Flash Fiction: Trip down memory lane

Flash Fiction: Trip down memory lane

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The sight of the two boys cycling round the park in a tandem bicycle took me down memory lane to 14, no 15 years back, when mama got my brother Adam and I, a tandem bicycle, to our horror.

It was during the Undertaker & Cain, Jeff & Matt hardy WWE era, and so inspired by them, my brother and I resolved to settle every little dispute, the WWE style- fist fight, uppercut and all. Mama apparently had gotten tired of it and decided to get creative with her punishments.

The next time she caught us fighting, we were ordered to ride on the tandem bike, taking turns to seat at the head. We’d go cycling around the estate yard, singing Barney’s “I love you, you love me”, over and over again while she sits, watching from the veranda.

Safe to say, WWE phase ended pretty quickly in our home.


word count: 146. This story Is in responses to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week, we are provided with an image and are to write a 75-175 word story on it. Thank you for this week’s photo @dorothy.

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The way it is-

The way it is-

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Somedays,
I wish I could take,
A year-
Off.
To read,
Write,
Recite
Poetry.

But-
I’ve got bills
To replace,
A degree,
To attain
(Not for my pleasure of course),
I’ve got mama
To make proud of,
I dare not
Disappoint.

And me-
Who cares about-
Me.

That’s the way,
The world works,
Always have,
Always will-
I learnt.

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Writer’s Quote: Gwendolyn Brooks

Writer’s Quote: Gwendolyn Brooks

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poem is titled “to the young who want to die”. In all honesty, even though this poem was written by a truly spectacular writer, Gwendolyn Brooks, it’s not among my top favourites.

The reason I am sharing it today is because, it is a poem this generation needs to read and ponder upon. It talks about an issue, which although we shy away from, it is prevalent all around us. Thank you Miss Gwendolyn for speaking to the young.

On the note of gratitude, I just want to give a shotout to fellow blogger Michael Medlen(Flawed masterpieces), for reblogging a poem of mine yesterday. It was very decent of you to ask if you could share it, and then reblog it. I appreciate it.

TO THE YOUNG WHO WANT TO DIE By Gwendolyn Brooks

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait, will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.

You need not die today.
Stay here – through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here: See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

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Together (we’re stronger)-

Together (we’re stronger)-

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Her sleeves came up,
Her wrist displayed,
She added some bracelets,
To hide the slits,

I took off mine,
With little shame,
The secrets she’s hiding,
I know the pain.

It’s been three years,
I smile with pride,
I’ll show you a new way,
To deal with life.

I hope it works,
She smiles back too,
I try to quit,
It won’t let me.

You were alone,
And now you’re not,
Together we are stronger,
And twice the force.

And when the waves,
Come crashing now,
I’ll be your anchor,
To pull you up.

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Hands of man-

Hands of man-

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Because children are dying,
And women are dying,
And men and animals
Are dying,
And women are killing,
And men are killing,
And we-
Are the cause,
Of the death in our surroundings.

The climate is changing,
For we are polluting,
Then we complain,
The heat is unbearable;
The land shores are flooded,
And that’s not the problem,
The dirt they flow with,
We had thrown-
with our own hands.

The trees- are cut short,
New ones are not planted,
Animals tortured,
For simply ornaments;
Their forests are burnt out,
The animals homeless,
And yet we are
Mortified,
When they visit our home lands.

Children are dying,
Animals are dying,
At the hands of,
Men and women in our society.

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the above image Is courtesy of My word wizard

My words-

My words-

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It’s the only thing I have
To offer,
Guard it, safe under your
Pillow at night,
That I may know,
The demons which
Haunt me
Taunt me
Compel me
To put into words all that
I can’t handle,
Are away from the one thing
I can call my own-
Mine-
my words.

Read it,
So that I may know,
Though miles apart,
You see the pages,
Filled with lines
Of the truth and pain,
With which each letter
Is strung,
And you know,
These papers,
Aren’t just filled with words,
But a map of my journey,
Thus far on earth.

