Manda Patankar murder case has only exacerbated the situation.”

“We have our journeys and our jobs defined. Can’t do much to escape fate….”

There was something strange about the lady. Her voice appeared to come from afar, and the crystals on the saree appeared to dance like stars on the night sky, even under the bright lights.

“Do you travel often at this time? Haven’t seen you before…..”, Neha probed further.

“I take either this or the 9.27 pm Karjat local. Have you seen any guys board the ladies’ compartment?”

“They do, sometimes, at Ghatkopar. And it terrifies me.”

“Don’t worry. Save this number, and call for help, if needed.”

The two women chatted away about their occupational hazards, till a group of three guys entered the compartment at Mulund. They were whistling and making obscene gestures at the women. Neha saw the other woman’s eyes acquire a strange red color, and her lips were quivering.

The train was on the Thane Creek bridge, where Manda Patankar was murdered and thrown out a few weeks ago. Neha was struck with terror, as the woman in the blue saree moved swiftly, and jumped out with one of the guys in tow. He was white-skinned, and could not speak the local language. Neha and the other two guys heard a Splash sound, and the guy’s scream. They had lost their voice in shock. Somehow, Neha managed to dial the helpline number, which the lady had given her.

The screen on the cell phone flashed a name in blue, “MANDA PATANKAR”.

The other two guys had fainted. They had lost two of their friends on the same spot, on Thane Creek bridge.

In, search of skin, color no matter, brighter or darker, tell no one, I will take someone, Ssssshhhhh!

– ghost, me!

Inspired by Incredible Bloggers Marathon Challenge IBMC #6 The Mass Media Challenge https://itsphblog.wordpress.com/ibmc/ibmc-06-the-mass-media-challenge/

Grow up Papa

Nursery Rhyme

Minions Nursery Rhyme Interpretation It is brown sugar, Papa, also known as heroin or smack. You need to smell it to know. My mouth will give no clue otherwise. Grow up, Papa….

Inspired by IBMC #08 by Prakash Hegde at The Nursery Rhyme Challenge https://itsphblog.wordpress.com/ibmc/ibmc-08-the-nursery-rhyme-challenge/

Coverpic: virtanliq.com

Hope

It was the scent of a lady from a bygone era. The Old Demon could not have missed that. He often wandered on the beach, in the darkness of New Moon nights, in search of victims to quench his thirst. He had the gift of remaining invisible till he launched his attack, so the targeted victims did not suspect anything, till‌..

The beach was known to be haunted, and tourists avoided the place after sunset. He specifically targeted young brides, if the honeymooners loitered around late, in search of privacy. But this one was different. He remembered his life as a human, before the Curse had turned him into a demon. He was deeply in love with his sixteen year old neighbour, Annie. She played hard to get, testing his patience all the way. He lived in the hope of winning her heart someday, with his selfless gestures. He was probably being taken for granted, but it was too late when he realized that. She was married to the rich scion of a business family.

He had confronted her that New Moon night on the same beach, where she was romancing her husband.

So, the doe-eyed beauty was not as innocent as her looks suggested. She knew what love was. But it was reserved for someone else – a rival, a enemy or another unsuspecting victim? Was she capable of being faithful to anyone?

His ungentlemanly behavior had earned him the ire of Powers Up There, and he was condemned to a Demon’s life for hundred years. He was overpowered by the Force, which compelled him to do demonic

deeds. The super powers of the Force, prevented him from being seen or caught. And so, the dastardly acts had continued‌..

But this scent was pulling him back to his human past today. He had to fight back the Force, which compelled him to attack. And it was an old lady this time around, wandering alone, not a young bride. He got close enough to confirm and recognized her.

He summoned all his power to push back the Force, and jumped into the sea, to prevent the involuntary heinous act. It was a test of his eternal love, and the mark of a gentleman. The old lady was none other, than his beloved Annie. Was she looking for him?? Hope never dies.

Inspired by Weekly Writing Prompt- 77 at Secretkeeper (5) Words:| MOON | ERA | SCENT | MARK |TEST | Weekly Writing Prompt #77

No Smoking Zone

Her world crashed with the phone call. The plane which her fiancé, Jeremy had taken to the West Coast was blown off by terrorists. How did they get on board, despite the tight security? Connivance from the airline staff was almost certain.

She checked the last picture and message that Jeremy had sent her from the airport. The message read, “The flight is delayed, due to security alerts and some additional checks being carried out. The man in the yellow jacket borrowed my lighter for a fag, and has not bothered to return it. Wait a minute, isn’t this a no-smoking zone? Maybe, I should ask him. He speaks with a funny accent, and I feel uncomfortable.

Take care, love! Miss you, and will call ASAP.” Had Jeremy been the cause of his own end? She left for the police station with the phone.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – 103rd Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/02/20/fffaw-challenge-week-of-february21-2017/ Pic: Dawn M. Miller

The Starlit Sky

The house looked perfect for a honeymoon night, under a starlit sky. She had not realized that this would become her gateway to heaven.

(135 characters) Inspired by Twittering Tales #18 Twittering Tales #18 – 21 February 2017

Sober Peter

Peter had been the sober, obedient child in the family.

His mother had a soft corner for him, and supported him in all sibling conflicts.

Today, Peter had shredded his brother’s text books, cut his new clothes into pieces, and dismantled his toys.

