Flash Fiction: Life at 8

Flash Fiction: Life at 8

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Uncle Shankar was Ma’s older brother but I often wondered if maybe one of them was adopted. They couldn’t possibly be genetically related. Uncle was as jovial as Ma was prim, he smiled as often as Ma frowned, he was slender in build while Ma was, well, thick.

We moved in with him and grandma after Dad passed away. I was eight. Every morning, when I went out to go to school, I’d find Uncle on his chair outside beside the flowers. His face would light up when he saw me; it appeared as if the sun shone out of it.

Good morning old lady“, he’d greet me and set me a pun question which, if I answered correctly, would earn me a chocolate. I rarely got that chocolate.

But I was eight and life, couldn’t have been better.


word count: 138. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring writers photo promot challenge hosted by priceless joy. Thank you very much for this week’s photo  @shivamt25

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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.

Facebok page: words of a random. let’s connect!

The first decade of life-

The first decade of life-

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The first decade of life.
A kid- that’s what you’re called;
Hurried out of places, like
Mud stain on a white shirt-
Unwanted.

The first decade of life
Passes by with you watching,
Gazing across the adult table,
Wondering,
Dreaming about
when it’d be your turn
To, finally have a seat
At that-
Coveted place.

The first decade of life passes-
While the ladies drown their clothes
In assortments of perfume,
Plastering their faces
With talcum powder-
Eyes a different shade,
Lips a different colour,
And you wonder… Why?
It’s not even Halloween yet.

Then all too soon,
Years roll into decades,
You find yourself sitting at the adult table.
For how long?
You can’t even remember,
And all you really want-
Is that first decade of life… Back.

Day 1: First. This poem is in response to December poetry Challenge. 31 poems in 31 days (I hope I can make it.) 

The above image is courtesy of Pinterest

Writer’s Quote: Innocence

Writer’s Quote: Innocence

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This week’s theme for writer’s quote is innocence which for me is synonymous with children. I remember coming back from school as a kid, and eagerly awaiting 4pm which is when the cartoons start rolling on the TV. I wasn’t a big fan of Winnie the Pooh back then, but looking back, I realise there’s so much wisdom in that cartoon. The character’s showcase diversity and at the same time create a hidden awareness to mental health, while still retaining the innocence associated with childhood. A.A.Milne did an amazing job in writing Winnie-the-pooh.

The above quote reminds me of two people- Joy, who gives us a weekly dose of inspiring quotes here on WordPress which more often than not, contain a Winnie the Pooh quote. And a friend of mine, Leila, who is my partner in crime when it comes to things like food.

It’s an amazing feeling, when even reading a few words, bring back memories of a time, place and people. I guess that’s the power of words. No matter how few or insignificant they may seem, to someone, somewhere, it may their first reason to smile that day.
Here’s to writing even on the days we don’t feel like we can.

This post is in response to Writers Quote Wednesday Writng Challenge hosted by SilverThreading and RonovanWrites. 

Flash Fiction: Evil eye…

Flash Fiction: Evil eye…

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“Hey, that’s enough”, he screamed.
Apparently, I’d been staring at the sunflowers for so long I might as well cast an evil eye on them.
“But they are so pretty”, I retorted. He came and stood between the flowers and I which was preposterous comsidering I towered over him in height.

“I am Sara by the way”. I said
“And I’m Amir. Please lower your gaze.. evil eye”. He pleaded, seeing as I wasn’t budging.
“Okay, okay”, I backed down.

Amir had sterling gray eyes with scruffy blonde hair, of which a few strands fell over his forehead. He wore plaid shirt and grey shorts which were pulled up to his navel. He looked like a cartoon character but in an appealing way.

Want to be friends?” I asked.
“sure” he replied after a pause, “as long as you don’t stare at me the way you do those flowers”
We both laughed.
“first things first though”, I remarked looking him over, “we need to lower those shorts to your waist for starters”.


word count: 173 words. *this is an edited version of the original piece I posted a while ago, I didn’t like how it turned out so I tweaked it a bit. Thank you Priceless Joy for hosting this challenge and helping us to practice writing.* This post is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge. 

