Friday, 25 September 2015

Road to freedom




She ducked out of the path and the mirror behind her shattered into hundred shards.

Furious, at missing his mark, the savage charged at her. The splintered reflections pierced his soles as he slipped and hit his head on the ornamental chair edge. His limp body lay sprawled.

She was on the Interstate, richer by a million dollars transferred to her account, to a life sans bruises.

The cop’s siren sounding harsher by every nanosecond, her moist hands shivered on the steering. The shrill sped past her to become a dot in the distant.


                      She took a detour to freedom.


              Written for : FRIDAY FICTIONEERS

                               Photo prompt : The Reclining Gentleman

                                 Friday Fictioneers and Poppy     

Click HERE to read FF posts.





Thursday, 24 September 2015

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

I am



When umbilical cord severed

"Fairer sex", I was pronounced.

Weaker sex, I was reminded.

I carried the weight (burden)

till adult-hood.

Wielding a pen

I etch on stone

Fair sex: unfair.

Judge not by my statistics, complexion, tears.

Dive deeper for pearls.



Tuesday, 22 September 2015

Solitary painter.



Holding my lemon-grass laced tea, I peered through the huge French windows to see the familiar scene. I stared for a moment and shook my head. Would the enigmatic creature ever cease to lift the curtain of uncertain mystery over herself?

Her hair streaked silver with life's harsh experiences  as I surmise, she appeared healthy but slightly bent . The green foliage and the abundant red roses seemed willing partners to keep away unwanted gaze and intrusion.

No household help or staff seem to give her company nor had I heard a bark or a meow.

She seemed content to co-exist alone in her own company painting on canvas.

Is her brush dipped into the colours of her past or are her strokes of a hopeful future?

Is her immersion in the art a passage to escape or expectation of a footfall or a shroud of grief? 

My mind is ravaged with a thousand questions only to be greeted by silence of the winds blowing. Wish I could borrow the bumble bee's wings to hover around her and delve into the veil that she was take refuge.

I had never seen her fetch groceries, shop at the florist nor did she attend the Church.

The neighbourhood people whispered weird words about her eccentric life but the surface had to be scratched to find out if she needed help. 

As I find no answers, I recollect the Nature poet's verse

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old unhappy far off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow , loss or pain,
That has been and may be again.

The echo of the lines is heard in the silence of the mind and I cannot help but compare the parallels drawn with the solitary reaper and this lonely lady alone in her verdant garden with her palette of colours.

One day we will laugh and bond over tea and scones in the verdant garden. 

                                              AMEN.


                        

                        Written for : Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers


The beautiful picture prompt could not hold me back from crossing the word limit.


Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Sabarmati Ashram






The corroded sheet of the gate had withstood the test of time and was 

merely teetering to the old rusted hinges. It made a creaking sound as any 

visitor tried to push it signalling the inmates of an arrival.


He held the postcard and curled his lips.


The recipient was an ordinary soul whose extraordinary thinking and way of life 

catapulted him into the league of men who could re-write the destinies of 

millions.

The path of 'ahmisa' or non-violence was a tool to fight the British Empire 

without bloodshed.


        The postman read the brief address: “Mahatma Gandhi, India.”



                       Written for : Friday Fictioneers and thanks you David Stewart for the photo prompt.

                   








Behemoth ego

Padded in iron armoury.

A sword pulled out from the sheath

pierced deep, bleeding my wound.

Warrior in me waged a war

 with an enemy;  inside me.

Rising like Sphinx

to greater heights.

A newer me marches,

residue of ego, lies buried.

           

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Rode away



































He stood akimbo  in front of his white Arabian horse,Charming , peered into her 

eyes deeply. She blinked and neighed ferociously , the unsaid  mute 

communication conveyed to the equestrian comrade.


He rode on her with √©lan . 


Entering the spacious decorated hall, all eyes riveted on him. 

The mood suddenly turned sombre and the air pregnant with suspense.  Many

gloved hands clutched their scabbard anticipating a duel. He smiled and shook

hands with the bride's father and doffed his hat at the old lady.  His lips partook

wine  and  his words were far from a forlorn rejected lover. He talked about fair

maidens in-waiting and gracefully slid his arm around Beatrice 's slender waist 

and they burned the dance floor. 

Merriment returned to clear away the clouds of uncertainty, that loomed with 

his arrival.


The beautiful bride and the aristocratic bridegroom mingled with the guests 

accepting their good wishes. He went up to the couple along with Beatrice,  

the bride's best friend and wished them to allay suspicion.


He let out a sharp whistle and Charming barged into the hall. With a quick 

hand he put his winsome lady on the saddle, mounting, he galloped away

leaving the groom thunderstruck. 


