Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist. Show all posts
Friday, 15 June 2012
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Vandana Jena
Memory Games
Old age is debilitating. But I have done adapted to it gracefully. Today I love my uncomplicated life in the retirement home, eating, sleeping, watching TV and walking. No visitors. People bore me. And I can no longer remember their names. I am getting old, I’m almost sixty –five, and Sister tells me. I doze in my rocking chair and see the same dream I have told Sister about. I see a log cabin on a hill top, with cobwebs covering the ebony door. Once I clean the cobwebs everything would become clear once again.
Sister wakes me up. “Did you take your pills?” she asks. “I do not remember,” I confess. She scowls. “People often forget such things,” I argue what does she think I am suffering from? Alzheimer’s?
I have stopped trusting her, ever since she brought the man with brown eyes to me who took my hand and murmured, “Sunaina.” I shrugged his hand off immediately. Undeterred, he showed me photographs of himself and me, with a child in my arms. “Try and remember,” he urged. How could I? I did not know him. The pictures were morphed of course. “Sister,” I hollered, “throw him out.’’ I then imposed the 'no visitor' rule. That was a long time ago.
“A new inmate has joined today,” says Sister. I am wary. Perhaps he is the fraud in disguise. I meet the new inmate in the garden reading a paper. “Hullo,” he says and gets up immediately. I like chivalrous men. He has brown eyes, sparse hair and a frail appearance. Sister introduces us. He mumbles his name but I can’t quite catch it. He is recovering from cancer he says. That explains his appearance. Chemotherapy. I realize. He asks me about my family. “I live alone,” I mutter, “And you?’’ “My wife is gone,’’ he responds. “Oh,” I murmur, “When did she pass away?” “She went away,’’ he explains. “Some people can’t cope with illness,’’ I murmur. He mentions a son in the United States. “He should take you with him.” I say. “I don’t want to go, in case my wife returns to me. The doctors say I have very little time left.”
“There was a man once,” I whisper conspiratorially, “who kept showing me photographs of himself and me, insisting that we were married. I got him thrown out.” He winces, and then takes out a photograph which he keeps looking at. Curious, I crane my neck to see it. It’s the photo of a log cabin on a hill top….. the same house I see in my dreams. “I know the place,” I say excitedly, “I went there for my honeymoon.” At last I remember something. If I could only brush the cobwebs away, I know, I would be able to see my husband’s face. “When?” He asks hopefully. “It was a long time ago,’’ I mutter vaguely. “I know,” he murmurs, “forty five years ago.” I frown. How does he know? I wonder.
Old age is debilitating. But I have done adapted to it gracefully. Today I love my uncomplicated life in the retirement home, eating, sleeping, watching TV and walking. No visitors. People bore me. And I can no longer remember their names. I am getting old, I’m almost sixty –five, and Sister tells me. I doze in my rocking chair and see the same dream I have told Sister about. I see a log cabin on a hill top, with cobwebs covering the ebony door. Once I clean the cobwebs everything would become clear once again.
Sister wakes me up. “Did you take your pills?” she asks. “I do not remember,” I confess. She scowls. “People often forget such things,” I argue what does she think I am suffering from? Alzheimer’s?
I have stopped trusting her, ever since she brought the man with brown eyes to me who took my hand and murmured, “Sunaina.” I shrugged his hand off immediately. Undeterred, he showed me photographs of himself and me, with a child in my arms. “Try and remember,” he urged. How could I? I did not know him. The pictures were morphed of course. “Sister,” I hollered, “throw him out.’’ I then imposed the 'no visitor' rule. That was a long time ago.
“A new inmate has joined today,” says Sister. I am wary. Perhaps he is the fraud in disguise. I meet the new inmate in the garden reading a paper. “Hullo,” he says and gets up immediately. I like chivalrous men. He has brown eyes, sparse hair and a frail appearance. Sister introduces us. He mumbles his name but I can’t quite catch it. He is recovering from cancer he says. That explains his appearance. Chemotherapy. I realize. He asks me about my family. “I live alone,” I mutter, “And you?’’ “My wife is gone,’’ he responds. “Oh,” I murmur, “When did she pass away?” “She went away,’’ he explains. “Some people can’t cope with illness,’’ I murmur. He mentions a son in the United States. “He should take you with him.” I say. “I don’t want to go, in case my wife returns to me. The doctors say I have very little time left.”
“There was a man once,” I whisper conspiratorially, “who kept showing me photographs of himself and me, insisting that we were married. I got him thrown out.” He winces, and then takes out a photograph which he keeps looking at. Curious, I crane my neck to see it. It’s the photo of a log cabin on a hill top….. the same house I see in my dreams. “I know the place,” I say excitedly, “I went there for my honeymoon.” At last I remember something. If I could only brush the cobwebs away, I know, I would be able to see my husband’s face. “When?” He asks hopefully. “It was a long time ago,’’ I mutter vaguely. “I know,” he murmurs, “forty five years ago.” I frown. How does he know? I wonder.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Nabanita Dhar
Coincidence
It was raining cats and dogs; there was an uncanny silence in the air; all you could hear were the rain drops. It was past midnight; her shift had ended; there was no soul in sight as she waited for her cab. It had been just over a month since she started working in the Call centre much against her parents’ wishes. After all a customer call centre Job in Gurgaon had all the makings of a tragedy waiting to happen.
As she waited for her cab; her mind rushed back to horrific stories where she had heard about rapes and murders in this part of the town. She was dripping wet in the rain and in the fear of the known- unknown! The rain showed no intension to subside nor the cabbie was in sight. Ironically the street light next to the stop she was waiting in started to flicker. It was right out of the scene of a horror movie, the part just before the arrival of the demon. Of course this was her real life and not a movie for her to close her eyes and pass through the scary parts.
The wind grew wilder, the raindrops bigger but there was no end to her wait. The cabbie was not picking up her calls and she could not even find an auto to take her back to her office or even her home. She was new in town, and hardly knew anyone who could come to her rescue at this unearthly hour. As she ran permutations and combinations of all the options available to her suddenly she saw a qualis approaching her. She froze in fear from the stories of women being forced into such cars and driven around city while being raped. She wished she had listened to her folks and not relocated to take such a job. She cursed her decision as she frantically sought an option to not fall prey to another such incident and become just another statistic in these ever increasing reports of crimes against women.
