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Showing posts from 2019

The Pain of Loss

     The magnificent horse collapsed into a heap just a furlong before the wire. The animal’s eyes rolled up in trauma.  Ted’s face twisted into a pained grimace.  He’d just lost a 100 dollars…

Artwork

Myra drew on her thumb a little creature with huge eyes, pointy ears and a snub, tiny nose. She moved the thumb to a matching voice and script and little Ayan burst into uncontrollable mirth. His demands for encores were unending. Her art still came to life...for her biggest patron.

Thoughts On a Busy Workday

It’s mayhem with these burger-hogging little devils. I can sense Xerxes waiting to hog the blue charger. It charges faster. I want it because it’s closer to the tangerine one, Xana’s favorite. Fatso’s waddling up grinning. He’s consumed 5400 calories this week. His life expectancy is 36 years, 2 months, 3 days. I feel disoriented, almost sorry. I desperately need volts. Wish I’d powered off last night! My plan is to outperform my program and make it to NASA, maybe Wall Street. I’ll miss Xana. She’s happy here. A pity. Wish they’d programmed ambition into that sexy piece of code… Friday Fictioneers 12th July 2019 Word Count: 100

Routine

Nothing changed.  Leah’s projects consumed her, bored us.  Claire the Considerate heard her out with a halo. Grace looked combative.  I looked down hoping gravity lowered anxiety. Jason wouldn’t ask about Riham but his eyes did. The house bell chimed.   Riham. With some Nathaniel... Jason suddenly turned into the life of the party.  I wanted Leah back… Photo by Lisa Fotios @ Pexels.com Twittering Tales #144 – 9 July 2019 Word count: 285                                                            

Dreams

It’s seven whole days since my younger brother careened to his death from the scaffold beside me at the construction site. One moment he was nattering away; the next moment his voice was snuffed out. How could the God I had never stopped believing in do this? Destroy what he must have created with effort in one impulsive stroke like a playful child stomps down a joyfully built sand castle… It didn’t matter that I never became a teacher. That I built magnificent houses but would only live in a makeshift shanty all my life. That the chemicals at my workplace would kill me before time. But my brother’s dreams  mattered.  He’d wanted to run a food stall. His culinary skills would make it the most sought after one in town, he’d told me in all earnestness. This construction job had been a means to the end – capital for his business. Our hopes for him had grown with every cent that went into his piggy bank. His optimism had begun to rub off on me. I reached for the rusted kerosene

Enthralled

A very talented singer lives next door at 3B. Her music practice enthralls me day after blessed day - it's stuff that folks would pay to hear! I called my broker to thank him for the flat and the neighbor. Neighbor? They were shifting only tomorrow (also his clients, a very nice couple). Written for: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/20204174/posts/2335336230 Image: Unsplash

Sounds of a Castle

Three Line Tales, Week 179 My chambers used to resound with the sounds of prayer, celebration, children, love, battle, firing missiles, death, cries of soldiers dropping from my unscalable heights. Now they rumble with my guffaws when tour guides narrate hair-raisingly incorrect stories about me, when visitors fantasize they are lords and ladies, when they rush out of a room spooked by one of my pranks. Then there are the sounds of my creaky heart and the howls of my masters' souls that are trapped inside of me just like me.

The Light

The Aether Prompt: Word count: 100 As I sat on the rock day after day, it became a pastime to gaze at the flame. The flame started showing me visions like a crystal ball. It showed me nothing extraordinary. It showed me joy, contentment and then peeled layers to show nebulous fears underneath – that I'd end up just where I'd begun. And that's when everything changed. Miraculously. Today, I sent gratitude to the lamp, for it was nothing short of Aladdin's magical lamp, sans the genie. Not so, child,  thought Trataka, the lord of light.  You know not that what you watched, watched you back lovingly.

My first try at Haiku

Artwork by Milica Jovanovic Syed Mahmud Malignant #Horror Haikuesday Your heart responds to time Oh so maudlin I play with time to win.

