Sunday, 20 August 2017

alien thoughts

          Sunday Photo Fiction – August 20th 2017


Looking hither and thither, she winced as the drab commentary takes center-stage on the 

sci-fi puppetry show. She wished she had been spared the ordeal of chaperoning her little 

sibling. The jejune show had a soporific effect on her.

Exiting out of the make-shift stage she tried to force her thoughts back to some 

semblance of order when she bumped into an ebullient creature. Handing over the fallen 

books, he notices the genre of the books.

“Psychology er Miss..?”

“Tanya”, she found herself introducing and a second later, indignation rising on her 


“Psychology and sci-fi do not mix”, he mocked.

“How will you interpret this?” pointing to the poser.

209 08 August 20th 2017

“The stray alien thoughts disguised as missiles try to enter into the orbit of sub-

consciousness of human mind. The heart is a magnet attracting both yin and yang”, Tanya 


“And what resides in the human mind?” he posed a query.

“Thoughts that the heart feeds stay in the mind. The mind is the powerhouse to decide 

what stays on lease rent and what remains permanently etched”, said she.

“Kick the boredom out of your system, pretty one”, and he sauntered away.

Ironing her creased face, she enters the stage with an open window of mind.

                                                  Written for  : Sunday Photo Fiction .


word count : 200

hues of India

Weekend Writing Prompt #16 – Colours

A word and photo prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend.  Use the prompts separately or together.  It’s up to you.  Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like.  Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes (it’s not a competition) but rather a fun writing exercise.  If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments.
Word Prompt : Colours
delicate feet strut gingerly,
compressed smiles inwardly.                                                       
myriad melange of blue, green,
unveils plumage and preen
wooing its insouciant mate
beckoning for amorous date.

Expectant brown heels raised
stare at blue horizon dazed.
Clouds black gather
overcrowding like lather,
shyly gazing down,laden with passion
awaiting the feathered union.

thunder's decibel of explosion ,
firmament releases  emotion
to satisfy the earthly need
red mud satiate from the feed.
parched chasms extends its arms
frothy rivulets embrace every farms.

Green sprouts spread their gown
hermits in orange, wisdom renown
peaceful doves in white
Tri-colour fluttering high and bright
Colours of India, Vibrant
celebrating festivals and life, jubilant.

(Google pics)

Image result for peacock
Image result for raining images on farms             Image result for tri-colour fluttering

             Written for Weekend Writing Prompt # 16- Colours. Thanks Sammi Cox.

Read my prose

Note : India celebrated its Independence Day on 15th August. Peacock is India's national                    bird.

Saturday, 19 August 2017

Holi : festival of colours.

               Weekend Writing Prompt #16 – Colours

Word Prompt : Colours
Photo Prompt

Prose Challenge – Pick a saying that has a colour in it (green as envy, seeing red, blue murder, not black and white, etc) and write a story about it, using no more than 100 words.
Poetry Challenge – Write a poem of any length that includes all the colours of the rainbow.

The larger than life portrait of multi-colour flowers loomed large over my boss’s round 


“Boss, wanna a holiday for Holi”, words barely escaped.


I found no answer.

“We lead such a colour-ful life. Our competitors want us in red, shareholders perpetually 

expect the company to be in black, green is the colour of our neighbours, personal 

taxation leaves us colourless, life’s vagaries beat us black and blue, wife’s perception is 

jaundiced, now many more colours do you want to add?” he panted.
I remove my rose-tinted glasses, pinch myself when I see a rainbow ahead. Aha a mirage.

       Written for : Weekend Writing Prompt.# 16 - Colours. Thank you Sammi Cox.
Read my poetry :
Note: - Holi, a traditional Hindu festival, celebrates the beginning of spring as well as the 
triumph of good over evil. It is best known around the world for the colourful powder 
(called gulal in local language) that revellers throw on each other, leaving festival goers 
coated in colour by the end of the day. it is a day of fun and rejoicing and partaking of 
sweets with family.