Running out of options she finally took out the pepper spray. As the quails stopped near her and the glasses were being drawn down; she recited couplets from the hanuman chalisa and pointed the pepper spray towards the car window ready for assault. There it was the moment of truth; the do or die hour for her. As she was about to press on the nozzle, a lady in a kind voice spoke from within the car. It was her manager! It wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. It was someone who knew her and stopped to offer her a lift home!
As she accepted the lift; she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew she couldn’t ever be gladder to see her manager then that night! It was as if someone above had made sure of her safety. It was a lucky coincidence that she would be forever grateful for!
It was raining cats and dogs; there was an uncanny silence in the air; all you could hear were the rain drops. It was past midnight; her shift had ended; there was no soul in sight as she waited for her cab. It had been just over a month since she started working in the Call centre much against her parents’ wishes. After all a customer call centre Job in Gurgaon had all the makings of a tragedy waiting to happen.
As she waited for her cab; her mind rushed back to horrific stories where she had heard about rapes and murders in this part of the town. She was dripping wet in the rain and in the fear of the known- unknown! The rain showed no intension to subside nor the cabbie was in sight. Ironically the street light next to the stop she was waiting in started to flicker. It was right out of the scene of a horror movie, the part just before the arrival of the demon. Of course this was her real life and not a movie for her to close her eyes and pass through the scary parts.
The wind grew wilder, the raindrops bigger but there was no end to her wait. The cabbie was not picking up her calls and she could not even find an auto to take her back to her office or even her home. She was new in town, and hardly knew anyone who could come to her rescue at this unearthly hour. As she ran permutations and combinations of all the options available to her suddenly she saw a qualis approaching her. She froze in fear from the stories of women being forced into such cars and driven around city while being raped. She wished she had listened to her folks and not relocated to take such a job. She cursed her decision as she frantically sought an option to not fall prey to another such incident and become just another statistic in these ever increasing reports of crimes against women.
Running out of options she finally took out the pepper spray. As the quails stopped near her and the glasses were being drawn down; she recited couplets from the hanuman chalisa and pointed the pepper spray towards the car window ready for assault. There it was the moment of truth; the do or die hour for her. As she was about to press on the nozzle, a lady in a kind voice spoke from within the car. It was her manager! It wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. It was someone who knew her and stopped to offer her a lift home!
As she accepted the lift; she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew she couldn’t ever be gladder to see her manager then that night! It was as if someone above had made sure of her safety. It was a lucky coincidence that she would be forever grateful for!
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Moin-ud-din Bhat
Blank Sheet of Cause
I felt the movement of that little creature. That cripple little creature. I felt it on my landscaped cheeks, my trembling lips, my infectious throat. It was like a massive force of air bending my heart. As my heart was at its best; jacked, I heard somebody screaming names, constantly ripping the pages of unwritten words upfront. Blank sheets of voices dragged through the air. I could feel it. I could almost touch it with my thoughts. But I couldn't feel my own movement. I couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck like an old man's glasses. My room though had a scary thought embedded; I thought it was an earthquake. But to my narrow thoughts I was shivering. I was cold. I was afraid of the dark night which drowned me in its hollowness. It almost killed me. There were ripples in the flooding waters that could extend to my feet almost touching them. I opened my eyes and found myself at the shore. I saw someone unholy, but yet mercifully digging a place where I could spend the night.
I felt the movement of that little creature. That cripple little creature. I felt it on my landscaped cheeks, my trembling lips, my infectious throat. It was like a massive force of air bending my heart. As my heart was at its best; jacked, I heard somebody screaming names, constantly ripping the pages of unwritten words upfront. Blank sheets of voices dragged through the air. I could feel it. I could almost touch it with my thoughts. But I couldn't feel my own movement. I couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck like an old man's glasses. My room though had a scary thought embedded; I thought it was an earthquake. But to my narrow thoughts I was shivering. I was cold. I was afraid of the dark night which drowned me in its hollowness. It almost killed me. There were ripples in the flooding waters that could extend to my feet almost touching them. I opened my eyes and found myself at the shore. I saw someone unholy, but yet mercifully digging a place where I could spend the night.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Deepa Ranganathan
Mirage
She looked into the mirror as if it bore a clear statement of her oblique future. It looked mystic. She couldn’t make much sense of what she was looking at. She wasn’t sure if the woman who stared at her from the other side was an identical image of her physical self. For a moment, she admired what she saw. And then she turned critical.
Rubbing the puffiness under her eyes with a wet cotton swab, she wondered what had caused them. It was too fashionable to blame it on ‘stress.’ It was like saying that the blood is red in colour. Then, what about blue blood?
Her kohl-eyed face had developed wrinkles. Intricate lines that seemed to gape at her and pass judgments. That she was growing old. In an obvious sort of way.
Much to her reluctance, she had been an unwilling host to her birthday party last night. Her husband had insisted and so she did not have the heart to say no. She despised the idea of her big fat number to be declared oh-so-openly so it could be celebrated in a loud and lavish manner. What was the point of reiterating something that had happened 33 years ago? It did not make any sense to her.
But she could not escape her husband’s sugar-coated talks. In any case, wasn’t that what she once admired the most in him? His ability to converse in the most effortless fashion. His way with words. The way in which he convinced her into doing almost anything that she would not even have dreamed herself capable of doing. His voice. His speech. And the illusory wisdom in them.
Today, they suddenly felt obsolete. All together. Was this because she was growing old? That just like she had fell in love with him, she had finally fell out of it? Perhaps she was never in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of being in love with him*. It gave her a strange sense of security. An assurance of regular company.
Then what had changed? She looked at the lines on her forehead. As if they were expected to blurt out the answer. It wasn’t like she hated him, she told herself. She couldn’t overlook the fact that he was crazy about her. Even today: six years after their marriage. But his presence seemed to inculcate a deep feeling of self-loathing in her. And the poison was spreading fast. Right into her body. Her veins. Her face. Her self.
The kajal had spread below the line of her eyes. That she had shed a few tears a while ago helped create a merged effect under them, highlighting her dark circles like never before. She felt it gave her eyes a tired look. They didn’t even need that, she mused.
