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!

I hold within me-

I hold within me-

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I am-
All made up of,
the life I’ve left;
Every cell within me,
Tainted by the touch,
Of love,
Of loss,
Of words,
All past;
I thrive on the energy
Of things come,
Now gone.

It rests,
Within my shadow,
A reflection of the girl,
Not the one I was born as,
But the girl I’d grown into,
(Body and soul);
I hold within my shadow,
A past- I cannot,
Bury.

It is-
Right alongside me,
When the sun
Graces the sky,
Till the moon tires out,
Of the darkness,
It resides with me-
My past.

It is with me,
But it is not me,
It made me,
But I am not it.
I carry it,
It doesn’t carry me,
I am made of my past,
It doesn’t control me,
I hold it,
For, It was once
a part of-
Me.

Would you?

Would you?

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If I poured my soul in verses,
And stamped it in hearts,
Sent it to the places,
You lived since we parted,
Would you look back
For a moment,
At the memories we had,
The good and the bad,
With my words in your mind.

Would you take down the ring,
From the shelf it’s been standing,
Take a look at the pictures,
Of the babies we are having,
Would you look down your hand,
With my memories beside you,
Gaze at your fingers,
Knowing something is missing.

If I told you I’m sorry,
And we miss you in our family,
Would you give us a chance,
Or would you still leave me hanging.
If I poured my soul in verses,
And stamped them in hearts,
To bring back our family,
Would those words suffice…

Father… Dad

Father… Dad

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And maybe someday,
We’ll get to the point,
Where I won’t have to call
You father-
And the word “dad”
Would sound right.

And maybe someday,
All the screaming would
Become distant,
Like a memory locked,
In an abyss,
And I’ll gaze at you,
With new eyes.

And maybe,
Just maybe,
I’ld master the art of
Letting go,
Or shrug off the past,
And the words you’ve spoken,
Like the wind blows,
Pollen apart.

And maybe,
It’s just wishful thinking,
That you read this poem,
And realise,
An adult’s plea to make things
Right with a father…
Or maybe- you won’t?

On being dark-

On being dark-

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She was told as a kid,
To be fair is beautiful,
So she looked down her skin,
When she sighted a mirror,
And they pointed at others,
Saying- that girl is pretty.
And she withered inside for,
She didn’t look like those “pretties”.

8 year old and she’s taught,
To be dark is a sin,
For no man would approach,
A pigmented melanin,
And she’ll grow old and wilt,
In her lone parents home,
Well except, well except,
She did something about it.

And she did, yes she did,
More than something about it,
Now her skin is much lighter,
But she didn’t stop at her skin,
And her nose is a bit Pointer,
And her lips are much fuller,
And they point- see this fake thing,
Forgetting that they made her,
By the words they had implanted,
As a kid of eight years old.

The thing about grief-

The thing about grief-

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The thing about grief is-
There’s no time stamp attached;
The hours seem heavy,
And the days all crawl by;
You’ll remember their laughter,
Like it’s just minutes past;
You can still feel the warmth
From your skins’ last contact.

The thing about grief is,
It demands it’s due right;
An overwhelming emotion,
Which demands to be felt
It demands to be lived,
As a passage, a rite;
In order to see past,
The darkness of death.

The thing about grief is,
There’s no time stamp attached.
And like most things in life,
It doesn’t last forever.

K- Knowing you

K- Knowing you

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Those ember months brought along a certain feeling of longing and wistfulness I couldn’t adequately describe in words; a longing for the ocean while standing at the shore, watching the waves crash at my foot but not daring to take any step further. Why? A question I couldn’t answer until you arrived, one sunny ember morning.
And a girl who never believed in cliches took one glance at you striding into the parlour with my father and I knew, you would play a big role in my life, which you did… until you couldn’t.

Your smile would light up a room and your charisma made everyone comfortable. You let me be the joker in public with the jokes you enriched me with in private. And you- with your arms which were nothing like those of the future I had imagined, were my home.
Meeting you was a coincidence, knowing was a privilege, and loving you- a blessing

A- April revival

A- April revival

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The first time we spoke
Was April,
The day you were born,
Was in April,
The last time we spoke,
Was March,
The day I was born,
Was in March.

My Lord- He kept giving
Signs,
It was over before
It began,
But I clutched on to ropes,
Walking blind,
For he, who was
Never mine.

And I spiralled,
And I crashed,
And I burned,
It was March.

And my Lord,
With his infinite mercy,
Picked me up,
Despite my rebellion.

It Is April,
And spring has arrived,
With His mercy,
healing my cracks,
The one, who’s got my back-

Always.


Surprise! I figured ehh, it’d be nice to try the April A-Z challenge once again this year, to make up for my embarrassing unofficial quitting at letter D last year. (Hopefully this year I’ll fare better.) what to expect? I haven’t chosen a theme, but most probably, poetry and prose from letter A-Z. Let’s see how far I can go this year. Here is my last year’s post for letter A: Absolute Day

Writing because-

Writing because-

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“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.