Flash Fiction: Mama’s chronicles

Flash Fiction: Mama’s chronicles

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It was ingrained in me from a very young age, that until the moment when I will step into my husband’s house, I was bounded by my mother’s rules. But,
I had just turned ten, and fuelled with the burst of pre-teen rebellion, I dared to turn a deaf ear to her various warnings of “no one better touch my coal burner before I get back”.

I dared. I decided to use it in my room. I lit the match, threw it into the burner filled with about a dozen coals (I didn’t know how to use it) and almost set my room on fire. 
Mama returned back home as I was fervently trying to clean up my mess.

Safe to say, I learnt that day, though mama’s hands looked like wrinkled skin over flesh, they were in fact made of steel. I felt the steel that day.


Word count: 148 words. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you for this week’s picture @ENISA

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My Father-

My Father-

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My father…
What isn’t there to say,
About the man, whose voice
Carried a coldness, akin to the
December weather.

His footsteps-
you could swear left
imprints, on the cold hard
Impenetrable ground.

And his eyes,
had a constantly hovering
Guard of beetle black hair
Furrowed above them. Like a
Permanent tattoo.

He stood ramrod straight,
And spoke in an untremulous way.
He was the dictionary definition of
“Head of the household”.

Then- mama found a place
Amongst the soil,
Six feet under- enshrouded
In white.

His shoulders slopped,
His eyes sacked,
His voice lost the arid detachment
It was famous for… His footsteps,
Barely audible.

And I learnt,
Even a mountain requires
A solid ground to build up on.
Without it- it’d crumble.
My father lost his solid ground.

 

Somewhere in Africa

Somewhere in Africa

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Somewhere in Africa,
A dark skinned child
Lay on clay soil, laughing away
The earth’s worries.
His mother, braiding cornrows
On his sister’s 4C hair,
Discussing the business
Of the neighbour’s daughter,
Who is conveniently
Absent from their midst.

A man, assembles his
Remote tools into a barrow:
Hoe, spade, cutlass.
The ridges are made,
Seeds sown,
He stares at his empty land,
Nothing’s growing.
The sun is out,
The cloud’s at bay,
A prayer escapes from his lips,
Lord, please let there be rain.

They have food for their stomachs
Only for a meal,
A day.

A man steps upon clay soil,
To the sound of a child’s laughter:
Water glistens upon his skin,
His stomach churns;
But two hands are outstretched
Towards him.
He smiles:
Picking up the laughing reason
Why everything is all worth it.

The above image is courtesy of British Ecological Society

Writer’s Quote: waving goodbye

Writer’s Quote: waving goodbye

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday where I share some of my favourite quotes and poems. Today’s choice is a poem by Gerald Stern and I hope you like it.

Waving goodbye by Gerald Stern
I wanted to know what it was like before we
had voices and before we had bare fingers and before we
had minds to move us through our actions
and tears to help us over our feelings,
so I drove my daughter through the snow to meet her friend
and filled her car with suitcases and hugged her
as an animal would, pressing my forehead against her,
walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek,
and turned my head after them as an animal would,
watching helplessly as they drove over the ruts,
her smiling face and her small hand just visible
over the giant pillows and coat hangers
as they made their turn into the empty highway.

The WOMAN-

The WOMAN-

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I Love her…
The woman who’s hands
Are calloused,
whose back breaks
From all the placements of babies
Upon it.
Years after years.

That woman who puts on
Various masks through life’s stages.
First of a delicate carer,
Then of a strict teacher,
Then that of an enemy,
Before residing as a friend.
The woman with one thing constant,
Despite the mask-
Her soul:
The soul of a carer,
The heart of a lover.

The woman whose palms
Have grazed various parts of
My body. That woman whose arms
Will always be open to me:
Calling in silence,
No matter where I go, what I do
You are always welcome home.

That woman,
With her luscious frocks
And stout frame….
I love that woman.