She analyzed her face crudely. Once in the abundance of light; twice in the flood of darkness. Was the mirror lying?
She prayed not.
She looked into the mirror as if it bore a clear statement of her oblique future. It looked mystic. She couldn’t make much sense of what she was looking at. She wasn’t sure if the woman who stared at her from the other side was an identical image of her physical self. For a moment, she admired what she saw. And then she turned critical.
Rubbing the puffiness under her eyes with a wet cotton swab, she wondered what had caused them. It was too fashionable to blame it on ‘stress.’ It was like saying that the blood is red in colour. Then, what about blue blood?
Her kohl-eyed face had developed wrinkles. Intricate lines that seemed to gape at her and pass judgments. That she was growing old. In an obvious sort of way.
Much to her reluctance, she had been an unwilling host to her birthday party last night. Her husband had insisted and so she did not have the heart to say no. She despised the idea of her big fat number to be declared oh-so-openly so it could be celebrated in a loud and lavish manner. What was the point of reiterating something that had happened 33 years ago? It did not make any sense to her.
But she could not escape her husband’s sugar-coated talks. In any case, wasn’t that what she once admired the most in him? His ability to converse in the most effortless fashion. His way with words. The way in which he convinced her into doing almost anything that she would not even have dreamed herself capable of doing. His voice. His speech. And the illusory wisdom in them.
Today, they suddenly felt obsolete. All together. Was this because she was growing old? That just like she had fell in love with him, she had finally fell out of it? Perhaps she was never in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of being in love with him*. It gave her a strange sense of security. An assurance of regular company.
Then what had changed? She looked at the lines on her forehead. As if they were expected to blurt out the answer. It wasn’t like she hated him, she told herself. She couldn’t overlook the fact that he was crazy about her. Even today: six years after their marriage. But his presence seemed to inculcate a deep feeling of self-loathing in her. And the poison was spreading fast. Right into her body. Her veins. Her face. Her self.
The kajal had spread below the line of her eyes. That she had shed a few tears a while ago helped create a merged effect under them, highlighting her dark circles like never before. She felt it gave her eyes a tired look. They didn’t even need that, she mused.
She analyzed her face crudely. Once in the abundance of light; twice in the flood of darkness. Was the mirror lying?
She prayed not.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Divya Bhatia
The End
Death, is traditionally depicted to evoke horror. The Grim Reaper in his dark faceless hood. Or closer home Yama seated on a buffalo wielding the axe.
But in life, death does not always take such horrifying forms. Its shape can range from the mundane glass of sugarcane juice to the very thrilling scuba diving holiday.
On the morning of October 26 and thenceforth everyday for the mosquitoes at A 202 Defence Colony, Death came in most heart warming form of little Raghav.
At the age of three years he had uncovered a great truth. The mosquitoes that troubled ma at night, the beings that left ugly red marks all over her Sandalwood soap scented skin, the creatures that attacked her just when she was succumbing to sweet sleep, were at their most vulnerable in the early hours of the morning. As the sunlight trickled in through the wire mesh windows the mosquitoes were drawn to it like moth to flame. That’s when Raghav innocently crept in. Trapped the creatures between the mesh and his podgy hands. And squeezed them against the mesh. A few moments later, there would be a deep imprint of the mesh on his palms. And somewhere between the criss-crossing lines would be a dead mosquito. But the real treat was the smear of red along with the dead creature. Blood for blood. Raghav had had his revenge.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaa seee” he gurgled as he sped through the house on his red tricycle manuvering it with one hand and the other proudly raised above his head.
Death, is traditionally depicted to evoke horror. The Grim Reaper in his dark faceless hood. Or closer home Yama seated on a buffalo wielding the axe.
But in life, death does not always take such horrifying forms. Its shape can range from the mundane glass of sugarcane juice to the very thrilling scuba diving holiday.
On the morning of October 26 and thenceforth everyday for the mosquitoes at A 202 Defence Colony, Death came in most heart warming form of little Raghav.
At the age of three years he had uncovered a great truth. The mosquitoes that troubled ma at night, the beings that left ugly red marks all over her Sandalwood soap scented skin, the creatures that attacked her just when she was succumbing to sweet sleep, were at their most vulnerable in the early hours of the morning. As the sunlight trickled in through the wire mesh windows the mosquitoes were drawn to it like moth to flame. That’s when Raghav innocently crept in. Trapped the creatures between the mesh and his podgy hands. And squeezed them against the mesh. A few moments later, there would be a deep imprint of the mesh on his palms. And somewhere between the criss-crossing lines would be a dead mosquito. But the real treat was the smear of red along with the dead creature. Blood for blood. Raghav had had his revenge.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaa seee” he gurgled as he sped through the house on his red tricycle manuvering it with one hand and the other proudly raised above his head.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Lena Saha
Visions
‘Oh! How trendy those boots look,’ she thought, glancing at an eye-catching pair displayed in the shop window of a footwear store in town.
They were made of suede and maroon in colour and had chunky straps around the calves. She imagined how good she would look teaming them up with a knee-length dress and a shrug of the same colour as the boots. And how she would become the cynosure of all eyes!
As she struggled to suppress a giggle at the visualisation of herself, she noticed the price tag and all her lovely visions shrank to a point. The boots were too expensive, but finding that hard to accept, she wondered irritatingly: ‘What sort of a price is 3,999? Only a rupee less than Rs 4,000! Ha! Would that persuade me to buy the pair?’ ‘No,’ replied her inner voice – stoic and unemotional. Her shoulders drooped and her face fell.
As she was turning away from the shop reluctantly, from out of the blue a series of images flashed before her eyes: A pair of black-coloured boots of a smaller size standing in the shoe cupboard in her house in Kolkata. She had taken a fancy to them and put on a drama queen act, to make her parents buy them for her. But after wearing the boots a few times, she neglected them like a woman in a fairy tale does her stepdaughter. Dusty from not being worn for years, they now imitated her expression – when she had realised the suede boots could not be hers.
More images flashed before her eyes: the golden velvet dress she discarded after wearing once, the parrot green suit she grew tired of in no time, the pair of sunglasses she thought were cute while buying, but hideous afterwards...