The family was aghast at this unexpected behavior, just a day before they were planning his birthday bash.

Peter was the second child in the family, and always had to manage on hand-me-downs from his elder brother.

He wanted new things for his birthday, and for the next academic year in school.

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/ Cue: Second Coverpic: clipartpanda.com

The Larger Issue

The villagers had not received food supplies for the last two weeks. Children were not let out of their homes. Demonetization left people with scarce means, to tap alternate sources.

The issue was larger. National security was at stake. Terrorist supplies had to be choked off, from all villages on the border.

Inspired by Writespiration #104 52 weeks 52 words Week 8 http://sachablack.co.uk/2017/02/23/writespiration-104-52-weeks-in-52-words-week-8/ Coverpic: untoldstoriesforyou.blogspot.in

Waiting for Mom

The roof had crashed on the Josephs. A kidnapper had called to ask for ransom, in return for their only child. Bubbles had sounded frightened and desperate on the phone.

“Mom, please save me. I do not know what will they do to me. I am scared.”

Tears were flowing down their cheeks, as they took count of their resources, to meet the demand for ransom. Well-wishes did suggest that they inform the police. But their child’s safety was paramount. What if they tried to harm Bubbles? His terrified voice kept ringing in their ears.

They pulled out the car from the garage, to drive to the city and initiate action. The moo-ing of the calf distracted Mrs. Joseph from her reverie. She saw the expression in the eyes of the calf, waiting for his mother to return home.

Involuntarily, she stepped out of the car, and unlocked the gate. The calf was free to meet her mother.

Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge -104th Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

The Lawyer’s Interest

Tabloids screamed of the star’s affair, upsetting his wife. The editor’s wife, a divorce lawyer told her, “There is no smoke without fire Inspired by Twittering Tales #19 – 28th Feb’17 Twittering Tales #19 – 28 February 2017

Celebrity Lives

Tales with smoke or salt love them raw a dash of chili pepper accompanied by pickle’s bite and brine.

Throughout the long centuries Men come into conflict Women have also often been at the centre of the industry, culminating in the lives of those involved celebrated in the arts, literature, craft, music and folklore of life blending together politics, science, history, religious and commercial life.

Enjoy the action at WOW – White Out Wednesday #5 https://blackcatalleyblog.wordpress.com/2017/03/01/whiteout-wednesdays-5/ Coverpic: appamondo.com Original piece

Herring Tales How the Silver Darlings Shaped Human Taste and History by Donald S. Murray About Herring Tales Scots like to smoke or salt them. The Dutch love them raw. Swedes look on with relish as they open bulging, foul-smelling cans to find them curdling within. Jamaicans prefer them with a dash of chilli pepper. Germans and the English enjoy their taste best when accompanied by pickle’s bite and brine.

Throughout the long centuries men have fished around their coastlines and beyond, the herring has done much to shape both human taste and history. Men have co-operated and come into conflict over its shoals, setting out in boats to catch them, straying, too, from their home ports to bring full nets to shore. Women have also often been at the centre of the industry, gutting and salting the catch when the annual harvest had taken place, knitting, too, the garments fishermen wore to protect them from the ocean’s chill.

Following a journey from the western edge of Norway to the east of England, from Shetland and the Outer Hebrides to the fishing ports of the Baltic coast of Germany and the Netherlands, culminating in a visit to Iceland’s Herring Era Museum, Donald S. Murray has stitched together tales of the fish that was of central importance to the lives of our ancestors, noting how both it – and those involved in their capture – were celebrated in the art, literature, craft, music and folklore of life in northern Europe.

Blending together politics, science, history, religious and commercial life, Donald contemplates, too, the possibility of restoring the silver darlings of legend to these shores.

The Point of No Return

The media was agog with the news of Tulika’s suicide. She was a fairly successful television actress, found dead in suspicious circumstances. Her boyfriend, Raja, was the main suspect in the case, for abetment of suicide.

Investigation led to threats issued to her by traffickers, after her refusal to continue with weekend escort assignments. Tulika was a small towner, looking for an emotional anchor, in the big, bad city, and she had hoped to find that in Raja.

Soon, she was used by Raja for fulfilment of his material ambitions, and she found herself at a point of no return.

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/03/01/welcome-to-six-sentence-story/ Coverpic: flickr.com

Slag

My sister called to say that Dad was terminally ill, and we should go see him once. Mom was happily settled with her second husband and kids, and would not bother to check on him.

Just before I left, I kissed my daughter in between her play, and invited protest. She wanted to be left alone.

“Sure, darling! But Mom and I will always be there for you.”

I could give anything to provide her the snug comfort of loving parents. I could not ever forget being referred to, by both of them, as ‘slag’, from their failed relationship.

Inspired by Flash Fiction Challenge at Carrot Ranch March 2: Flash Fiction Challenge

The Pumpkin

He was walking home with leaden footsteps, as he anticipated his father’s derisive remarks on his inability to land a cushy, MNC job. A glance at the roadside vendor’s earthenware led to the answer he was seeking.

Akash was a man of multifarious talents. He was a software engineer by profession, who dabbled with various forms of art – photography, singing, painting and pottery. His start-up idea of creating a one-stop shop for the couples planning to marry, had found acceptance with an investor. They would do the events for the wedding, and then, help in setting up an artistic home. The tie-ups with designers, music bands, florists and home décor companies were all in place. Imagination would complete the picture. The interactive website would help couples to plan the entire event and décor online, by customizing various looks on the desired themes.