Day 12: in memory of Him

Day 12: in memory of Him

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The last page is turned,
The book is closed,
The sun has sunk back;
And darkness envelopes.
The moon is on a leave,
The trees,
sing a mournful hymn:
Off tune,
Off beat,
Like the world within your head.

His footprints has vanished,
With the melting of snow;
His scent still lingers,
In every corner,
Of your home.
His laughter,
His baby laughter,
And his cries mingle as one:
The sound of an angel,
Resting in a peaceful abode.

The last page is turned,
The book has closed,
Leaving behind lessons,
Memories and hurt.
His departure,
Signals an ending;
But oh the gems
He imparted-
What it feels,
To love and be loved
In return.

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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.
prompt: ending with a beginning

 

Flash Fiction: Wife, Cat and Baby

Flash Fiction: Wife, Cat and Baby

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Karim shifted the handbrake into park mode and dialled his wife’s number.
“Hun, sorry I didn’t call you back in time, I was just…”

“What’s that sitting on your lap”, she interrupted.

He glanced down and said, “Ohh its the neighbour’s cat. Mrs Graham requested me to drop her off at the Vet’s”.

“Ohh really”, his wife exclaimed “and when did you start doing favours for each other?”

He didn’t have time to respond before she threw another question
“And why is the cat sitting on your lap?”

The next thing Karim knew, his wife was bawling through the video call.
“First its her cat, next thing, it’d be her daughter. I know she’s been eyeing you”, she continued.

Karim didn’t know what to do, so he said, “I’m sorry love”, whilst mentally calculating how many weeks were left before his wife would be due to give birth.


Word count:144. The above story is in response to FFFAW hosted by priceless Joy. Thank you for this week’s picture @ENISA 

 

Day 8: Where She Lives

Day 8: Where She Lives

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His hand-
Swipes across her face:
Once,
Twice,
Third time’s the charm,
and she crashes.

His hand-
bloodied
From the daughter he has born.
The child,
Who is made up of
Half of his genes.

His foot-
Finds the ground
upon which she lays,
Not gently
-he grazes her.
mama stands and watch.
Not a word is uttered,
Just the groans of a daughter.

His body,
Moves away to rest from 
All the work.
Each woman,
nursing,
The scars they bore.

The guilty eyes
Of a daughter
Piercing,
The tired eyes
Of a mother.
And silence hovers above them,
Into another dawn.


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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.

Prompt: Where I Live

Flash Fiction: Siblings Day Out

Flash Fiction: Siblings Day Out

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Sheila felt a slight tug at her sleeves, which she purposely ignored. She was on babysitting duty which meant, taking her four siblings out, ranging between the ages of 4 and ten, for no pay whatsoever. Ohh, the drawbacks of being the older child.

The tug pulling reached an uncomfortable point, and considering “the stare” also didn’t dissuade the sleeve puller, Sheila bent down and whispered a fierce “what?
Dawn whispered back, “can we sneak it home please?”

Sheila looked through the glass in front of her. Each one housed a crocodile, a chameleon, a porcupine and the best of all, something which looked like a really huge praying mantis residing on purple coloured limestones.

Sheila glared at Dawn, “you mean the purple stones right?”
Dawn smiled a little too sweetly, “But of course sis. What did you think I meant. The Mantis?”


Word count:142. The above story is in reaponse to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge hosted bu Priceless Joy. Thank you very much for this week’s picture @Any1mark66

Uncle, Danger

Uncle, Danger

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He told her it was okay,
And no one had to know,
This was their little secret,
A game- was what he called it.

And no one saw the bruises,
Or the terror in her eyes,
The tremor in her voice,
Whenever Uncle came around.

Doors were locked at nightfall,
To keep evil at bay,
But evil was within the home,
Masked as family.

Until one day, he wasn’t-
A car crash, they confirmed.
And smile as a free bird she did,
To all’s bewilderment.

Uncle…. oh you devil,
What have you got to say,
6 feet below the ground,
With all your evil deeds.

Lord- I can’t forgive him yet,
But I will try to move on,
I owe it to the little girl,
He almost… almost destroyed.