Wednesday, 15 July 2015

Drabble 2015 Winners & Featured Writers

              Longlist                                    Shortlist 

First Prize




Featured Writers




Below, the valley holds mist like a bowl of cotton; Mingma needs some to nurse the untraceable wounds of his life. He breaths aloud for a few minutes, tries to sit up on the promontory, but the land crashes like a soft anthill. Nervous, Mingma calls out his grandmother only to realize that he has missed her breath by half a minute. A cold flash stitches his muscles inside. His face, a decapitated glow-worm…
Linda Ashok
The water hyacinth was a perfect swing for white Flamingos.
My eyes were stationed precise and deliberate. Without a single flick, these watched them dance as couples.
The Kettuvallam houseboats cruised forward making the cerulean waters so jubilant that it gushed to reach us - seemingly to plead with us not to leave…
These kept gliding with humility and esteem even though the sunset stippled them with shades of grey.
Somewhere inside my head, I made an unwritten contract with this place for enduring visits. To repay my debts to this refueling base, I penned one drabble and bade adieu.
- Bindu Saxena
There was a bottle; a broken one. Two wine glasses; unbroken.
He sat there on the chair staring at the ticking of the clock.
The constant ticking of the clock held back the room to reach hundred per cent silence.
On the spur of the moment it was accompanied by a knock on the door. He rushed to open the door. But much to his dismay there was no one.
He drank another then another. More bottles followed. More knocks followed.
And no one opened the door ever since.
She felt sorry for playing pranks on him that night.
- Amen Benjamin
Wake up. A morning. Greyish, depressed and personal, with the clouds almost dripping from the sky; the city’s chaos utterly muted.
News and tea, black and white, and grey and grey and grey and ashen grey. Sips of prodigal warmth, shield against the wet wind.
Life bound in mundane routines. Seems unbearable, until a sharp stab of pain at the edge of the lower lip.
Bitten, with love.
Nothing changed.
Only, I smiled...
- Shakya Bose

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