Friday, 18 January 2019

The homecoming.

                                     
Top post on IndiBlogger, the biggest community of Indian Bloggers


                                          



In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes colonnades. It can be natural, architectural, or a metaphor. Take a stroll and go where the prompt leads.




The tourist guide leading the Brit contingency started to rant the history of the historical 

monument. “This was the royal dancing hall where danseuses exhibited their talent and 

paid obeisance to the local deity. These colonnades are a mute testimony to the bygone 

era. If these colonnades could speak, a thousand tales could be heard. At the end of this 

hall…


 “……a giant kund existed where Soudamini jumped to her death”, said Sandy, the British 

born girl of Indian origin who had set her foot for the first time on the Indian soil, “ to 

escape from the Raja”.

                                             written for : Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction



word count : 99

Kund : a tank or a water reservoir.

Raja : King.

Door







                                                            Picture prompt :Dale Rogerson.


 “Öhh! Should I open the door or not?”

“If I push it, it will be hurt. The glass is splintered and the tapes are trying to heal it 

faster. I better not open the door.”

The monologue continues as Alice refuses to move forward. She stands still twitching her 

pinafore.

A hand gingerly taps Alice’s little shoulders. On an impulse, she turns behind. A stern 

Teacher Rose bends down to Alice and glares into the Kindergarten pupil’s eyes.

“What new ploy is being hatched to stay away from class?”

The reluctant student pushes open the door and enters the class. 



                                   written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle. 


                                 
                   
Word count : 100

Thursday, 17 January 2019

The mesmerizing eyes.







adult-beautiful-beauty-1054422.jpg

                                                      pic credit Pexels.com


The weight of my feet sunk the wet grains and made a depression. I turned behind to observe the phenomena. The water filled the depression. I smiled. Aha Nature. The vagrant strands of hair flew in the forward direction. I did not bother to gather them and anchor them to safety. My tongue rolled out and caressed the slightly parched lips. The wind had salt in its sails.

With the entire beach to myself, I felt I was the Master of all I surveyed. The lady at my home-stay cautioned me not to venture out early in the morning. I hadn't slept properly last night. The constant tossing and turning in the bed reminded me of the ebb and rise of the waves.The Writer's Block seemed to hit me like a tsunami. I needed the ink of inspiration to flow from my dormant pen.

I enjoyed the loneliness and the solitude of the hour. The pattern made on the beach by the ocean waves and the wind bore an uncanny resemblance to an artist's abstract portrait. My gaze shifted to the tapering trees in the distance. They seem to dance with the symphony of the wind. I mentally patted my back for rising with the lark and being an early bird to the beach.

Something arrested my attention rather caught me by surprise when i saw a figure coming toward me. I had never seen such forlorn eyes. The blue in the pupils made me dive to the bottom of the ocean bed. Her face was hidden behind a knitted shawl.

"What is your name?" 

"Maya", Did I hear or did I imagine? I could not see her lips move.

She walked into the embrace of the blue waters. Her body dissipated into fine particles and merged into the sand. I was jolted out of my senses.

Was she a mirage (Maya) or my muse? I know not.


#TELLTALETHRUSDAY with Anshu and Priya

Wednesday, 16 January 2019

The splintered window.



The rent is a big high, concluded the mature mind. Balancing the monthly budget with no 

room for trimming the expenses would be tough. Junior loved the house but.......

The little feet kept pace with the longer strides of the bigger boots on the cobbled 

pathway.


They could not save Kate. The proceeds of the sale of their home could not inject life back into her. 

Losing their home was equally devastating for them. Each corner of the house was a granary of 

memories. Of shared laughter, merriment and obstacles. The celebrations added  another dimension 

to their home. The walls resonated with excitement and joy of each milestone of their only child. The 

mango tree in the backyard grew up with their baby. The strings of attachment were difficult to snap.