Soon the images turned into a torrent and became a blur. But suddenly the torrent stopped and the images started playing slowly.
Two five-year-old girls going to school for the first time, growing up together, sharing everything – from their tiffin to their deepest thoughts; jealousy creeping into their friendship, drifting apart and then... pitch black darkness.
She winced.
A 21-year-old guy cracking jokes when she got mad. A true friend; but the selfish monster reared its head, hurt and haughtiness took over and before long he was gone.
She shivered even in the warm, sunny morning.
He had long hair, then he cut it short; his loud, clownish laugh seemed to mock her; best buddies; blissful happiness; a mistake and more of them; pleadings, a period of calm and hope of matters improving, then everything descending into chaos...
Something made of glass shattered somewhere. It startled her. She was standing in her one-room tenement.
She bit her lip. Her tongue tasted blood. Remorse swelled within her. All was lost, she thought. Or was it? Amends had to be made. Impossible maybe, but she would try without carrying the baggage of the past. Hope would be her companion, her anchor.
‘Oh! How trendy those boots look,’ she thought, glancing at an eye-catching pair displayed in the shop window of a footwear store in town.
They were made of suede and maroon in colour and had chunky straps around the calves. She imagined how good she would look teaming them up with a knee-length dress and a shrug of the same colour as the boots. And how she would become the cynosure of all eyes!
As she struggled to suppress a giggle at the visualisation of herself, she noticed the price tag and all her lovely visions shrank to a point. The boots were too expensive, but finding that hard to accept, she wondered irritatingly: ‘What sort of a price is 3,999? Only a rupee less than Rs 4,000! Ha! Would that persuade me to buy the pair?’ ‘No,’ replied her inner voice – stoic and unemotional. Her shoulders drooped and her face fell.
As she was turning away from the shop reluctantly, from out of the blue a series of images flashed before her eyes: A pair of black-coloured boots of a smaller size standing in the shoe cupboard in her house in Kolkata. She had taken a fancy to them and put on a drama queen act, to make her parents buy them for her. But after wearing the boots a few times, she neglected them like a woman in a fairy tale does her stepdaughter. Dusty from not being worn for years, they now imitated her expression – when she had realised the suede boots could not be hers.
More images flashed before her eyes: the golden velvet dress she discarded after wearing once, the parrot green suit she grew tired of in no time, the pair of sunglasses she thought were cute while buying, but hideous afterwards...
Soon the images turned into a torrent and became a blur. But suddenly the torrent stopped and the images started playing slowly.
Two five-year-old girls going to school for the first time, growing up together, sharing everything – from their tiffin to their deepest thoughts; jealousy creeping into their friendship, drifting apart and then... pitch black darkness.
She winced.
A 21-year-old guy cracking jokes when she got mad. A true friend; but the selfish monster reared its head, hurt and haughtiness took over and before long he was gone.
She shivered even in the warm, sunny morning.
He had long hair, then he cut it short; his loud, clownish laugh seemed to mock her; best buddies; blissful happiness; a mistake and more of them; pleadings, a period of calm and hope of matters improving, then everything descending into chaos...
Something made of glass shattered somewhere. It startled her. She was standing in her one-room tenement.
She bit her lip. Her tongue tasted blood. Remorse swelled within her. All was lost, she thought. Or was it? Amends had to be made. Impossible maybe, but she would try without carrying the baggage of the past. Hope would be her companion, her anchor.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Ranjan Nautiyal
The Silent Birds
Every morning, the children would wake up to the sound of something drumming on the corrugated iron-sheet roof. In their half-sleep they would mutter their prayers, hoping it was the rain. Often, it was the sound of the birds pecking at the boiled rice mixed with sugar that their grandfather would throw on the roof as the first rays of the sun worked its heat on the moisture that would settle in the night’s cold. A few times the kids’ prayers would get answered and it would actually be the rain. Rains meant no school and puddles everywhere for their paper boats. Rains also meant no breakfast for the birds. But mostly it was the birds’ prayers that got answered and the kids would drag themselves out of their warm beds to get ready for school.
As the dejected kids shuffled about with rolled rotis in their hands and bags on their shoulders, they would go past the chair where the old man sat sipping his tea under the morning sun. He was a strict man who always had a word or two to say to the boys. It could be about that ink-stain on the elder boy’s shirt front, or about the missing hanky on the youngest cousin. And for each kid he also had a coin. The kids saw it as a compensation for the sound on the roof being engineered by their grandfather. As if by feeding the birds their grandfather was somehow responsible for it not having rained today.
The night the kids were to watch their favourite movie the house was in a state of unrest. The fathers walked about and consulted with each other, the mothers sat quietly in a room with some close neighbours, the grandmother hung around the grandfather’s door as he wheezed and coughed from inside. The kids were sent to bed early and told strictly to not venture out. The only thing they liked about the arrangement was that they were sharing a room today and could kick and play around and make a mess as long as they were not heard. They were trained well in this art by their own mothers.
The next morning the kids woke up with sunlight streaming into their window, signalling that the day was well past the point they had to leave for school. The birds hadn’t dropped in, nor had the rains. Something was clearly wrong. The older kids sat up, gloomy, knowing something had changed forever. The younger ones looked at them and felt lost till one of their aunts came in. Seeing the kids were up, she turned back and fetched their mothers. The kids saw they all had tears in their eyes, and as they were rushed to go to the neighbour’s house they saw the veranda was full of people, dressed mostly in white. Their grandmother sat in a corner surrounded by women and on the roof sat the birds, not making a single sound.
Every morning, the children would wake up to the sound of something drumming on the corrugated iron-sheet roof. In their half-sleep they would mutter their prayers, hoping it was the rain. Often, it was the sound of the birds pecking at the boiled rice mixed with sugar that their grandfather would throw on the roof as the first rays of the sun worked its heat on the moisture that would settle in the night’s cold. A few times the kids’ prayers would get answered and it would actually be the rain. Rains meant no school and puddles everywhere for their paper boats. Rains also meant no breakfast for the birds. But mostly it was the birds’ prayers that got answered and the kids would drag themselves out of their warm beds to get ready for school.