Mental Health Friday #13

Mental Health Friday #13

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I just recently read an article on Jezebel titled “A Toast to All the Brave Kids Who Broke Up with Their Toxic Moms” which really hit home for me. I know this isn’t like my typical happy, upbeat posts; but it’s something I’ve dealt with since I can remember and I know I’m not alone.

I love my Mother to the end of this Earth, that will never change. But it’s hard to love someone who doesn’t love themselves. Growing up, my sisters and I have had to deal with what the article referred to as a “broken woman”. Many terrible things have happened to my Mother, which I won’t go into detail about. But the most impactful was the loss of my brother when he was 2 (in ’89). I hadn’t been born yet, in fact my mother hadn’t even met my Father yet (my two sisters and brother have a different Father). I’ve always wished I was alive to meet my brother, but at the same time I’m not sure how I would have handled his death. My Mom’s addiction developed shortly after.

In the late 90’s, she started attending a methadone clinic to attempt getting off the drugs she was abusing. If you’re not familiar with methadone, it’s a medication usually used to relieve severe pain. But it’s also used to prevent withdrawal symptoms in people who are addicted to opiates. Little did everyone know that this would be a new addiction in itself.

Obviously I was never told anything about this when I was younger, but I remember being able to notice some of the side effects of the methadone. The most noticeable being extreme drowsiness. I can remember around the ages of 7-10 I would go to her house every Friday to stay for the weekend. I’d be sitting with her at the kitchen table trying to tell her all the things I did in school that day and she’d be hunched over, passed out. I didn’t think too much of it as a child, I just thought “Oh, Mommy’s really tired”. However, I did think it was strange that she would start to fall asleep immediately after I would shake her and wake her up. It got progressively worse as I got older. When I was around 12, my grandfather passed away (my Mother’s Father). We all loved him very much, but my Mother especially. She fell into an even deeper depression after this and along with being extremely tired from the methadone, she never got out of bed, she was barely eating, and just didn’t take care of herself in general.

I have limited memories of actually doing things and spending quality time with her. Instead, I watched her wither away from being a beautiful, energetic woman to a lifeless shell of that woman. I was always so envious of other girls my age growing up who had good relationships with their Mothers. In my early teens, I sort of resented her for choosing a life of drugs over the possible relationships she could have had with her three girls. As an adult now, I just had to accept that she is so lost in her own depression and addiction, that she doesn’t even realize what she’s sacrificed. Those childhood years are something that we won’t get back, and neither will she. I don’t hate her, I don’t think I ever could. I’m just disappointed in a way.

Anyone who has a family member or friend who is an addict, I can relate. You want to help them so badly to create a better life for themselves. You want them to realize that drugs aren’t an acceptable coping mechanism for their problems, that there are other options. But like I said before, you can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped. They have to want it for themselves. You can’t sacrifice your own happiness and wear yourself down in hopes of “fixing” them. As painful as it is, you have to let it be if they are not willing to change. All you can do is create a better future for yourself. I know I have the power to be the Mother that mine wasn’t, for my own children in the future.

This week’s story was sent in by Amber who blogs at What Makes Me Amber.wordpress.com where she blogs about health, wellness, (yummy) recipes and Life in general.


If you’d love to contribute and share your story on Mental health Friday, I’ld love to have you. Let’s join hands to talk about Mental illness and blur out the stigma associated with it. You can contact me on My email address: mykahani@yahoo.com . For more information, visit this post.

IMAGE CREDIT: HealthyPlace.com. Twitter: @wordsofarandom

K- Khairat

K- Khairat

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A smile that brightened
The darkest of days;
With rays beaming out
Of crystal brown eyes;
She lit up our lives,
Nicknamed our joker;
Belle of the library-
She read all her life.

Amusing the crowd
With her funny tactics;
Bawling her eyes out,
When linked to a guy;
Little in height;
Fierce in her stance;
A partner in crime
And my favorite sidekick.