Junior turned behind and eyed the 'To Let' sign . Let me do something , he 

ruminated. As they entered an adjoining lane, the tender hands picked up a 


stone and gave a mischievous look. He tossed it two times in the air to catch it 


and with a mighty heave the glass pane splintered , leaving a trail of a design 


of a peacock feather worth admiring.


Papa jerked at the sharp vicissitude of action. Junior shushed him with a finger 


on his lips.


"The Kid is my favorite Charlie Chaplain  film"and the impish eye looked up at 


his papa and winked.Dragging his father's little finger with his tiny hands he 


said,"Papa, the landlady will reduce the rent now. Let's go and negotiate"






                                                           
 


                                                       Featured post on IndiBlogger, the biggest community of Indian Bloggers

Wednesday, 2 January 2019

Fence






                                                                                       PHOTO PROMPT © Russell Gayer

“Mom, what is this?”

“This is a barricade. The enemy lives on the other side”.

“Mom, I can’t see the enemy”.

“They too cannot see us. The land in-between is called ‘No Man’s Land?”

“If we cannot see them then why are they our enemies?”

“Shush! You ask many questions”.

“Mom Can I go to the other side and shake hands with the enemy? This way I be friends 
with them”.

“You cannot cross this boundary, child”.


“Look there, mom” points to the open skies. “If the bird is free to fly from here to there, why can’t I be?”


                                         written for  : Friday Fictioneers

                                            

The dark alleys


My soles made a hard impact on the cobbled pathway affecting the anxious nerves of my 

brain. Trying to keep the slipping purse on my shoulder, I was turning behind to access 

the impending danger. The stranger's pace was quickening. Sensing the  closing distance, 

I made an attempt to increase my strides. Fear pervaded every pore of my being and the 

air around me seemed to be thinning. I gasped for help.

Beads of perspiration broke on my creased brow. My mouth stretched like the Thar desert 

and I ran my tongue onto to the roof of my mouth. I turned around to check my pursuer 

and fell short of stumbling. I gathered myself as I felt the bladder bursting. These 

inconveniences were a speck compared to the mammoth danger chasing me. The street-

lights didn't offer much solace to me. With no soul in sight , my confidence was at nadir. I 

once again turned my head back for the umpteen time. I don't remember how many 

times my neck had rotated backwards. The stranger's outer features shouldn't be 

distinguished . The visor was pulled down intentionally to mask his facial terrain.


                                                   Image result for a man in the dark alleys


A pair of boots walked besides me. The rising palpitations drummed into my ears. The 

body moved from my left side with one swift motion taking a huge step ahead of me and 

came face to face reading the terror in my eyes. My handbag was yanked off as my 

shoulder went numb. His feet made a dash in the cover of the moonless darkness as the 

path forked into two. I could't know which way he disappeared. I was left helpless and 

penniless.

A silhouette came out of the darkness. "Missy , there has been a spate of robberies 

in the district. Deposit your gold chain into this". And he fished out a handkerchief. It 

made sense to my confused scared mind. Hailing a cab which appeared out of Aladdin's 

lamp, he pressed a currency note into my nervous palm and melted away as the wheels 

gathered momentum. I didn't have the time to thank the Samaritan.

I clutched the handkerchief as I rang the bell of my apartment. The piece of cloth felt 

empty. The last vestige of faith evaporated and tore my soul.




                                                      

(Google Image)

survivor




The deafening sound.

Wailing in the hospital.

Regaining consciousness, she felt numb.

The physiotherapist aided her.

She was unsure.

One step at a time, said he.

She obeyed.

She shuddered at her next step.

Her maiden step on prosthesis.




                                     

Thursday, 13 December 2018

Brew trouble


This week'sprompt is neither a sentence prompt nor a picture prompt. It is just an instruction that you need to follow. Hide at least one truth about yourself in the story, among the lies. Hide it well, let the readers guess, have fun reading others’ stories, and guessing their truth amidst the lies. Make sherlock proud, use the ‘science of deduction’. 😉  Take out the magnifying glass and read between the lines.