Friday, 18 August 2017

hunger pangs

Twittering Tales #45 – 15 August 2017


                                                         Photo Prompt by 5arah at

"I am famished".

"look there, Aim with your bows and arrows".

"Looks strange?".

"Meat is meat".

"It will keep the wolf from the door".

         Written for : Twittering Tales . Thanks Kat Myrman


133 characters.




August 17, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that heals America. Difficult and idealistic, I know. Think about building bonds of trust or stories of friendship. It could be a positive story about America. Bonus points for hugging a cat.

The air reeks of disgust. 

The news on the cell-phones beep of minute-by-minute details of macabre killings. 

The thumping of the chests of the claims of responsibility of the heinous crime is obvious 

and no prize for guessing.

Old Samuel coming out of the wigwam raises his crow-feet gaze at the sky and throws his 

hands up.

Doris’s purr echoes helplessness.

“The unseen roots of the Water Hemlock planted in distant lands creep to tangle the 

hand that waters it”, sighs the silver-head wisdom.

“Any nation to be great has to plant peace in its back-yard “.

                  Satyamev Jayate. Amen.

                      Written for  : Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction .Thank you Charli Mills.


word count : 100

Satyamev Jayate - Truth alone triumphs 

Thursday, 17 August 2017

Burning desire

               Three Line Tales, Week 81

                                  Three line tales week 80: a pizza oven

                                                      photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha via Unsplash

Amanpreet-Singh donned the apron and chef's cap to bake tandoori rotis , a culinary art 

that required dexterous hands accompanied by a lightening swift mind that was passed 

on from his grandmother as a legacy.

His nocturnal work in an up-scale restaurant,The Tandoor Grill, was compensated 

handsomely by the patrons of gastronomical connoisseurs and thus kept his home fires 


After a quick forty winks he heeded straight to where his passion and burning desire to 

excel lay ; Sir J.J.School of Arts, Mumbai.

                                           Written for : 3Line Tales . Thank you Sonya.

Read more about  Sir J.J.School of Arts

Tandoori roti - Indian flat-bread 



                                                            PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

This was the sixth time in the last nine days that the occurrence was repeated. He had no 

definite answer to it and seemed withdrawn when questioned. The parents felt it was not 

a serious problem and he would outgrow it. Brian was good at sports and keen learner of 

alphabets and numbers.

The counsellor held Brian’s little finger and walked towards the open door.  He stopped 

midway and wetness dripped from the sides of his legs to form a pool on the floor. “The 

ugly creatures in the washroom don’t allow me to urinate”, he uttered in a trance.

            written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


word count : 100



FFfAW Challenge-Week of August 15, 2017

                                                       128th Challenge


This week's photo prompt is provided by Thank you artycaptures!

“Fill the mug to half its capacity”, read little Nikhil from the bake-book.

“The other mug has to be washed and dried, pour all the batter into this” argued Nilesh

“Follow the instructions for best results”, cautioned Nikhil.

But the contents of the mug was already full and Nilesh’s gloved hands had pushed the 

mug into the oven.

Minutes later as the oven beeped, the result was far from satisfactory.

Nilesh tried to skulk the mess into the bin when a pair of elderly feminine legs stood 

between him and the bin.

Silence prevailed instead of a logomachy.


Nikhil presided over the meeting as the CEO of the conglomerate. The applause 

resonated the entire corporate corridors.

The framed picture of the ‘batter’ed mug that their mom hung in the boys’ study 

prodded him to push his limits and succeed. Every rung of ladder climbed was attributed 

to him mother’s upbringing.

Nilesh did odd jobs to eke out a living without completing his formal education.

The identical twins were as different as chalk and cheese.

                 Written for : Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thank you Pricess Joy.


Click HERE  to read all the wonderful FFfAW entries.

word count : 175

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Distance makes the heart grow fonder?

Packing my last piece of garment into my suitcase, my head moved sideways with my 

pupils shifting gaze to the entire length of the wooden almirah. A handkerchief or a piece 

of toiletry left behind would be duly returned to me on my next visit with a scolding by 

mom. A scolding accompanied with a twist of my ear and a reminder that I was no longer 

a little girl. I never was.

