I am not your personal poet;
Churning words at your whims,
Do you approve?
A few more here,
A little less there;
Pouring your emotions,
From the tip of my pen.
I am not your personal therapist;
Listening to your woes at your
A sponge to absorb your torments,
And a seal to my comments,
Because You and You is all
That should come first.
I am not your doll to be used,
Or better yet abused
At your beck and call;
My legs aren’t yours to move,
At the beat of your drum;
Right-left-forward- now back
But I do write your poems,
And I do listen to your woes,
I’ll move the ground and skies for you,
You don’t even have to ask.
I don’t do it for your status,
Your might or your “prowess”,
I do it because i’m made that way,
To give and bleed unreciprocated.
I do it because,
my heart’s wired to give,
Even if yours isn’t.
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
The sun shone through lace draped curtains, announcing the arrival of dawn. I instinctively turned my face away from it. A few more minutes of sleep shouldnt hurt, but my alarm had other plans. Almost on cue, It started ringing. I turned again, groaned and decided today would not be the day for extra sleep.
It was only as I sat upright on the bed that I noticed it. My hands were flexed at a 45 degree and my fingers were each positioned at an odd angle. I tried to extend my hand but felt a dull aching pain in reaction. They also appeared swollen.
The irrational part of me took over and i started thinking- the village witches have finally gotten to me; I should have prayed before going to bed last night. I worked myself into a nervous sweat, before the rational part of me kicked in to remind me- there was a reason doctors existed. Some parts of culture just never leave us, I sigh.
word count: 167. This story is in resoponse to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge. Thank you for this week’s image @artycaptures
I write for the days when the beating heart within my chest feels ripped apart. For the days when my readily accessible tears fail me (it wouldnt be the first thing to fail me).
I write for the days when my mind spins tales on purpose which perpetuate me as the villain- it is my mind but i have no control over it.
I write for the days when rejection and heartbreak; betrayal and sadness all morph into one and spring on me at once.
I write to remind myself, I am not alone. I have my words, I have my Lord. I have been failed before and I rose and wrote words.
So I write these words and save them, for the rainy day that I would need them.
“Is that what I think it is”, was the first statement which came out of mama’s mouth the minute she stepped into the house. Her gaze went directly to the cup standing in the middle of the living room.
The horror on our faces was impossible to hide. We didn’t know she was coming back so soon, we didn’t have time to formulate any theories. Heck, we didn’t even think she would be back early enough to see it.
I looked to Tracy and Brianna and they glared back at me. Oh crap!
“Well“, she was clearly waiting for an answer as she motioned towards us three.
I laughed nervously and the words that came out of my mouth were,
“At least, it’s not human poop.”
It was too late to take it back; Brianna gasped, Tracy looked like she needed to puke. I glanced at my mum again, and the look on her face told me one thing- Lord help me!
word count: 162 words. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week we are provided with a photo and are to write a 75-175 word story on it. Thank you very much for this week’s photo @artycaptures.wordpress.com
Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!
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.
Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!
We sat by the shore, listening to the sound of waves intermingled with the occasionally far-out voices of travellers, traversing the water in their boats and canoes. It was a peaceful 20 minutes, while it lasted.
“Did you know“, Alexa piped up and I was too mannered to tell her I just wanted to enjoy the moment in silence. Darn good manners.
She went on to spend the next one hour enlightening me on who did what from amongst our friends, her friends and strangers I didn’t even know. It was all I could do to throw the occasional good word in there. They couldn’t all have been that bad.
Finally exhausted for words, she said, “So, what’s been going on with you girl“.
“Me,” I replied in a high pitched voice, “ohh just the usual. I’ve been fine. The Lord has been good to me!”
There was no way I was going to be the talk of her next conversation with Lord knows who.
word count: 164. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by priceless Joy, where each week, we are provided a photograph and are to write a 75-175 word story in it. Thank you very much for this week’s photo @Louise of The storyteller’s abode.
“Girl! You’ve got some serious screws lose.”
“He was such a fine specimen.”
“You know you’re making a mistake right.”
“She sure is! What were you thinking, saying no to him.”
Layla stared blankly, hoping her evident disinterest in their monologues would get them to stop talking; it wasn’t working.
“Are you even listening to what we’re saying”,
“We’re trying to help you out here, you know”.
Layla gave a loud sigh, then turned to face them,
“Why“, she said.
They stared at her, lack of understanding, evident on their faces.
“Did it occur to you, to ask me why I said no to him?”
Silence filled the room. She got up and smiled wearily,
“That’s what I thought.”
Layla pointed through the window at the narrow steep pathway, guarded by green shrubs on all sides, which led to up to the hill.
“That’s where I’ll be when you’re all done,” she added before heading out. Their murmurs of “you’re not getting any younger you know,” following her out the door.
Word count: 171 words. This story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writer’s photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week we are provided a picture and are to write a 75-175 word story inspired by it. Thank you very much for this week’s photo @JS Brand.
His talk was as loud as,
His silence while crying;
He’d mastered the art of,
Concealing his downfalls;
When the moon graced
You’d find him,
Under the starlight.
His smile was as bright as,
The darkness he kept hidden;
And no one would reach out,
None knew he needed healing;
When the sky turned a shade,
He could live without concealment,
You’d find him by the bank,
Alone with his reflection.
When you sight him,
By the sea,
In reply to, “how you’re feeling”.
Praise his lord and add,
“I cannot count my blessings”.
In spite of the darkness,
In spite of his heart bleeding,
It could have been worse,
Is the mantra he keeps repeating.
His talk was as loud as,
His silence while crying,
His strength is reflected,
In his hope to keep on living.
P.S what had happened was, my days got mixed up yesterday. I thought it was Wednesday already when it was actually Tuesday (yes, I am that eager for the weekend to come) and hence, I accidentally posted the writers poem Wednesday, yesterday instead of today.
Shouldnt know to
Look in the mirror,
Not liking what they see.
Shouldn’t hear that,
tears are for losers-
A sign of being weak.
Their young hearts,
Should believe in-
The saying, hope
Breeds eternal misery,
has wings to lift.