                            My party has lost the hold on assembly polls. 

The psephologists hadn't predicated this but the inevitable has happened. The political 

pundits are having a field day analyzing and dissecting each defeat. Panic has spread like 

wild fire in the upper echelons of the party and the grass root level workers numbering in 

millions, are losing hope.

I have congratulated the winning party, acknowledged defeat and bowed to the people's 

verdict. The print Media and digital communications have splashed the news with 

alacrity. The Twitter twittered the cacophony. Memes circulating on social media and the 

political arena have metamorphosed into a giant entertainment bazaar.

I am the lone person maintaining the calm amidst this avalanche.

I know that after the last cracker has been burst, there will be a mad clamor for 

ministerial berths. Who would be the CM? There is trouble troubling  the winning camp.

I can feel a smile spreading on my serene face. My right hand holds a cup of strong brew 

while only my left hand knows that a hornet's nest has been stirred in the opposition 

camp.
                                 I grew up brewing tea and trouble.



                                                    Image result for cup and saucer


                                                   #TellTaleThursday with Anshu and Priya



Wednesday, 12 December 2018

Loyal

FFfAW Challenge – 195th



                      

            This week's photo prompt is provided by Jodi McKinney. Thank you Jodi!






The sky was a melange of hues. Did it portend the end of the day or the beginning of the night?  She has no answers.

She had finished her knitting work and the cat purred luxuriously. She caressed the fur. Cats are loyal creatures, she said to herself.

The pots and pans were on the gas stove, keeping the food warm and juicy. The plates and cutlery were in the right places. The table was decorated with dainty lace napkins. The flowers were fresh and smiling.

She peered behind the heavy curtains at the distant undulating road. The twin headlights seemed to pierce the darkness while moving at a hurried pace.

She smiled and welcomed him home.

The perfume wafting from his clothes hit her nostrils and she felt a tinge of familiarity.

He had not mended his ways. Cats are the only loyal creatures.
                              
                          This would be his last supper.

                                                



                      Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks you, Priceless Joy.

Word count  : 151

better late than never.


                                                         


                                                                                       Copyright –Douglas M. MacIlroy

Nikhil had never bothered to learn the 3 R’s. He felt he could make a success without 

their crutch.

He joined Neeta’s Hobby class as a cleaner and he proved himself wrong.

The kids enrolled in schools came to learn extracurricular activities and were deft with 

their fingers and brain. His inferiority complex multiplied and ego took a beating.

The papier machie ball balanced on the red bucket beckoned him. It was rough but would 

be smoothened, painted and decorated to take a fancy shape. Its market value trebled.  


             Sensing his predicament, Neeta advised him to join a night-school.


                                                  Friday Fictioneers.Thanks Rochelle W.
             

                                               

word count : 100


morning reflections








" You look so beautiful", said the painter, " wish I could hold a giant mirror to showcase your grandeur"

"The branches swayed lightly, acknowledging the words.

HE was witnessing the scene from the clouds.

HE murmured as the breeze carried the message, " look at the reflections in the placid waters".


                                             O Man!!!

                                             thou admire the reflections

                                             and pen verses,

                                             thy brush paint a thousand pictures.

                                             Do you see thy reflections

                                             in the waters of your conscience?















shuuush , 
the breeze whispered
to tiptoe by,
without stirring
the meditating trees.

I obeyed,
stood quietly,
listened to the quietness
inhaled the calmness.
Peace radiating into each pore.



                                                 wordless-wednesday-natasha-musing-logo


                                 Linking to Wordless Wednesday. Thanks Esha and Natasha.

Tuesday, 11 December 2018

Pruned

            She wore black and her face was dull and withered.

Mourners wondered how she would live her life without him. They were blissfully 

together for 30 summers. Or was it the way the world perceived ? Only she knew the 

truth. Dementia had taken a toll on his mind and had ravaged her soul. As a primary care-

giver she suffered the most.