I couldn’t bathe in the luxury of a childhood. Before the last embers burnt to ashes, I had 

donned the trilby of a patriarch and the trappings that came with the title. Responsibility 

was my middle name.

The paid holiday of two fortnights was an annual indulgence which I concluded it to be of 

avian species that flew away with the bat of an eyelid. My short tresses would be 

pampered with a home-made herbal oil concoction easing the accumulated corporate 

stress.  I was treated to an array of gastronomical delights cooked on slow fires under 

Ma's watchful supervision, a far cry from the monotonous urban canteens and cheap


I and my little sibling walked into the woods and waded into vernal waters hand-in-hand.

As my luggage was loaded into the tonga, my posture bent down to touch the wrinkled 

feet. Her trembling hands clasped my shoulders to raise me and I melted into her warm 

embrace. I held her tightly to dig my tears into her cotton sari which absorbed my 


“Take care, Ma”, soft words churned from my throat.

“I am not so helpless, Anjali”, a fusillade of salty pouring added to the melancholy. Her 

grief and helplessness were camouflaged in her uttering.

“When will you come again?” fully knowing my itinerary.

“Soon”, I heard myself say, aware that the monosyllable implied a time gap of 24 

fortnights. This enquiry had become a annual ritual.

“Didiiiiiiiiiii, you will miss your train”, neighed the voice from the tonga.

                          Image result for Indian tonga

(Indian tonga. Google pic)

Geeta had left a generous space for me to be seated beside her in the mode of 

transportation. With one strong hand she pulled me inside the horse-cart to foist my body 

under the awning. The waving of the hands continued till the bend of the road swallowed 

my Ma out of sight.

I and my sibling had a long way to travel.

The hoofs of the animal echoed the rhythmic pattern in a sing-song manner to rock the 

cart. Our bodies swayed in unison. The rough disheveled road added to the woes. 

“Ma looks frail”,  with concern in my voice.

Geeta nonchalantly rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.

The hills adjoining the road showed subtle signs of ageing with crevices. The trees on the 

hills seemed to keep each other at arm’s distance. Not all seems to be in good health.

“Her tongue develops a sweet coat with your arrival. You haven’t tasted her bitter words, 


It was my turn to roll my eyes but I widened them.

“Remember what she has gone through, Gee”. This was my way of addressing her.

“And do you have any idea how I suffer under her, didi?”

“Ma is a blanket of love”.

“At times this love suffocates me. Didi, I have no rights or privacy. She demands to know 

the details of my friends. Going for a sleepover is out of question. Is there anyone to 

question you?”

“Gee, she dotes on you. Every right comes with a baggage of duty and responsibility. Do 

you know how much I miss her warmth and your company, Gee, in the far-flung Mumbai? 

The thought of coming back home and to my family keeps my heart ticking”. I almost 

sermon-ed my little sibling.

With an extra velvety gentleness I asked if Gee would like to trade places with me.

Abdul Chacha , the tonga-driver lashed the whip on the Sona’s body. Gee 's body shivered.

“Quicken the pace of your hooves, Sona (horse)” , and Abdul Chacha was privy to our 

exchange of words.

Gee and I were locked in a loving embrace, my last query having dissolved her rebellious 


We said our good-byes to each other.

Me and my luggage entered the train. 

The metallic monster chugged out of the station. From the rectangular window frame, 

the distant hills looked verdant, devoid of any cracks and in salubrious health. I smiled. 

The train of my thoughts continued with my journey..........

Notes :-

Almirah - Wooden wardrobe.

Hindus cremate the dead. Later the ashes and bones are immersed into the waters.

Indian youngsters bend down and touch the feet of elders as a mark of respect and to 

seek blessings.

Didi - elder sister.

Tonga- Indian horse-drawn cart 

Chacha - Uncle , addressed with respect.

Sona - name of the horse.

This is a piece of fiction.