Yes. Pumpkin. The not-very-tasty, poor man’s vegetable that had inspired creativity of culinary and food styling artists alike. The pumpkin had transformed into a carriage, to take Cinderella to the life and

man of her dreams.

Just like him – the middle class boy who had ventured beyond the aspirations of his parents. His company would be called PUMPKIN. (200 words) Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/03/05/sunday-photo-fiction-march-5th-2017/

The Irony of Life

The lab assistant arrived with her home dialysis kit. This was a rigorous routine which she had to undergo thrice a day. She preferred getting it done on this old surgical table, stacked away in the bathroom, away from the prying eyes of her grandchildren.

She used to be a rich socialite, and the wife of a famous surgeon. They had the best of everything that life could offer – a luxurious home, fancy cars, beautiful children and all the trappings of wealth. She ruefully remembered the smirks of other women, as she stepped out in her designer tags and rocks.

How she wished, she had not dismissed the murmurs about her husband, as envious remarks! Maybe, he regretted it too, as he spent his days in prison for indulging in organ trade.

Inspired by FFAWC -105th Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

Popping the Question

William, I have waited too long after the ‘Will you marry me?’ question was popped.

You are waiting for your father to bequeath his will in your favour.

You are not sure, if he will support this marriage, since he wants you to marry a heiress.

How could you be sure, that I will wait forever, till you resolved your problems?

I wish you all luck in finding that much-coveted heiress.

Yesterday, your rich father has popped the question to me “Will you marry …..?”

Inspired by Six Sentence Stories – 40 https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2017/03/08/welcome-to-six-sentence-stories-40/

The Stem of Life

Jim was the container to hold her joy in life. He disappeared. The base was intact. She just had to drill a hole, for happiness to re-enter.

Inspired by Twittering Tales #20 at Kat Myrman Twittering Tales #20 – 6 March 2017

The Forest

The sight of this abandoned car was a relief. It meant that human beings had touched this forest before.

Maybe, there was someone around who could help. And the scent of a man was not strange to the denizens of the forest. He was not armed to fight them.

Jake had landed here, after his parachute failed to open. He suspected that it was the conspiracy of his arch rival, Captain Aaron, but investigation was possible, only if he got out of this place, alive. The placement of the damaged vehicle, and the extension of branches inside, indicated a considerable lapse of time after the accident.

A closer inspection shocked him out of his wits. A skeleton lay on the driving seat. So, indeed, it was a long time ago, and the animals in the forest had tasted human blood. The key chain hanging from the ignition was familiar. It was the one he had gifted his girlfriend long ago, who had left him to marry Captain Aaron.

(168 words) Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – FFWAC – Week 106 https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/03/13/fffaw-challenge-week-of-march-142017/

Movement

Inspired by Saturday Mix- Lorraine https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/03/18/saturday-mix-lorraine-18-03-17/

The Mausoleum of the Living

Being chucked out was not a pleasant feeling. But music is live streaming energy, and does not belong in a museum. They tried their best to infuse life into relics of the past. The lilting music in the background made the viewers hope, that the objects would come alive, to tell their own stories, and history would no longer be relegated to text books and stone tablets.

But they failed. John would have been happy to infuse life into the Curator, who had forgotten, that he was alive. He was happy being in conversation with the relics that he cared for, and created relational identities for himself. The doctors call it Schizophrenia, but it was a way of existence for him. And the objects in the museum did not mind.

John made one last effort before leaving – to infuse spirit into the mausoleum for the living. His friends silently cried.

(150 words) Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/fffaw-challenge-week-of-march-212017/

The Missing Gem

The sham that you staged rocked my life.

The shamrock that you gave me, had only three leaves – standing for faith, hope and love.

You said, you tried but couldn’t find the rare four-leaf clover.

Luck was missing, and it made all the difference, my fake lover.

Inspired by Patricia’s Place In other words, shamrock.

https://patriciasplace.me/ Coverpic: amazon.com

Better than Life

Lily could not recall the exact moment of flip-over, when her form changed with the existential challenge.

She decided to take no more. Self-pity was criminal and cowardly. She watched over her body on the hospital bed, and was glad to fly high without an oxygen mask. The switch had been liberating.

(52 words) Inspired by Writespiration #108 http://sachablack.co.uk/2017/03/22/writespiration-108-52-weeks-in-52-words-week-12/#more-5489

The Woman of My Dreams

She was the kind of woman who infused all your hopes and dreams into a loving reality emanating from an equally loving universe. I lived in an invulnerable fortress, safe from the misery, ignorance, jealousy, hatred and chaos that surrounded it. I dreamt that my life was important. I dreamt that I could make my little plans. I dreamt that everyone was essentially playing by the same rules. I feel a strange gratitude.

Perhaps it’s part of our basic nature to drift into a waking dream state when there are no serious threats on the horizon. Perhaps that’s why the universe is constructed as a dangerous universe — to keep us awake.

She said, “What difference does it make if I’ve slept with rock stars, movie stars and sports legends?

Stand still while I stab you in the heart with my intrauterine device.”

The way I figure it, this is a miraculous universe, but also a remarkably dangerous one. Sleepwalking is ill-advised. I’m finally a worn-out, emotional wreck who’s incapable of anything resembling warmth, love and intimacy.