As the dejected kids shuffled about with rolled rotis in their hands and bags on their shoulders, they would go past the chair where the old man sat sipping his tea under the morning sun. He was a strict man who always had a word or two to say to the boys. It could be about that ink-stain on the elder boy’s shirt front, or about the missing hanky on the youngest cousin. And for each kid he also had a coin. The kids saw it as a compensation for the sound on the roof being engineered by their grandfather. As if by feeding the birds their grandfather was somehow responsible for it not having rained today.
The night the kids were to watch their favourite movie the house was in a state of unrest. The fathers walked about and consulted with each other, the mothers sat quietly in a room with some close neighbours, the grandmother hung around the grandfather’s door as he wheezed and coughed from inside. The kids were sent to bed early and told strictly to not venture out. The only thing they liked about the arrangement was that they were sharing a room today and could kick and play around and make a mess as long as they were not heard. They were trained well in this art by their own mothers.
The next morning the kids woke up with sunlight streaming into their window, signalling that the day was well past the point they had to leave for school. The birds hadn’t dropped in, nor had the rains. Something was clearly wrong. The older kids sat up, gloomy, knowing something had changed forever. The younger ones looked at them and felt lost till one of their aunts came in. Seeing the kids were up, she turned back and fetched their mothers. The kids saw they all had tears in their eyes, and as they were rushed to go to the neighbour’s house they saw the veranda was full of people, dressed mostly in white. Their grandmother sat in a corner surrounded by women and on the roof sat the birds, not making a single sound.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Aaskti Panjiyar
Let Them Be
Priya was as usually roaming in the nearby forests when she accidentally tamped somebody’s legs. She almost tripped but somehow regained her balance. In a fit of rage, she turned back and was about to shout, but couldn’t utter a word. A voice said, “I am extremely sorry. I was tired of walking so just slept down in the tree shade.” Priya took no time to infer that the guy was blind from his countenance. But the guy had something charismatic.
Even later, no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t take her mind off him. She once again went to the place with the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She found he was picking up some herb. Astonished, she asked him how he recognised the plants. With a endearing smile on his face, he explained how each plant species had a particular smell that helped him to distinguish them. He effortlessly went on describing and Priya listened through all. She herself was surprised because she never had been such a patient listener.
On one pretext or the other, she kept on bumping him until finally he once offered her to accompany him to his village. Priya was all excited. But her excitement turned into sadness when she saw that each and every person there was blind. She decided to marry the guy and become an eye for the people there. Since both of them knew each other for so long, neither the family members nor the villagers had any objection. Every day she went there and described them about the beauty of nature, the lofty mountains, the colourful flowers, the serenity of rivers and many more such wonders that eyes could behold.
Once, just like every day, when she was coming, when she overheard two people discussing that the village head had passed on the judgment that the new would-be bride, who had the disease of seeing things would be cured on the next full moon. They had unanimously agreed upon removing her eyes off.
She didn’t wait to listen more, just turned her back and mutter, “Let them be...”
Priya was as usually roaming in the nearby forests when she accidentally tamped somebody’s legs. She almost tripped but somehow regained her balance. In a fit of rage, she turned back and was about to shout, but couldn’t utter a word. A voice said, “I am extremely sorry. I was tired of walking so just slept down in the tree shade.” Priya took no time to infer that the guy was blind from his countenance. But the guy had something charismatic.
Even later, no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t take her mind off him. She once again went to the place with the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She found he was picking up some herb. Astonished, she asked him how he recognised the plants. With a endearing smile on his face, he explained how each plant species had a particular smell that helped him to distinguish them. He effortlessly went on describing and Priya listened through all. She herself was surprised because she never had been such a patient listener.
On one pretext or the other, she kept on bumping him until finally he once offered her to accompany him to his village. Priya was all excited. But her excitement turned into sadness when she saw that each and every person there was blind. She decided to marry the guy and become an eye for the people there. Since both of them knew each other for so long, neither the family members nor the villagers had any objection. Every day she went there and described them about the beauty of nature, the lofty mountains, the colourful flowers, the serenity of rivers and many more such wonders that eyes could behold.
Once, just like every day, when she was coming, when she overheard two people discussing that the village head had passed on the judgment that the new would-be bride, who had the disease of seeing things would be cured on the next full moon. They had unanimously agreed upon removing her eyes off.
She didn’t wait to listen more, just turned her back and mutter, “Let them be...”
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Saurabh Agarwal
Remembrance Beyond Death
Tears are not how this will start. Nor is it how it ends. For where there’s pain, you won’t find such frivolities.
I speak now of the memory which stirred you to read beyond the title. I speak of the fear of a child. I speak of the twinge of regret and the wave of nostalgia. But most of all I speak of the love and question whether it dies.
Imagine smashing into a solid wall while running at your peak speed. The sudden halt is not what loss feels like. No. Try picturing that you kept on running only to look back and find that you’re still there crumpled besides the wall. The tangled and messed up pseudo reality is a truer expression.
I did not grieve, for those around me did. I wouldn’t make it worse. As I tried to contain the slipping sand with my hands, the reality of the unrealism finally struck me. Had I entered into a state of delirium or was I waking from one? I could never prove otherwise. The elements of existence and perception had fallen in the face of death.
Whispers promised salvation with time. The prospect seemed to be ridiculous. But, as always, they had a point.
A hundred days later, I think back as the world shows itself through a misty tinted glass. The throb doesn’t hurt as much. I wonder whether I have already forgotten. Had it been an illusion after all?
And then it came, tearing through the clouds of doubt, piercing like an arrow. Loss doesn’t grey with time. Rather, it is dulled by layers and layers of thoughts and happenings of everyday life.
There was something else though, shining through with the pain. A million hues were now seeping through my tinted glass and visible through them were vibrant memories of love which I had forgotten somehow. Oh what an illusion life was, where memories felt more alive than the living themselves.
Yes, there was Remembrance beyond Death. Yes, it was beautiful…
Tears are not how this will start. Nor is it how it ends. For where there’s pain, you won’t find such frivolities.
I speak now of the memory which stirred you to read beyond the title. I speak of the fear of a child. I speak of the twinge of regret and the wave of nostalgia. But most of all I speak of the love and question whether it dies.