The lovers rode away on the path of a new life, a new beginning.


             written for : Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

                                and the photo prompt provided by
             
                               Scott, author of the blog, Scott's Place.

                                       

                                           


Click HERE to read FFfAW entries.

Sunday, 13 September 2015

Before



I breathed
before I met you
now I live.

now I live
before I survived
with you, we'll thrive.

Written for : haiku horizons

Boat




The shadows dwarfed as the perspiration beads bathed them.

Stepping into the rusted body, they perched on the edge, “wasn’t Old Pedro’s

disappearance a mystery." 

The drawl evident in Harry's speech. 

His remains were never found. Folklore concluded that the boat was haunted.

"Let's not dig up graves after a hearty repast", Sam said as the spicy curry 

taste still lingered on his tongue.

The abrasive boat long depreciated its value had sunk deeper into the earth. 

The ground beneath them rattled.

"Was it an earthquake or am I drunk?” Harry's pulse rising.

Old Pedro turned in his grave, beneath.


Written for : Friday Fictioneers and photo prompt provided by  Jennifer Pendergast

Friday Fictioneers Farm Path


To read all the FF posts, click  HERE.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Float

illegal immigrants
on high seas
hopes float

hopes float
bodies drown
humanity dissolved


Written for : Haiku Horizons

Plundering pirates



Unkempt beard , ambitious bodies

plundered gold .

The canvas sails drowned , resting in deep

sea.

Half century later,  divers recovered

antique loot and skeletons with gold teeth.



                  

Thursday, 10 September 2015

Patterns

Azure waters of the sky
dispersed cotton clouds fly
assume shapes varied
Stars, meteors, galaxy myriad.

                                Celestial patterns, twinkling blanket.

White swirling surf on shore
lashes , open the deep secrets more
sand grains a mesmerising code
decipher, its origin, a boulder erode.

                               Crabs weave a sandy pattern.

Petals bloom, display their hues
sipping nectar , buzzing bees
B'flies spread their palette
nightingales croon a duet.

                                Nature's serene pattern of colours

Full moon, crescent shape.
smiles and tears drape
sorrow and joy
rise , ebb and buoy.

                              Life, a collage of mixed patterns.

                  

                    Written for : Theme Thursday



Image result for bees buzzing on colourful flowers
Image result for crescent moon and stars in the skyImage result for beach crabs forming a pattern on sand
Image result for waves lashing the shore

















Wednesday, 9 September 2015

mafia

Image result for a person wearing a mask at a party




Deceit

Diabolic

Distrust

were embedded in each

dazzling crystal of my tiara.

                      Uneasiness ruled my conscience.

                      His charming smile wore a dark mask, 

                      his falseness deciphered only by me.

"Happy crystal anniversary Mr. and Mrs. Smith".....

                     The mask melts into his coterie.





                                            

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

Earth: A global village.

The Grammar Ghoul Press has provided the writers with a the following two prompts


Shoe 
A covering for the foot, typically made of leather, having a sturdy sole and not reaching above the ankle.



Tables and chairs in a college classroom





The hall wore a desolate look with the sparkling floor devoid of any stains or footmarks with only the ply-wood chairs and tables filling up the space. The furniture waited silently without a creak. Another ten minutes and the tables will be turned. Aha.

The bell screeched, heralding the end of what the students detested the most.  The bell was more a signal to usher in the much needed commotion.

The squeak of a shoe segued into the shimmering silence and the footfalls later seemed like waves lashing the shore on a full moon night.

 The chairs were pulled behind and bottoms spread in ample. The chattering and laughter spread as the fragrance of the musk.

This is how a college cafeteria should be. The manager beamed with pride. The kitchen fires hissed and the cash registers jingling.

Food plates made their appearance on the long tables and hungry stomachs satiated. But there was more food on the table than the need demanded.

"Think of the children in the other part of the globe where the little bellies sleep rumbling", the manager sermon-ed.

"Will the excess food wasted here make a difference in another corner of the world?” more of a rhetoric than a question and David, the first semester student rolled his eyes. His classmates chuckled. 

The manager shook his head in desperation and walked away towards his table and the T.V. screen behind him came alive.

The necks inadvertently turned in the direction of the voice.

“The threat of melting glaciers , global warming and many other factors loom large on the Kiribati islands which are most likely to be submerged into the sea by the rising 'King Tides' as they are called."

And scenes of picturesque Pacific atoll were panned. All eyes stared at the impending disaster. 

Closer home, the grub on the plate, uneaten, stared back at the solemn eyes and the adolescent brains had learned a new chapter.



                                                   

word count : 323