For the WhiteOut Wednesday Challenge -9. Details of the original pieces given at https://blackcatalleyblog.wordpress.com/2017/03/29/whiteout-wednesday-9/ Coverpic: menshealth.com

The Jewel

Conforming has never been a skill that I could show on my resume. Trailblazing and taking up new challenges are proven assets.

I can never be as coy, feminine and graceful as the woman in the picture, if those qualities are considered as prerequisites for being a Duchess or Princess. The royal family is rigid about their requirements. I can see the indifference and disapproval in their stiff demeanour. Will I trade my individuality for wealth, fame and love? The latter is yet to be proved. Will you give up your rights to the throne, to be with me? Or just expect me to reshape myself in the prescribed mould?

We need to talk, Prince Francis! And it is not about going down in history, as the woman who refused to wear the royal ring. It is about the jewel that I am, and need to be preserved.

(148 words) Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers -108th Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/03/27/fffaw-challenge-week-of-march-282017/

In anticipation of Spring

He was returning to meet his parents after 15 years. The view from the rail window scared him, as much as it did in childhood. The tales of fairies and monsters came alive, once again. He had been scared

of touching the branches in autumn, fearing that they would turn into monsters, and gobble the little fairy trapped on the slopes below.

He stretched his hand out, to feel the vanishing dampness in the air. It was not yet spring, and a few droplets moistened his palm. The memory of Janet, the girl he had loved and dumped years ago, tore through his being, like a sharp knife. Was she still residing in that remote township, like that fairy? And will the monster of his conscience allow him to face her, without guilt or shame?

He hoped and prayed that she was now happily married, and was out of that quaint place of his past.

Spring and summer would then follow, in their seasonal cycle.

(165 words) Inspired by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFAWC) Challenge -109 https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/04/03/fffaw-challenge-week-of-april-42017/

Behind the Veil

She stopped for a moment, when someone asked “Aren’t you the famous Indian actress Mona?”

“No”.

And she resolutely walked ahead, on the lonely sidewalks of Los Angeles. She had found her peace in anonymity. Nobody knew of the wistful desires and unrequited love behind the veil of fame, wealth and glory.

(52 words) For #Writespiration #110 Week 14 by Sacha Black http://sachablack.co.uk/2017/04/05/writespiration-110-52-weeks-in-52-words-week-14/

8 - FLASH FICTION

The Long Winter

She looked out from the window, while waiting for her coffee. Snow had never looked so ugly, like fungus growing on the log of wood. It reflected the state of her relationship – cold, decaying and stale.

It was the 100 day of their separation. It was strange how she had never stopped counting. Calendars and clocks were so deeply entrenched in her life. Her appointments, deadlines and pending tasks always hung heavy, leaving no scope for romantic thoughts. She was always highly charged, wired for success, and obsessed with her career.

He was so intolerably laid back, who just idly gazed at her perfect face, with dreamy eyes, “Where are you rushing to?”

Yet, the chemistry was unmistakable. She had never met anyone like him before, and she did not know how to deal with this strange, unambitious human being. The novelty created a mystique around him, and she was drawn ….. deeply, helplessly and hopelessly. And that is what he had wished to see. The successful, high-profile investment banker in her sharp suit, awaiting his arrival in an obscure coffee shop….

Just like his brother had waited for her till his untimely death, and she had failed to turn up.

Written for Sunday Photo fiction https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/12/04/sunday-photo-fiction-december-4th-2016/ th

The Jade Corner

The Jade Corner was an enviable piece of eclectic interior design. Blake had managed to create a faux forest in his drawing room. The pyramid in between exuded an air of mystery. Was it a cave? Was it an alcove meant to display crystal? Or was it a stage for a live performance?

Blake was known for his extravagant bashes, and the celebrity performers that he could manage to engage. People on the ‘Who’s Who’ list awaited invitations. It mattered whom you saw there, and with whom were you seen.

Melanie let out a sigh, as she was overseeing the placement of lights in the Jade Corner, for the evening bash. That is where she spent all her nights, locked up by Blake. He liked to remind her that though a successful actress, she was only a trophy for him – one that he could afford to buy, and put on display. The world knew her as the formidable Mrs. Blake.

Written for FFAWC 92nd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

Vanity

How vain! The reporter muttered to herself, as the beautiful actress of yesteryears exclaimed, “My beauty has always been my handicap. The viewer’s eyes failed to read the expressions.”

“But, Ma’m, your beautiful eyes have always been a vehicle to carry your emotions”.

“Yes” the forlorn voice uttered, “I lost my eyesight five years ago, and the world has been dark ever since”.

The Pain of a Dutiful Soldier

Silently, unfailingly, I execute my duties of honest observation and recording..

I am the most reliable witness, and the dishonest fear me.

Alas! The power to judge, or protect my contents is not mine, as Photoshoppers happily tamper with my output.

Written for 3LineTales Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Five

Homeless

Being at home indicates a level of comfort, not a brick-and-mortar structure that provides shelter.

I love to be with like-minded people, who share my perspectives, or at least, do not disparage me.

I love the warmth of acceptance and easy camaraderie.

I love floating on similar wavelengths, running/swimming/flying to catch others, and have others follow me.