Imagine smashing into a solid wall while running at your peak speed. The sudden halt is not what loss feels like. No. Try picturing that you kept on running only to look back and find that you’re still there crumpled besides the wall. The tangled and messed up pseudo reality is a truer expression.
I did not grieve, for those around me did. I wouldn’t make it worse. As I tried to contain the slipping sand with my hands, the reality of the unrealism finally struck me. Had I entered into a state of delirium or was I waking from one? I could never prove otherwise. The elements of existence and perception had fallen in the face of death.
Whispers promised salvation with time. The prospect seemed to be ridiculous. But, as always, they had a point.
A hundred days later, I think back as the world shows itself through a misty tinted glass. The throb doesn’t hurt as much. I wonder whether I have already forgotten. Had it been an illusion after all?
And then it came, tearing through the clouds of doubt, piercing like an arrow. Loss doesn’t grey with time. Rather, it is dulled by layers and layers of thoughts and happenings of everyday life.
There was something else though, shining through with the pain. A million hues were now seeping through my tinted glass and visible through them were vibrant memories of love which I had forgotten somehow. Oh what an illusion life was, where memories felt more alive than the living themselves.
Yes, there was Remembrance beyond Death. Yes, it was beautiful…
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Shivaja Prabod
This Life And Beyond
She smiled. They were aghast.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
He looked so calm as always. She could even see the unseen smile that played around his lips just like he smiled the first time when she met him years back. “How can you apply Pythagoras theorem here. It is not a right angle!” Her words trailed off as she saw the smile that hovered on his lips. She looked back into her notes and realized her mistake. He had just uttered one word “tangent”. Yes! A tangent to a circle forms a right angle with the circle’s radius at the point of contact of the tangent, how did she overlook that?
She smiled again. They were dumbfounded.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She looked at his moustache, the right side slightly twirled up and smiled.
It was just after their marriage, on a lazy Sunday morning. He was fast asleep and she had woken up early as usual. She had twirled up his moustache on both sides and applied some Fevicol at the edges. She loved to see that look. He had tweaked her ears as she cried “ayyoooo, sorry “and went on to shave off the entire moustache. How she had giggled every time she looked at that face, till he grew it back.
She smiled again. Now she could hear a few of them whispering.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She wanted to hug him, snuggle up to him, just as she did on those cold winter mornings, burying her head inside the blanket to grab a few minutes of extra sleep. She could almost feel the rhythmic breathing of his chest against her ears.
She smiled again. Now she could hear snatches of conversations….poor thing…..mental imbalance……not weeping…..
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
The light from the ceremonial lamp created a halo around his serene face. Some elder from the crowd was directing a young girl to pour oil into the lamp. The strains of Ramayana recital filled the air along with the heavy scent of burning incense sticks.
“Vahni lohasthambu binduna marthyajanmam kshanabhanguram…”
(Life is ephemeral like a drop of water on heated metal)
“Oh poor thing, she has not cried a wee bit” she heard someone whisper in the crowd. She almost expected them to keep a baby on her lap like the nurse in Tennyson’s poem “Home they brought her warrior dead”. But alas she didn’t have any to call her own. He was her child and she, his. They had each other to care for and now he was gone leaving her alone.
All alone.
She got up, he was gone, his mortal body. But she could feel his presence everywhere. She walked all around their home, the home they built up from scratch, the home they built with their love, the home they spent almost 20 years together.
Tears flowed.
She wept.
She wept to her heart’s content.
All her pent up grief came tumbling down.
Only they knew the depth of their love, to her it was not something to be exhibited to others.
She wept, yet she felt a slow confidence and resignation.
A resignation to the wait till she and he would be one again.
Again they would be one. She was sure--- As was he.
She smiled. They were aghast.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
He looked so calm as always. She could even see the unseen smile that played around his lips just like he smiled the first time when she met him years back. “How can you apply Pythagoras theorem here. It is not a right angle!” Her words trailed off as she saw the smile that hovered on his lips. She looked back into her notes and realized her mistake. He had just uttered one word “tangent”. Yes! A tangent to a circle forms a right angle with the circle’s radius at the point of contact of the tangent, how did she overlook that?
She smiled again. They were dumbfounded.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She looked at his moustache, the right side slightly twirled up and smiled.
It was just after their marriage, on a lazy Sunday morning. He was fast asleep and she had woken up early as usual. She had twirled up his moustache on both sides and applied some Fevicol at the edges. She loved to see that look. He had tweaked her ears as she cried “ayyoooo, sorry “and went on to shave off the entire moustache. How she had giggled every time she looked at that face, till he grew it back.
She smiled again. Now she could hear a few of them whispering.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She wanted to hug him, snuggle up to him, just as she did on those cold winter mornings, burying her head inside the blanket to grab a few minutes of extra sleep. She could almost feel the rhythmic breathing of his chest against her ears.
She smiled again. Now she could hear snatches of conversations….poor thing…..mental imbalance……not weeping…..
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
The light from the ceremonial lamp created a halo around his serene face. Some elder from the crowd was directing a young girl to pour oil into the lamp. The strains of Ramayana recital filled the air along with the heavy scent of burning incense sticks.
“Vahni lohasthambu binduna marthyajanmam kshanabhanguram…”
(Life is ephemeral like a drop of water on heated metal)
“Oh poor thing, she has not cried a wee bit” she heard someone whisper in the crowd. She almost expected them to keep a baby on her lap like the nurse in Tennyson’s poem “Home they brought her warrior dead”. But alas she didn’t have any to call her own. He was her child and she, his. They had each other to care for and now he was gone leaving her alone.
All alone.
She got up, he was gone, his mortal body. But she could feel his presence everywhere. She walked all around their home, the home they built up from scratch, the home they built with their love, the home they spent almost 20 years together.
Tears flowed.
She wept.
She wept to her heart’s content.
All her pent up grief came tumbling down.
Only they knew the depth of their love, to her it was not something to be exhibited to others.
She wept, yet she felt a slow confidence and resignation.
A resignation to the wait till she and he would be one again.
Again they would be one. She was sure--- As was he.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Neelam Chandra Saxena
Where Is She?
"Where is she?" I asked my mom.
Mom quietly wiped her tears and said, "She has gone to Granny's house."
"But, I never fought with her. Why did she go?"
