It was love until it wasn’t

The changing hues of the distant horizon from golden yellow to crimson filled her with nervousness and guilt .

She would shun taking a shower for long stretches, avoid filling up bottles or witnessing the rains as she always saw in them , the crimson.

The foreign garden and porch only made her more anxious , she wanted to see her people, despite the fear and the shame , and tame the overpowering guilt , somehow.

For the very first time in her  self-imposed exile , she dialed a memorized number from the payphone ‘I am coming home ‘, she told her sister .

She surreptitiously  went to see her sister for one last time  and related her story , ‘Why did you do it?’ , her sister asked in shocked disbelief to which she responded ‘ He could have simply confessed he wasn’t mine , anymore. ‘

‘I killed my husband ‘ , she turned herself in at the local police station, ultimately  buying her pass to freedom.

Written  for Six Sentence Stories at Zoe’s uncharted , the cue of the week being “mine”. Thanks to Zoe for hosting the challenge.

 

 

 

 

New love

‘You are the best chef ‘, Niki compliments her husband  Akshay , relishing the last morsel of her curry-rice .

Nothing much had changed since that warm August night in Akshay’s sister’s place, 20 years ago.

They had slipped away unnoticed from the boisterous music and  chaotic crowd to the quietest corner upstairs , in the secret store room . They had never known or seen each other so intimately.

Their passion was strong enough to tide over two seemingly eternal ‘break-ups’ .

‘I love your new hair color’, Akshay says caressing Niki’s greying hair.

‘It’s in these little things… always’, Niki blushes into their eternity.

Word count -99

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Thanks to dear Rochelle for hosting this amazing challenge and for providing us with a lovely photo prompt .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hardest goodbye

I was panting for breath , running through the deep, dark, tangled forest. There was nothing to show me the way , just an unfamiliar, intimidating , unending road leading me to nowhere.

‘Sharat , where are you ? Help me find you. ‘

Nothing, an unfathomable silence.

Until ,finally I dashed against a thick tree and saw a flash of light, it might have been Sharat, I saw a faint image.

I woke up, crying out his name again, perspiring , shivering .

I looked around , Sharat wasn’t by me on the bed. I confronted a different  shade of darkness, the darkness of  stark hopelessness.

Siddhartha says , I need counseling .

I know, I don’t . My ache would continue to overflow, bleed  as night attacks, every night.

I only called him ‘my child’.

Word count -125

Written for flash fiction for aspiring writers based on this week’s photo prompt . Thanks topriceless joy for hosting the challenge.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by artycaptures.wordpress.com. Thank you artycaptures!

 

The living rock

The tribes worshiped the living rock and turned to it for their material and spiritual sustenance. The rock provided clues in decipherable holy chants. As long as the rock was there, no calamity or scarcity could befall them, or so they thought.

The tribesmen were believers except for a boy who wanted to dig deeper into the mystery. So, one afternoon, he tiptoed to the living rock and peeped through its ‘mouth’.

The light emanating from golden cobwebs and  golden heaps of men almost blinded him. ‘Go away, or you shall never return’ resounded a  thick voice from deep inside.

word count-100

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Thanks Rochelle for hosting the challenge.

PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr

The fatal race

‘This is my best chance’,Danny pedals the tandem bike ,with all his might.
‘They are almost here , pedal harder Danny’ , Josh prompts, pedaling his share,diligently.
‘I will die of thirst ,right here’ Danny pants , the bike a swirling wind.
‘You could never measure up , newcomers , we rule this neighborhood,’ Randy spits overtaking Danny’s bike with a thumbs down and his characteristic sneer.
‘Nothing short of victory ‘, Danny sees his mission driving him like a Leopard . Randy was now a few Maple trees away .
The blinding sun was a formidable opponent for the bikers too.
‘Very soon, you will know that you have been replaced ,Randy’, Danny could feel his shins palpitating too .’ And then , Josh will no longer be your fat Pumpkin or the Whelaphant’,Danny winces.
‘Danny ,please stop, call 911,I can’t breathe’ ,Josh utters with hands on his chest.The blaring siren of the ambulance brings the gang of bikers , together. Little did  Randy’s team of 14 year olds  know that casual bullying could sometimes result in a race against death.

Word count -173.

Written for flash fiction for aspiring writers based on this week’s photo prompt . Thanks to priceless joy for hosting the challenge.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Dorothy. Thank you Dorothy!

Pickled in love

I stare at the empty green, brown, red pickle jars on the kitchen shelf, preserved for me.

I would help her in my summer holidays with washing, peeling, sauteing and/or caramelizing the Mangoes, Tamarinds, Lemons and Chilies, roasting spices for hot pickles and later drying them in the sun before canning a year’s stock of pickles for the family, extended family and neighbors.

I would often ask her ‘don’t you get bored and tired of repeating the recipes year after year ‘, to which she would reply ‘I enjoy it because of  the special ingredient – love’

Sometimes, on lazy summer afternoons, I  would accompany her to our sprawling backyard for collecting raw mangoes, tamarinds etcetera to make extra jars of pickles for our neighbor Amit,  my aunt’s sister’s brother-in-law and so on.

I would also be her privileged taster for the dozen varieties of pickles and  she would sprinkle  the rarest and most precious of stories of her childhood, marriage to my grandfather, stories of my father and his cousins over our pickle-making and tasting session.

She passed away on March 10th and i will miss  our beautiful summer afternoons – pickled in warmth , smiles and her special, secret ingredient of love – always and forever.

Written  for Six Sentence Stories at Zoe’s uncharted , the cue of the week being “pickle”. Thanks to Zoe for hosting the challenge.

 

 

 

 

 

Choosing happiness

” I can’t imagine spending a good 10 hours of my day, everyday , in this congested , suffocating office”, Neha sighed recalling her friend’s father’s luxurious living-room-of-an-office.

“Imagine, all the boring , repetitive, balance sheets that I would have to wrestle with. Can’t believe people send so many gifts/ urgent packages everyday. I sure don’t receive any”, her soliloquy continued.

“You are so tall, I am so petite”.

“You are so beautiful , I am ugly.”

Neha overheard the two flower bouquets converse.

” Someone had bothered to decorate the new employee’s work-table. It wasn’t going to be that terrible after all”

Neha smiled.

Word count-98

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Thanks Rochelle for hosting the challenge.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson.

Thanks Dale for our photo prompt .