The ground that I run on, the waters that I swim in and the winds that help me fly, expose me to several other worlds.

I will always work for the cause of the Homeless, as I have never had a Home.

The Forest

Son, this is how I had met your mother. Her wide-eyed innocence and babe-in-the-woods appeal took me. I offered to love her, protect her from the big, bad wolves in the forest out there, and she appeared to be happy.

Life rolled on. We had a beautiful home, not too far away from the forest, and we had you to light up our lives.

I would often wake up in the night to find her looking out of the window. I realized later, that she actually longed for the forest. She loved the excitement of life there, and wanted the challenges that helped her move forward. She wanted to hunt, and devise strategies to dodge the hunters. She loved putting up a good fight, and emerge victorious. She was a lioness in spirit, just slumming around with me, to explore life outside the jungle.

I had to let her go. I could not contain her unending zest for life. And I had to live for you.

I can see that she left behind her spirit in you. You are exploring the jungles, and it appears that you have found another babe-in-the-woods. Or is it a tigress-from-the-forest?

I wish you a lifetime of love, my son! Just know the terrain that you are walking on, and master the techniques of survival. Be prepared to give, and to live ‌.. for yourself.

May you be the bridge that connects, the scale that balances itself and the medium that facilitates expression!

Written for The Daily Picture Prompt-4 Daily Picture Prompt 4

Santa’s Blessings

The lad in blue with black hair, leading the faithful horse with a blue bridle and rein, and taking seven young girls with him, generated a lot of curiosity on the streets of New Delhi. The merry faces of the girls did not give any clue of danger. Were there only seven or more? The cascading hair and flowing robes made it difficult to count, in the dense fog of the morning.

Were they real? Did they belong to this world, or had they stepped out of a Time Machine, from the pages of history? The prevailing mood in the city was blue and grey, a month after the recent demonetization. There were long queues outside banks. Cash-dispensing machines were dry, and the entire system had not gone digital. The 50 days of co-operation, that the Prime Minister had requested, were running out, and one could sense the seething anger in the long queues. How were people to survive? All the money they had in the bank or elsewhere, was of no use. It did not help much, that the

festive season was fast approaching. Weddings were scheduled for this month, and nobody had a clue, how to meet expenses. They barely had enough to buy food and pay for transport.

Elva, the seven year old kid, who had summoned Santa before time, was awake at the crack of dawn.

He was assured by the old man in red and a white beard, that all his family’s problems would disappear today. Elva was tense about his whereabouts. Soon, his parents would wake up to offer the morning prayers, and then, go to the bank and queue up for cash.

He stepped out, and followed the direction of the tick-tock sounds on the street. There was this man with blue stockings, and seven other girls on horseback, with him. Santa had told him, that he will come in disguise. Red would turn blue, one reindeer would look like a horse and the remaining seven would look like schoolgirls. The political climate was not safe for anyone. He was carrying Cupid, his prettiest favorite, and the other six were riding Comet, the fastest one.

Comet stopped on seeing Elva, and bowed. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donner and Blitzen all alighted from horseback, with bags of cash concealed behind their flowing hair and curtsied, before presenting it to him.

Santa smiled, “Elva, these are all hundred-rupee notes. But do not forget to hand over the 500s in your house, which your father’s employer gave him, lest it gets you into trouble. Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you, Santa. Here are those greenbacks. My father will sleep in peace tonight. And my mother would do her Christmas shopping. Merry Christmas to all of you!”

Elva woke up with a start, with the rap of his father’s fingers on the bedstead, and his angry voice.

“Here I am, turning the house upside down, looking for the cash. And here he sleeps, clutching the bag to his bosom.”

Written for Microfiction challenge #26: A journey https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2016/12/09/microfiction n-challenge-26-a-journey/

Bare

He walked out of the office with a bowed head and heavy heart, after handing over the laptop, cellphone and car keys. He had been ‘terminated’ from services. He thought about the American university fees that he had to pay for his daughter, and the maximum period for which he could stretch his savings. Will he find another job with this ‘black spot’ on his career, or should he start a business? Who are the trusted friends that would believe him, and be willing to help?

Sheena was the wife of a powerful bureaucrat, and was hired by the organization, largely, to leverage on her husband’s influence. She did not know much about the profession, but was egoistic and highhanded in her approach. Atul had risen up the ladder, after a lot of hard work and struggle. He often, ran into skirmishes with Sheena over her less than professional approach to work.

He could vividly recall the last controversy, where she had raised an issue about a delay, the reasons for which were beyond Atul’s control. He could not muster the required resources, due to an impending state election, and his staff being summoned by the authorities to help.

He had been polite in his reply, “…….. are the reasons for the delay. Request you to please bare with me”.

Only if he had put in the necessary effort to improve his English, or use a spell check! His vernacular education had deprived him from linguistic excellence in English. It had also kept him excluded from the hallowed circles of society, to which Sheena belonged.

All he had meant to say was ‘Please bear with me’.

He was terminated on the charge of sexual harassment by a female employee.

Written for Bear – Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, Dec. 10/16 https://strangegoingsonintheshed.wordpress.com/2016/12/10/bear-stream-of-consciousness-saturdayprompt-dec-1016/

The Tug

Dear Joy, What pulls you back?

The slimy, grimy past that you are trying to leave behind. Painful memories of betrayal, desertion and loneliness. The guilt of wanting to live for yourself.