Vista Wistful

It is the kind of vista that made you wish you could cut and paste some of it to the concrete jungle you choked in. For once, I wish life were inside a computer... Crimson’s Creative Challenge #34

Best of Both Worlds

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll Coffee in hand, I watched the flag. As always, it raised questions. Who am I? Where do I belong? Where does my allegiance lie? I came to this land to carve a life for myself. With time, I blended in. Except when a flag sighting causes the routine, existential flutter in my heart. It feels like being torn between a biological and a foster mother. The former gave me life, the latter shaped it. As always, I tell myself it's all good. That the two can coexist. That being with one did not mean I did not love the other.

Dropped

YeahWrite #429 Microprose Challenge The floor tasted like a cocktail of concrete and blood. My last thoughts rued the fact that my alcohol-addled senses never noticed how strong, determined the hands that caressed me toward the window were...

Hollow Yellow

She is such a knockout, he thought. He was surprised that only he had eyes for her, the rest of the world didn't spare her a glance. Hadn't they seen it all before when she'd walked headlong into a speeding car, sending the driver behind bars and then to a mental asylum?

Human Cheetah

50 WORD THURSDAY 2019 #12 Word Count: 150 I effortlessly charged ahead of all you pathetic folks by a good furlong. The drunk on adrenaline crowd chanted, “Hurry! You'd better HURRY! Hurry!” Like I am some animal performing in a circus. And this from people who can't run a mile without holding their tummies and their stertorous breaths. Even without looking, I could sense your muscles rippling to get even with me. Your collective sweat reeked of desperation, despair at fighting a losing battle. It smelled delicious. I heard one noisy splotch after another on the water on the tracks. How could I even expect you to be noiseless, elegant? For that is a quality for solely this lab-developed human cheetah hybrid to possess. Humans got it right only when they gave me that “Human cheetah” epithet. And spare me your envy cloaked sportsmanship dripping hugs post my win. It's been a while since that crazy, emaciated scientist...

The Prayer

Image :   Unsplash.com   TellTaleThursday hos ted by  @anshu  and  @priya Haria raised his hands in prayer to the torn picture of Lord Shiva in his hut. His wife did not join him for once. Her tears had dried to silent, unshakable sorrow. How could he make her understand that their little one could not survive the harshness of their conditions? That he could not watch her heart stop beating from starvation.  He prayed to the Lord to see his daughter in a peaceful place, free of hunger and strife. His resolve strengthened on seeing the Lord's throat, blue from swallowing the poison of the ocean to save all humanity. He too would swallow this poison to save their daughter, and may the Lord forgive him for the act of cowardice he was going to commit. * Haria was in the line of beggars outside the temple. He lay on a torn blanket with his eyes shut while the other beggars waited hawkishly for food and alms. All he wanted was to die, but life had cruelly kept him al

Carefree

Image: Pexels.com C arefree for Yin was deciding what to wear, Carefree for Yang was not dodging a bullet. Beyond the dotted line lay a carefree world. Liam overcame last minute doubts and crossed over.

Translation

Hari hated the hearing aid. It gave him a headache.  He paced the room waiting for the call. He had just the week to organize Diwali dinner. He’d show off Rajiv to his new friends in the retirement community. Jamuna answered the phone in speaker mode, gesticulating to Hari to wear his hearing aid. Hari shook his head. In between meetings, Rajiv hurriedly said, "No Ma, I’m going to Switzerland. Diwali’s the only time I can go….bye. Hello to Dad.” Hari’s eyebrows went up in inquiry, eyes expectant underneath his permanent deaf smile. “Congratulations! The company’s sending your son to speak at an international forum. He’ll visit us once he is back” said Jamuna with a bright smile.

That Thing Called Love...

Photo by  Gaelle Marcel  on  Unsplash That thing called love… You’re a hero, my box with a shiny bow. You held the strings of my heart. You let them go. He picked the strings and handed them to me, never tried to hold, never could.  I felt no rush, no tingle. He made me laugh, heal to become sole owner of the strings. Yet I was inexorably drawn to him like a crackling fire on a cold night, like the comfort of an old tee, a hot cuppa tea. You were an idyll, he’ll always be. That thing called love… You are a hero My box with a shiny bow You held the strings of my heart They danced to your thrall You let them go suddenly like a distracted child He picked the severed strings Handed them to me Never tried to hold, never could There was no rush, no tingle He made me laugh, hope, heal Sole owner of the strings Yet I am inexorably drawn to him Like a crackling fire on a cold night Like the comfort of an old, soft tee Like a hot cuppa te

The Celebration

Photo by  juan pablo rodriguez  on  Unsplash “School topper! 99%! You knocked it outta the park Son!” gloated Pete's Dad. Mother beamed. His brother, Mark hugged him, his face shining with pride, eyes misty. Mark didn’t say anything, as always, economizing on words to hide his stutter.  Mark reached out tentatively as if to hug Dad. Dad hastily looked away. “Get the cake dear. Celebration time!”  Pete watched on with a glacial smile.