Cherish it,
Like you would the heart
Of a friend,
And remember-
Etched in the words,
Are pieces of my heart,
Which I am bestowing,
To no one else,
But- you.

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Flash Fiction: Missing

Flash Fiction: Missing

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D.I Lucy strode into the cordoned off section of the beach, lifting the yellow tape to get across. The urgent call had come right as she was about to brew her morning coffee. She didn’t get to make it and was positively irritated, made all the more worse by the huge smile spread across her partner D.S Fenworthy’s face. Who smiles at a crime scene?

Fenworthy had arrived the beach ahead of Lucy and waved her to the site, where two boats rested. He handed her a plastic cup with black coffee. She was grateful, but irked by his morning joy, decided not to show it.

So, what do we have?” She asked, surveying the scene and making sure not to trample on anything.

Two boats“, he began, “all geared up for journey but with no sign of travel. The renters have been missing, no one saw anything”.

D.I Lucy looked bored, “and they dumped the case on our homicide unit, why?”

“The boss specifically requested us”. He paused, “One of them is his daughter”.


word count: 175 words. This post in response to a Flash Fiction for Aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, where each week we are provided with a picture to write a 75-175 word story surrounding it. Thank you very much for this week’s picture @tj Paris.

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Mrs Latashka-

Mrs Latashka-

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Mrs Latashka had no money,
Bore 5 girls with her husband Monty;
Sarah was a baby when he went running,
To another woman; says neighbourhood gossip.

Mrs Latashka toiled night and morning,
All kind of jobs, to earn some money;
Never took charity, though neighbors offered,
She trudged through life owning no one nothing.

Mrs Latashka was one of her kind,
Bore 5 girls, whom most saw as burdens;
Ignored all advice- to stop the toiling,
And earn, by getting all 5 girls married.

Mrs Latashka grew old not weary,
Little Sarah had gone off to Uni,
Her joints now weak from all the toiling,
Her face aglow for, she was reaping.

Mrs Latashka had clothed all children,
With education and self dignity,
She lay- her last few breaths escaping,
With the satisfaction, it was all worth it.

It’s been a while I wrote a ballad, thought I’d write one today.
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Writer’s Quote: Domestic situation

Writer’s Quote: Domestic situation

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. I have always loved the quote above my Maya Angelou and try to keep it at the back of my mind, always. It also goes with today’s poem, which is a narrative by Ernest Hilbert that runs on the simple theme that – love is blinding to some.

The main character is someone who should have ended up going to jail at the end of the poem, but rather, he was headed to the altar to get hitched. Like the last line said, “don’t try to understand what another person means by love”.
Here’s the poem below.

Domestic Situation by Ernest Hilbert

Maybe you’ve heard about this. Maybe not.
A man came home and chucked his girlfriend’s cat
In the wood chipper. This really happened.
Dinner wasn’t ready on time. A lot
Of other little things went wrong. He spat
On her father, who came out when he learned
About it. He also broke her pinky,
Stole her checks, and got her sister pregnant.
But she stood by him, stood strong, through it all,
Because she loved him. She loved him, you see.
She actually said that, and then she went
And married him. She felt some unique call.
Don’t try to understand what another
Person means by love. Don’t even bother.

Beauty (in the odd)-

Beauty (in the odd)-

 

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There’s beauty in odd numbers,
And the things that don’t conform;
The sun on a winter December,
And rain when autumn draws.

There’s beauty in resilience,
Falling nine times, rising ten;
Standing strong when all around us,
Are breaking down in pairs.

There’s beauty in acceptance,
Of the flaws that make us whole;
For the only way to right things,
Is to acknowledge first- the wrong.

There’s beauty in forgiveness,
Letting things roll off our backs;
Shunning off small talks and gossips,
For our sanity, not theirs.

There’s beauty all around us,
And within our ourselves- unique,
Different sizes, shape and colour,
Each beautiful in its own being.

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