Get out of it, Joy! Else, your life will never justify your name. Peace is what beckons you, and whom you have wanted all your life. You could not muster the courage to say so, as Duty and Responsibility would have lambasted you for letting them down. Being their single father, you owed them a part of your life.

It’s over now. Come with me.

Yours lovingly, Peace.

The Challenge

Yes. It was the greatest challenge of his life.

Wired, the River Creature led a difficult life, like that of Bhishma Pitamah in Mahabharat. Bhishma had vowed celibacy, so that he never had children, who could lay claim to the Throne. He had declared lifelong loyalty to the Monarch and his progeny.

The River Creature was cursed to live for 500 years, and destroy the ships or any living being, that ventured to cross the waters, into His Master’s territory. Only faultless execution would absolve him after 500 years. And he did not want to live in this slime forever. His soul hankered for liberation.

He had pulled down several mighty ships into the depths of the Ocean. The world outside had declared the spot to be a zone of Rip Currents, and advised sailors and holidaying crowds to stay away from it. It helped him. It helped him escape the guilt of destroying lives and economies. But he was bound by the shackles of a curse.

He examined the tiny hook that came his way. This was very different from the massive anchor chains of ships. He used his extrasensory powers to gauge, that the human at the other end was an adventurous kid, perhaps trying to catch some fish. It was a Catch 22 situation. Letting her go would entrap him in the ghastly existence, for another 500 years. Not letting her go, would weigh him down with sin and guilt, forever.

Bhishma Pitamaha had chosen to support the perpetrators of injustice, and betray the righteous people he had so loved. He had confessed his guilt, that no oath is bigger than the larger interest of humanity and justice.

Wired gently released the hook, so that the owner of the fishing line could pull it back.

Written for Photo Fiction #67 https://whatthehellisreal.wordpress.com/2016/12/08/photo-fiction-67/

Walking out in the cold night

She walked out at midnight with her belongings, headed to an unknown destination, while slumber caught him, after a hard day’s work.

Her husband and the love of her life, loved her too much to leave her, and cared too much to fail on his conjugal duty.

The call was especially painful, as she was battling a terminal disease.

It was an act of Mercy.

From Her to Him – A Christmas Sercy of Liberation.

Written for Patricia’s Place — In other words, sercy In Other Words, sercy…

Goodbye

Goodbye, Son, if that is what you wish!

Though I wonder, what makes you turn back. The red and white soles on the shoes that you so fondly bought with your meager pocket money are just soles, meant to walk. Life needs well-oiled wheels to take you forward. Board the right train, or hitch your wagon to the right one. If you are lucky, you might find a co-pilot.

Don’t worry. I am not sad or depressed. For 22 years, your mother and I have known that this moment of farewell will arrive. We put in our best, fully knowing that it was not the best in the world. It was only the best that we had to offer.

Today, you take off to greener pastures, and we bless you with all our heart! Stay happy, wherever you are. This one moment when you turned back will forever stay etched in our fading memory.

Written for Daily Picture Prompt-7 Daily Picture Prompt 7

The Blackout

Robert snatched the bottle of sleeping pills from Florence’s trembling hands, and tossed it out of the window.

“Look at that picture on the wall. It was clicked during the War.” Florence looked at him with listless eyes. Neither life nor the picture made any sense to her numb mind.

Robert continued, “Blackouts would cover the nation after sunset. Skylights and windows were covered with thick black paper.

If I cropped off the top half of this picture, it would not make any difference. But as you move closer, and your eyes get attuned to it, you start noticing the shades of black and grey, the various shapes embedded within, and the sources of light. You start imagining the characters that live here. You develop the confidence to walk through the street.

A plane flying above could either bomb the location, or be a beacon of light. The altitude gives it an advantage.

Go ahead, and be that plane. Rise above the darkness.�

Written for FFfaw 93rd Challenge https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/

A MIXED BAG

She did not like the Christmas gift at first sight — the elegant black and gold contraption, shooting laser beams. It kind of contradicted its own beauty. However, she placed it at an appropriate spot in the house, not wanting to disappoint Aaron.

Their living room was done up in the same colors, but she had refused to let those extend into the inner sanctorum of the house. She was a soft and romantic person within, totally yin. Her love for Aaron was an attraction of opposites. She could sense the attraction wearing off, after 9 years of marriage. But she could not give up the security blanket that enveloped her existence.

The sound of Jerome’s footsteps shook her from her reverie.

“Here is the first copy of my poetry book, “PINK”, dedicated to you for inspiration.”

“Congratulations, Jerome! I was about to call. Aaron has been diagnosed with cancer, and we are taking off to Germany for his treatment.”

“Oh! I am really sorry. I am only a phone call away, if you need help.”

“Sure. If I find you waiting till I return – maybe alone”.

Her voice trailed off. What a mixed year 2016 had been……

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction Dec 11, 2016 https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/12/11/sunday-photo-fiction-december-11th-2016/

In anticipation

“Do you realize how you are trapped in a reactive mode? Preparing your offence or defence, in anticipation of the next move from the ecosystem- your wife, the boss, the market or your competitors?”

“Agree that I need to be proactive, and let others plan in anticipation of my next move”.

And so, the game of chess continued. He had never known any other level of existence.

Written for In Other Words, anticipation at Patricia’s Place.