Her fledglings had taken a leap in the open skies. She was instrumental in strengthening 

their delicate feathers. A proud mother, she saw them fly away to foreign lands. She 

waved to them with a heavy heart.

Her young  shoulders efficiently shouldered the domestic machinery running smoothly.

She tended to his sick mind and body as a dutiful wife. She had done enough to fulfill all 

her roles.


As the tender rays peeped through the curtains, she looked out at the  Fiat and 

Ambassador parked in the open space of her house. The vehicles were gnawed with 

dust and neglect. The place resembled a junkyard. The ground beneath was 

with moldy and dirty.


                              She had already made up her mind.


Two fortnights away, she stood with the blinds pushed away, sipping her ginger tea. 

She wore a baby pink tunic and  her face was adorned with a smile. 

The tiny sprouts craned their necks above the wet soil to greet her. The sunshine that 

spread over the newborns greens seemed to bless them . Soon Jasmine, roses , lilies will 

vie for space with ferns and succulents. The mint, cabbage and aubergines will nourish 

her soul. 

          The garden of her home and mind is blooming and blossoming once again.



                                 


                                


Wednesday, 5 December 2018

Journey





                                                       Photo Prompt :Dawn M Miller


Grandpa tried to hide the salt in his eyes.

Little Nikhil loved the clang of the sonorous tracks and the speed transported him to 

another world. Both of them were travelling but in different eras.

The wrinkled eyes saw a hard track with clouds of dust rising and the adrenaline rush of 

the pounding of the hooves. “It is Shivaji Maharaj and his mavlas galloping. They were 

expert in guerrilla warfare”.

The little mind confused of the bygone era, which he studied only in his History 

textbooks, kept mum.

“One may not see but one can experience the feeling, Nikhil”.


                                         Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle

                                     

word count  : 100

Caution


                              Image result for a cigarette and death

Even at three score and three years, she in ash grey off-shoulder gown managed to fire 

his passion. The corporate world gushed over his Armani frame while her clairvoyant eyes 

saw the flannel suit dissipate into ash. The smoke in his lungs suffocated her.





                                       

(Google Image)



The prompt is a story in exactly 44 words that includes the following two elements: a color word and a number.



                                                              Featured post on IndiBlogger, the biggest community of Indian Bloggers

Wednesday, 28 November 2018

Detached



It was dark by the time she boarded the 7.15 bus. The seats at the rear would not be 

occupied as commuters gave last preference to them. A smile behind the silk scarf 

appeared at the sight of vacant seats. With none for company , she was happy to be in 

her own company. She scanned the area between the driver and herself. A few stray 

female commuters with bawling kids were to be seen. The kids kept their moms occupied 

so there was no fear of her being noticed by them.


She kept her head low while passing through the condominium gate. She rummaged into 

her tote if any neighbor made an attempt to greet her. She ditched the elevator to take 

the flight of stairs. Her legs needed the exercise, she justified it to herself. Moreover it 

was good for her heart. She had read in a Health Magazine.

Inside the safe confines of her apartment she breathed freely. The wall of loneliness and 

enigma was a bulwark, which she painstakingly built brick by brick, around her. The 

barrier or defense wall collapsed and she felt emancipated. 

Daisy clambered on her. Her feline friend purred with excitement and she  reciprocated 

the feeling. They both ate fish in silence.

Night seemed to embrace her like a warm blanket and she gazed at the twinkling spread 

up. She loved to talk to the residents of the skies. They asked her no questions. They 

were faceless and nameless. She was comfortable with the soliloquy . The distance 

between her and the constellations melted way. Sleep kissed her eyelashes and it was 

time for the rays to wake up.

                         This was a quotidian ritual without fail.


                                  Image result for alone with a cat in her home
                                     

As her heels hit the hard ground, a pair of a dozen curious eyes behind the mango tree 

stared at her silhouette.

" I wonder where does she work?"

"She is a witch devoid of a broom"

" Does she practice black magic?"

" Shush".

"She cannot hear".

And she heard it all.