"Dear, she went to give granny some company."
I was extremely annoyed at my mom for letting my sister go.
Initially, I thought that she would come back soon. But when days got transformed into weeks and weeks metamorphosed into months, I felt shaky.
I craved for the summers. During summer holidays, we always went to Granny's house. I will meet her there, I thought.
One day, I asked mom, "Mom, why can't I join her?"
Mom looked towards me for some time before she patted me and said, "Darling, someone has to look after me too, don't you think?"
Yeah, I knew my mom needed me for carrying things around. She would often ask me to fetch things for her. I would see her toiling all through the day and night. I felt happy that she needed me.
When the summer holidays came, I was excited. But, there were no eagerness on the part of my mom to visit Granny. I kept wondering about it for quite some time before I had the guts to go and ask her, "Mom, we are going to Granny's place, aren't we?"
Mom contemplated for some time before replying, "Darling, we don't have money for the tickets. Travel has become rather expensive."
I retorted, "But mom, we could sell my gold ear rings and go."
Mom replied, "Let us keep that for some other time. Go and play with your dolls for now."
I hated the dolls. They were all useless without Mini, my dear sister. Why could nobody understand that?
It was almost a year before I was informed that we shall be visiting Granny. I was jubilant. I packed almost all my toys. Mini must have missed them. However, my ecstasy was soon brought to a crushing halt. I could not see Mini at my Granny's house! I screamed, "Where is she?"
Mom took me in her lap and we went outside. It was dark. The stars were twinkling in the sky. Pointing towards them, she said, "Mini is shimmering there. She was a fairy. She glowed with joy and brought cheer and happiness till she was with us. God wanted her exuberance to sparkle all over the Earth. He, therefore, took her away from us. She knows how much you loved her. She is shining there for you to dazzle in her luminosity. Can you see her?"
I could see a million stars. All of them twinkled and shimmered. I really could not make out who was my Mini. But I knew that she would always be there with me watching me and smiling.
"Where is she?" I asked my mom.
Mom quietly wiped her tears and said, "She has gone to Granny's house."
"But, I never fought with her. Why did she go?"
"Dear, she went to give granny some company."
I was extremely annoyed at my mom for letting my sister go.
Initially, I thought that she would come back soon. But when days got transformed into weeks and weeks metamorphosed into months, I felt shaky.
I craved for the summers. During summer holidays, we always went to Granny's house. I will meet her there, I thought.
One day, I asked mom, "Mom, why can't I join her?"
Mom looked towards me for some time before she patted me and said, "Darling, someone has to look after me too, don't you think?"
Yeah, I knew my mom needed me for carrying things around. She would often ask me to fetch things for her. I would see her toiling all through the day and night. I felt happy that she needed me.
When the summer holidays came, I was excited. But, there were no eagerness on the part of my mom to visit Granny. I kept wondering about it for quite some time before I had the guts to go and ask her, "Mom, we are going to Granny's place, aren't we?"
Mom contemplated for some time before replying, "Darling, we don't have money for the tickets. Travel has become rather expensive."
I retorted, "But mom, we could sell my gold ear rings and go."
Mom replied, "Let us keep that for some other time. Go and play with your dolls for now."
I hated the dolls. They were all useless without Mini, my dear sister. Why could nobody understand that?
It was almost a year before I was informed that we shall be visiting Granny. I was jubilant. I packed almost all my toys. Mini must have missed them. However, my ecstasy was soon brought to a crushing halt. I could not see Mini at my Granny's house! I screamed, "Where is she?"
Mom took me in her lap and we went outside. It was dark. The stars were twinkling in the sky. Pointing towards them, she said, "Mini is shimmering there. She was a fairy. She glowed with joy and brought cheer and happiness till she was with us. God wanted her exuberance to sparkle all over the Earth. He, therefore, took her away from us. She knows how much you loved her. She is shining there for you to dazzle in her luminosity. Can you see her?"
I could see a million stars. All of them twinkled and shimmered. I really could not make out who was my Mini. But I knew that she would always be there with me watching me and smiling.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Chaitali Dasgupta
The Same Old Story – Retold
Six year old Shiv was afraid of monsters under the bed. His friend Bittu was not. But then, he had reasons not to. For starters, he didn’t
have a bed to sleep on. He slept on the bare floor which he shared with
his family of six. A family he helped provide for.
He swept floors, washed
utensils, ironed clothes – all for a measly 600 rupees a month.
Admittedly, he was in better shape than his friend Shiv – who was, well, let’s just call him a healthy boy.
Hamburgers, video games and no
play had given him a rotund shape which was slowly but steadily
approaching a complete round. Bittu on the other hand had plenty of
exercise and barely enough to eat.
Bittu was also not afraid of
the monsters on the street that his friend was so often warned about.
For one, he lived with those monsters day in and day out. More
importantly he was too busy keeping the monsters within him at bay. The monster that raged when his younger
sister was molested and the one that wanted to kill when his mother was
being beaten up by his drunkard father.
The one thing that helped Bittu deal with these monsters was his friendship with Shiv.
His own golu who had never been beaten up, whose dreams comprised of Xboxes and Playstations – games that played havoc with Bittu’s mind. Shiv’s innocence was a balm to Bittu’s torn soul.
His own golu who had never been beaten up, whose dreams comprised of Xboxes and Playstations – games that played havoc with Bittu’s mind. Shiv’s innocence was a balm to Bittu’s torn soul.
Shiv’s life was Bittu’s
imaginary world – where there was plenty of food, love and peace – a
world that became real for the few hours they met everyday. Till the day
when Shiv disappeared without a trace.
That was also the day Bittu
lost control of the monsters within him. Shiv was never seen again. And
what was seen of Bittu was not him but a monster wearing his mask and
Shiv’s Rolex watch.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Ateendriya Gupta
Shadows
The world will never know? No.
The colonies inside are spreading-
like locusts in mid-May. Peeled off; one by one- layer after layer.
His tunes are mine now; I seen them in the marble tiles. I see myself-
I’m no longer. He’s inside- spreading. I’m him, now. I use his smiles.
He lives.
A
trickle of rain blurred the view today- through my glasses, things are
murky. He walks down those dirty staircases, every Friday.