In Other Words, anticipation…

The Writer’s Soul

I embellished the moss, painted pictures to cover the cracks, and made the neglected wall presentable to the world.

Yet, one more crack appeared, and I wondered, if the wall needs repair or a fresh coat of paint.

I am a writer, and the wall represents my soul.

Written for Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Six Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Six

The Human Race

For how many centuries have I been condemned to guard this golden box? The surrounding trees keep changing color, in line with the contents in the box. The glass pole has a gift trapped inside, accessible

only to the Perfect Human Being. Imperfect Gods, Attractive AntiGods, Scheming Sinners and Inimitable Devils have all visited this place, and deposited their deeds inside this box.

It is a kind of bank account, which holds the collective Sin and Goodness of Humanity. Goodness is credited, Sin is debited. And the gift trapped inside, writhes and struggles every Christmas, waiting to be released, wanting to meet its rightful owner. Instead, the gift has been stuck with me, an owl-faced machine, with blinking lights for an eye and nose. I am not remotely human, forget being perfect. And yet, I understand humanity more than anybody else.

We are both living out a curse. We are both doomed. The bank account never seems to have a credit balance. The golden box remains tightly packed with Karma ribbons.

Will someone rescue us ? Will Humanity ever wake up from its stupor, and claim the Christmas present?

Written for Thursday Photo Prompt #writephoto Christmas Present Thursday photo prompt – Christmas Present – #writephoto

The Mark

There was a time, when I could count on my fingers – the people who had made a mark on my life.

I remember some of them fondly, and I am reminded of others by nightmares of accusing fingers and caustic words.

I am not sure, if they have cared to remember me, or had ever intended to make a mark on my life.

Today, countless people leave imprints, likes, comments, shares, views, messages, engagement or whatever the social media platform prefers to call it.

How many of them think of me after that, and how many do I think about?

No mark on the psyche is indelible – just learn how to cleanse.

Written for Six Sentence Stories https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com/2016/12/21/welcome-to-six-sentence-stories-36/

Goodbye

This is where they had kissed each other goodbye, years ago. He traced a heart around it, daily, to commemorate the event. Belief or Relief?

Inspired by Twittering Tale #17 -14th February, 2017 Twittering Tale #17 – 14 February 2017

Saturday Mix

Prompt 1 – Flash Fiction A posse of police vehicles entered the resort hotel. They had received information about a planned terrorist attack. They were scanning the record of each guest.

“Naseem Ahmad?” The guy at the reception desk murmured, “He is an author who has checked in to write a book undisturbed. He does not interact with anybody, other than room service.”

“We need to conduct a surprise check in his room.”

“Sure, Sir! Room no. 404, fourth right from the elevator. Here is the set of extra keys.”

Naseem Ahmad was not in the room. They found a fountain pen, and an unfinished manuscript of a book, tentatively titled A Night of Terror . The entire area was put on high alert, while they combed the vicinity.

Naseem watched the drama with binoculars from a nearby terrace. He had made an anonymous call to the police, to get first hand ideas for his book.

(150 words) The chosen three elements – author, resort hotel, fountain pen Prompt 2 – Free on the Fives

Value added by a weed Several species it can feed I question my existence The worthlessness of life, if I cannot help someone in need.

Prompt 3 – Shadorma – Journey Life was a tiring journey heavy feet thirsty lips fading enthusiasm but yet, not reached home.

Inspired by Saturday Mix- Lorraine https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/02/18/saturday-mix-lorraine-18-02-17/ Cover pic : roommagazine.com

9 - MICROFICTION

Wish you knew

Oh, Poor Dear! I wish you knew that it will all come back.

Inspired by One-Liner Wednesday One-Liner Wednesday – To Pooh a Villain

10 - SHORT STORIES

The Man who knew no Love

“Can I really do this?”, muttered Prem to himself.

That was an arduous task, and the time from evening to the next morning, stretched in front of him. He walked home with stooped shoulders and a tired gait. His wife was quick to comfort him with a steaming cup of coffee, with traditional South Indian snacks. Prem, however, remained confined to his thoughts.

Anita had been a good wife, daughter-in-law and mother. Though Prem was not on the best of terms with his parents, she had developed an excellent relationship with them. They treated her as the daughter they never had. Life had glided by smoothly, for the past 15 years. His son was in high school, and soon, would enter college.

Entering college had been such a liberating moment for Prem. His younger days, however, had not been so smooth. His father was an army officer, known for his love of discipline. It reflected in the manner, he treated his children. They were spanked for the slightest breach of discipline. Prem and his brother had slept hungry on several nights, after being beaten up with his father’s leather belt. Their mother watched them with helpless sympathy.

He loved the total freedom that he found in the college hostel. He could have been misled by nefarious hostel-mates, but somehow, his mother’s influence had kept him grounded. He acquired the much-coveted degrees, found a job with a MNC firm, and was reasonably well-settled in life. The quaint Indian system of an arranged marriage took over, and he found himself married to the gentle and beautiful Anita.

Then, dawned the day, that would change Prem’s life forever. He stood in the hospital lobby, with his newborn son in his arms, and tears streaming down his cheeks. How quaint was this emotion of love, that he felt for the first time in his life! It was unconditional, encompassing and all-pervasive. He had silently vowed to be an exemplary father to this tiny angel.