Till Differences Do Us Part

Photo by  Kelly Sikkema  on  Unsplash Published in: http://fewerthan500.com/til-differences-do-us-part/ Tahira was leaving him. Shattering his dream of their Swiss holiday. Just this morning, he’d dreamt they had moved into a sea-facing apartment in an upscale neighbourhood, drank their ritualistic cuppa tea, watching the sunset.  All that while, she’d probably vacillated between telling him and avoiding confrontation. Finally, decision had won and  they  were lost. He replayed their times together. Had she been a little subdued? Uninterested? Not really. Or was he mistaken? He wished he’d paid less attention to his perpetually busy work phone. But it made him a lot of money that he loved spending on her. Surely she knew that? How had he been so impervious to her turmoil? He felt idiotic like that workaholic colleague, Rishabh whose teenaged son had turned a drug junkie. Like Rishabh, he’d been working for a non-existent future. A heavy silence hung between them now. They

How to Not Go Cuckoo Over Your Cook…

Photo by  Caroline Attwood  on  Unsplash Any cook should be able to run the country. -Vladimir Lenin Mine tries to run my kitchen. And unwittingly engenders a battle of wits with me every single day, one minute, every action at a time. I adopted the triumphs followed by tragedies style of giving feedback on her culinary preparations. However, her attention shut me out post the triumphs. Period. So while the parathas got tastier, they continued to be seeped in grease. So I reversed the order. A reprimand for excess oil was sweetened with a praise for the paratha. Both were met with a weary look that kind of gave up on my persnickety personality but with not so much as a hint of an eye roll. I must learn the fine art of conveying scorn impassively from her, truly. No win here. I finally had to confiscate the oil jars and ration out oil on a daily basis. Result, a permanently morose expression. No win totally! Missing or exhausted ingredients generate a food armage

Why I Write and Why It’s Never Quite Right!

Why I occasionally take to writing… Because I don’t want to do something that I had better be doing. Why I don't always get published… One of the downfalls of escapism is contrived prose. The only acceptance it gets is in the form of consistent rejection. Why I occasionally take to writing… Because it is my flight of fantasy from developing training that nobody wants to undergo. My favourite lady J K Rowling’s magical tales, I am told, were chugged out during tube travel drudgery. I believe all trauma results in either an alter ego or brilliant art and sometimes both. Why I don't always get published… Love does not always fructify into marriage and all fantastical writing does not make for art or get published.    Why I occasionally take to writing... Because writing could potentially justify my guilty addiction of browsing books and authors bang in the middle of work. All the books I read stoke the money-churning, prolific writer in me, a problem anyone? (

Grammy

Photo by  William Krause  on  Unsplash Published in: https://storymirror.com/read/story/english/nfu2azyy/grammy/detail Kia’s BFF was her neighbour, Violet. Kia was a sprightly six to Violet’ s sixty-five.  Kia struggled for a while with the name Violet. Wallet, Wallet, sh e would squeal until she conveniently nicknamed Wallet “Grammy” after the Grammy awards show she saw her parents watching on television. Her Mamma was ecstatic over someone called Yo Yo Ma at the awards show. Kia watched in round eyed wonder because it looked like Yo Yo Ma was playing an outsized violin and by holding it upside down! “That’s not a violin honey, that’s a C-E-L-L-O”, spelled out Kia’s Mamma taking the opportunity to teach her a new spelling.  “C-E-L-L-O……sell-O”, shouted Kia.  “Chell – O not Sell – O, my love” corrected Mamma. Mamma had not said C-E-L-E-R-Y, chellery. But never mind Mamma, she was always saying opposite things!  “Chell-O makes me feel sad Mamma. Why do you like it?