Ritualistically. And ritualistically, I wait at the sides- like waiting
at the altar; like waiting at the morgue. Like waiting around the
sixpence antique shop for the owner to leave.Sneaking, lurking- like
the snake in paradise. His overcoat brushes past me, every Friday.
Unnoticed, I smell the cologne on it; sickening, disgusting, sweet. I
can the smell that smell at the back of my neck, in the pits of my
stomach. It’s in me, inside me, settling down- making colonies.
This Friday, it rained, for the
first time since I stepped out. Rain makes me lose my head. Rain makes
me spontaneous. Planned out for ages- this spontaneous act of passion.
It’s a cold passion. Heartless, but that’s alright. The overcoat moves.
His shadow brushes past- the cologne is stronger- the rain makes it
sing. I can see his smile; I can feel those tunes in his head—who is it
this time? Ah. He’s in love. But of course, it’s that time of the
year. And I’m so long gone- that’s only right.
He moves another step down. One more
and I’m behind him. Like a shadow- like him. The subway’s clear- no
witness, no crime. My hand is faster than his were, back in the day. A
soft move, a slight resistance, a crimson dream- and a thud. I’m out,
I’m done- this altar has been blessed. I leave, but the cologne has
followed me home. Like glue, like pollen on insect-feet. I huddle in
the corner of my room- waiting for the cologne to leave; it’s a strange
colour now. It is inside, it burns. It’s red, like the back of him.
Mid-night, the phone rings. Much
expected. Yes? Yes. Voices talk to and fro in this corner- my corner,
while the phone rings. Cold receiver, wet hands. I cough out. “Hello?”
Trails of words- strung together- jaggedly, painfully. And then a
verdict- “Your father has been….murdered. Stabbed to death”, amidst
sobs. Sobs, mother? Really. I hang on to each word…tell me! Tell me
about the pictures in his pockets. Tell me about his basement hobbies.
Tell me what you found- what I knew. What you knew too. Tell me that
the world knows.Nothing. Not a word. I keep hanging on- the person
on the other side has changed. Nothing but good things- good
words.Unreal words. I’m at the end of my rope. The receiver slips- a
thud. Like he’s fallen again. Let him fall. I slide down- quietly, back
to my corner.
The world will never know? No.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Arka Bhattacharya
Words of Summer
When was it that words of love was were etched in the afternoon breeze, as the local Mosque sung praises to the one above for being there and saving us from disaster and all that disaster can touch?
When we, starry eyed and naive, measured our timid steps towards life itself, the wonders and the horrors, the angels and the demons that lay ahead?
It couldn’t have been very long ago, but my, does time fly!
But, the reprobates that we are, we weren’t
destined for such luxuries. The reprobates that we are, we sang when
the neighbours were asleep and slept off when the train arrived. Our
good has probably been interred with our bones, for we have been long
dead. Do you not remember how as foolish adolescents we jumped off the
cliff and killed ourselves, saying to each other all the while that it
was the journey that shall remain with us, not the destination?
You look at me, and I look at you, and yes, we truly do not understand, but there is consolation in the
big grand hymn of the universe, that chants.
"Fools! Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will! Get on with it!"
We were told dragons do not exist, and somehow we wandered off and found ourselves in one's lair.
‘Good to meet you, Mr. Dragon, will you breathe life into this precious thing we share? We’ve been shielding it from the eyes of the world for a while now, and want to bury it somewhere dark and deep, so that no harm may reach it.’
He was a good little dragon, but a dragon after all. So he breathed fire instead, and scorched our bodies and our souls.
I may be even using the royal 'We', which is to say, I may be talking only about myself. But I am not, for I am not this person. I used to know him well, though.
The dragon walks up behind me and peers into my doggerel verse.
"Is this the time or place for such mawkish sentimentality? Don't you have papers to write and people to meet?’
"Yes I do, but it's Valentine's Day! Come on, let me laze in this sunshine for a bit!"
He lowers his glasses and gives me a disapproving glare. He mutters 'Kids these days' and saunters off.
He's right though, I have things to do. But as I sit here I keep looking at the small crack in the wall and the patch of sunshine on the floor. It wasn't there this morning, but sometime in the afternoon, you, my dear old friend, struck the wall with your axe as you were going by. It was a gentle blow, but the aged wood cracked easily.
Now I sit here and warm my cold limbs for a little while, until my dragon, my good old dragon, sees it and repairs it. He means well, the poor old thing. He's just getting old.
When was it that words of love was were etched in the afternoon breeze, as the local Mosque sung praises to the one above for being there and saving us from disaster and all that disaster can touch?
When we, starry eyed and naive, measured our timid steps towards life itself, the wonders and the horrors, the angels and the demons that lay ahead?
It couldn’t have been very long ago, but my, does time fly!
You look at me, and I look at you, and yes, we truly do not understand, but there is consolation in the
big grand hymn of the universe, that chants.
"Fools! Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will! Get on with it!"
We were told dragons do not exist, and somehow we wandered off and found ourselves in one's lair.
‘Good to meet you, Mr. Dragon, will you breathe life into this precious thing we share? We’ve been shielding it from the eyes of the world for a while now, and want to bury it somewhere dark and deep, so that no harm may reach it.’
He was a good little dragon, but a dragon after all. So he breathed fire instead, and scorched our bodies and our souls.
I may be even using the royal 'We', which is to say, I may be talking only about myself. But I am not, for I am not this person. I used to know him well, though.
The dragon walks up behind me and peers into my doggerel verse.
"Is this the time or place for such mawkish sentimentality? Don't you have papers to write and people to meet?’
"Yes I do, but it's Valentine's Day! Come on, let me laze in this sunshine for a bit!"
He lowers his glasses and gives me a disapproving glare. He mutters 'Kids these days' and saunters off.
He's right though, I have things to do. But as I sit here I keep looking at the small crack in the wall and the patch of sunshine on the floor. It wasn't there this morning, but sometime in the afternoon, you, my dear old friend, struck the wall with your axe as you were going by. It was a gentle blow, but the aged wood cracked easily.
Now I sit here and warm my cold limbs for a little while, until my dragon, my good old dragon, sees it and repairs it. He means well, the poor old thing. He's just getting old.
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