And today, the Emotional Intelligence trainer had asked each of the participants to say three words to their spouse, and watch the reaction.

“I love you”.

Why had this not occurred to him before? Anita had changed the course of his life. He had led a normal and almost happy family life for the last 15 years, despite his father staying in the same house. The past was gradually fading away, and he often, saw an indulgent grandfather, spending quality time with Prem and Anita’s two lovely children.

Why did he fail in expressing his gratitude to Anita before? Was it gratitude? Companionship?

Camaraderie? Or…. LOVE? He had always feared that word. But he had also feared losing her, and today, the challenge had been posed by an outside entity. “ Acknowledge your feelings, express it. Let her know that you reciprocate all her sentiments. Do it, Prem, you have to do it ….”.

And dusk rapidly moved to welcome the dawn.

The next EI session witnessed much bonhomie and mirth amongst the participants. One of them shared, that his wife of 20 years, touched his forehead to check if he was coming on with a fever. Couples in his age group had not said it for so long. It seemed so unnecessary.

Prem was clutching on to the armrest of his chair, and then it was his turn to speak. He broke down as the trainer approached him. The session was hurriedly adjourned. The trainer took Prem to his cabin, and ordered tea for him, giving him space to calm down.

“Would you like to say something, Prem?”

“Yes. But I will address the group. Each parent needs to understand the long-lasting influence that they have on their child’s life”.

The audience was spellbound with Prem’s newly discovered oratory skills, as his voice reverberated across the small room.

“You need to give love to get it. Fearing the emotion will never allow you to experience it.

Fatherhood washed away the wounds of my childhood. I stand liberated, and free to love.”

Written for Prompt #1936 Healing the Wound http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2016/12/12/prompt-1936-healing-the-wound/

11 - STORIES

Doctor beyond Duty

THE THOUGHT-PROVOKING QUOTE Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so . Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something .

By Henry Thoreau.

THE STORY A 87-year old doctor ( a paediatrician) resides in a small town, with a population of a little more than a million, in the state of Rajasthan, India. He has worked his way up through struggle – paying for medical school with scholarships, looking after a large joint family, but finally gaining some professional and social recognition.

He is known as the “Christ for Children” (Masiha) in that small town. Desperate parents flock to him in a last attempt to save their dying child, in the hope of a miracle at his hands. And some of them do happen.

His medical practice has just been a part of social work that he believed in. Free treatment to those who cannot afford it, handing over cash from his drawer to a needy patient to buy fruits and milk for the child, is normal day-to-day functioning for him.

He had a reputation of examining 10 patients in a row in a large hall, and then writing 10 prescriptions, without a single error ever. It was presumably done to accommodate more patients in the limited working hours. Most of the times, he reached home after his own children were tucked in bed, and perhaps, just kissed the sleeping angels goodnight, before calling it a day.

I used my marketing brain to ask him once, why his clinic was open during the day, since working parents were busy in those hours. The answer was “There are many other doctors for those who can pay more. I work for the people who travel by bus from nearby villages, and need to get back home before the night sets in”.

Was that poor targeting and market segmentation ?

I used my business brain to ask him, why he does not charge a referral fee from the pathological clinic, all his patients were being referred to, for several years. The answer was “I refuse to recommend 5 tests, when only 3 are needed, and that is what a referral fee is meant for”. I tried telling him that whatever he was foregoing was not passed on to the patient, but added to somebody else’s profits. He couldn’t care less.

Was that a lack of financial acumen ?

I sought his help for a business appointment with a state minister, whom he had known for 40 years, and the answer was “ I have always given, never sought favors from the powerful, hence, I am respected”.

Was that poor networking ?

The doctors who have worked with him, eulogize him as a medical genius, who has resolved the most difficult cases. He has been called a student, who learns from his work, every day of his life.

But he has never published an article in any medical journal, and is not internet savvy. He made no attempt to migrate to the bigger cities, for more money or recognition.

Was that low ambition or poor marketing ?

He swam across a river to see a tiny patient struggling for life. I have not been able to figure out, how was that done with the medical practitioners’ bag, and did he have time to dry himself after the swim ?

Was that over-enthusiasm, or selling himself short ?

He was blindfolded by dacoits, and taken to their hiding places to treat an injured team member. He refused to succumb to pressure from the police to divulge information, as the injured man for him, was only a patient in need of treatment.

Was that legal or moral ?

An accident victim was brought to the hospital where he was working, and there was no orthopedic surgeon available to attend. He (a pediatrician) had the genius and the gumption, to perform the emergency surgery (with consent from the patient and his family), which was later certified by an orthopedic as “perfect”. It will be termed a punishable offence as per present-day laws, (this happened decades ago) but at that moment, a life and precious limbs were saved.

Was it ethical to go beyond his qualifications ?

I do not have answers to the questions raised, as the man is perhaps an anachronism. He is not a billionaire. His recognition has remained limited to the town he belongs, and his social and professional circles. He appears to have no regrets. Given his deteriorating health at the age of 86, he continues to see 10 patients in a day (a poor number compared to past records of 100+).

The doctor mentioned above was awarded an “All Time Achievement Award” by the Indian Medical Association, and happens to be my father-in-law, Dr. Mahendra Rai Saxena.

For Prompt #1973 I’m a Hero http://www.thewritingreader.com/blog/2017/01/18/prompt-1973-im-a-hero/