Living with him was like swimming in a shark infested ocean and coming out alive. The constant fear of wondering if I would ever make it to the shore; getting there and experiencing relief which lasts only for a few seconds, because I know. No doubt about it, the next day would bring with it, another date with the ocean. The fear, the apprehension and the cycle continues… That was life with him.
Don’t you dare tell me I should have tried harder. There are not many people who would survive a day and I did; I gave it seven years of my life which I can never get back. Was it patience or helplessness? Love or foolishness?
Facebook page: Words of a random
D.S Fenworthy was almost unrecognisable in his new attire. He stood across the street, dressed in an all-white monk robe, capped with a realistic looking balding cap. He wasn’t thrilled with his new look, but pokerfaced his way through it. To passersby, he was just another worshipper.
His partner, D.I Lucy, on the other hand was having a field day. She was laughing her head off as she watched him from a safe distance, in a white van. Their week had been a tough one, spent proofing a plan to infiltrate a buddhist cult run by a sociopath who had no regard for religion.
“Everyone is in place“, confirmed a voice into D.I Lucy’s head piece, drawing her attention back to the task at hand. Her facial expression contorted into a grim one. It was showtime.
Word count:137. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge. Thank you for this week’s photo @dorothy
My eyes steadily went down the list, Aisha, Alisa, Amal, Basma… I stopped. My heart skipped a beat. I ran through the names again up until Basma. Ameena wasn’t there. My name had been skipped, which meant, I failed the exams.
I walked away from the board in a daze. I failed…. what would my parents say; and I had already told them that results were coming out this week, oh the price of talking too much. My palms were getting sticky, my throat felt like a hot coal had been stuck in it.
Tears formed in my eyes and were starting to trickle down, I let them flow. It was a good few minutes of grief and mourning before a thought occurred. What if, my surname was used on the list. That way it would be Khan Ameena. And I didn’t get to K while checking the list so, I wouldn’t know.
There was a chance after all, I didn’t fail.
Word count: 162. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge where each week we are provided a picturw and are to write a 75-175word on it. Thank you for this week’s photo @Grant-Sud
But here’s the thing, I know I will get over it, just as you got over us. Slowly, then all at once. And when she asks, “why did daddy leave”. I’d say, “I don’t know baby, but he did”. And I will say it with conviction and without bitterness.
But today, I have no conviction and I am bitter, staring at the paper you had placed on our desk with the 7 letter words, words I never I thought I would see in our context.
And so, as she asks “where is daddy”, all I can do is hug her as tight as our bodies will allow, waiting for the day the anger, the hurt, the rejection dissipates.
Facebook Page: words of a random.
I opened the notification on my phone to see a huge brown coffee mug with various calligraphic inscriptions adorning it. Sitting on top of the mug was a rose-colored round lensed sunshades.
I didn’t need to see the name of the sender, it had to be my best friend Sadie. Under the picture was a text which read- “I got these as Maud’s birthday gift. Cool huh?” Maud was Sadie’s sister.
I paused for a moment. Sadie loved coffee, Maud hated it; Sadie adored sunshades, Maud couldn’t wear it because her eyesight was myopic. So why would Sadie buy that for Maud?
Then it clicked. They were sisters, they were used to sharing things, Sadie was killing two birds with one stone. She’d conform to the social contract of gift giving, by getting her sister Maud, what she knew would eventually come back to her.
I didn’t know if I should admire my best friend’s smartness or fear for my own upcoming birthday gift.
word count: 164. 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 @shivamt25
Is there any poetry lover here who noticed the “Sadie and Maud” reference? 😁
D.I Lucy gripped the steering wheel of her car with more force than was necessary. Only a few hours ago, she had rounded off the case of a woman who killed her husband in cold blood with such detail in its planning and execution, that it took D.I Lucy and gang several weeks to come up with admissible evidence for court proceedings.
It felt like she had gotten only a few minutes of sleep, when another call came. And now, here she was, driving across the city and beating the sunrise, in a race to see another display of human’s lack of empathy.
Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.
“What!”, she screamed into its speaker after pressing the answer key.
“Boss, is everything okay?”, the voice asked.
“Its all good Fen. Sorry, I’m just pissed that murderers have no regard for sleep time”.
word count: 143. 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 @Pamela S. Canepa
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.