An Arabic name to
An African face-
She won every sarcasm,
Dishing one out;
So here we go Khairat,
This one is for you;
My best friend till grade six,
And sister for life.

 

The Plan of the Bed-Wetter

The Plan of the Bed-Wetter

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One summer holiday, when I Was in grade 1, My family and I traveled to the North as we often did to visit our relatives and grandparents. I and my siblings spent all year looking forward to those visits because, life in the North is different- it’s safe, rural and still had vast nature. Anyway, I was a bed wetter. To both my parents, it was a normal phase that they believed I would grow out of. But to some of my relatives, uh-uhn, this was something that needed taking care of- the traditional way. Some of the suggestions given was that: (and this is true by the way)
1) a lizard should be tied to my leg when I’m sleeping. Apparently this was the tradition those days
2) I should drink water in which snake-skin has been soaked in.

And I know some of you might not believe me, this is the Northern Nigerian style. I can still remember the look of the snake skin, haha.

I slept on the same bed in the family house with a cousin of mine, let’s call her “H”. Well, I awoke one night to find out that yet again, I had wet the bed. Not wanting to be the only one guilty of the crime, I arose from the bed to solve the issue. Thank God, the night was well illuminated by the moon. As I clearly remembered, I walked to the fridge and felt for the bowl in which drinking water was normally kept. I slowly lifted it, walked backed towards where “H” was lying, fast asleep, and poured the contents of the bowl on her clothe. With that done, I returned the bowl and went back to sleep feeling good that at least, I wouldn’t be the only one who wet the bed.

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A not-so-Lucky day

A not-so-Lucky day

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Extra lessons extended till 4:30 pm that unlucky day and Layla couldn’t wait to get into the air conditioned car of her mother after school. The sun was a hot 42 degrees and Layla had been in school since 7 am. She was beginning to think middle school was not fun at all. The two pieces of sandwich she had packed for lunch was already soggy and sweating by the time it was lunch break. A sip of the water in her water bottle and she decided it was time to get a proper water flask.

“Clink” clink” “clink” the school bell ringer signaled school was over, and without realizing the English tutor standing beside her seat partner, Layla gave an excited scream with her hands outstretched above her head, “Yes!!”.

The teacher whose eyes were now staring deep into Layla’s soul said briefly- “excuse me?”
It wasn’t a question. The rest of the classmates stifled their laughter as Layla mumbled an apology- “I’m sorry Ma”. It seemed even the teacher had a long day because Layla was left with a mere warning.

School bag on her back and lunch pack in hand, Layla ran along the filled hallway, her ponytail swaying behind her. She was never happier to be a few feet tall than at that very moment. Like a mouse scurrying about in a kitchen store, she made her way to the main school gate, unhindered by the 300 and something large sized humans that had filled up the hall.

A bit of color drained from her face after she realized that her mother’s car was absent from the dozens packed in the school driveway. “Oh well, maybe mum’s just running a little late” thought Layla as she sat down on the pavement, not Intending to take her eyes off the cars coming into the drive way.

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She Was; She is-

She Was; She is-

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She was a dreamer, a screamer;
A liver, a lover;
Naive in a bubble;
Steam off a cooker-
She was a smart ass, a talker;
A singer, a fighter;    
A cryer, dramatic;
Rude and annoying-
She was a little girl with siblings;
In trouble, too often;
Funny and loving;
Through childhood, always running.

She was a dreamer, with less voice;
A liver, not loving;
Innocence now fading;
An ice she’s becoming-
She was a smart ass, deluded
With dreams, lightly rooted;
Religion, a burden;
A flower, not blooming.

She is a dreamer, a liver;
On water, a surfer;
Surviving the high waves;
Atop all the rocking-
She is a smart ass, a talker;
A fighter, with calm words;
Religion, her solace;
A flower, now blooming;
A little girl, who’s made it.

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge: “Ice, Water, Steam.”