Wednesday, 26 July 2017

The Sunday call

                                                             PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

“Why isn’t she picking up the old phone?” stomping his foot.

“She knows I love to speak to her on Sundays”, impatient.

“Has she gone on errands?”

“Has she suffered a fall?”

His fingers working furiously on the number keypad for the umpteenth time, “Please pick 


“Why does she do this to me?” crying, almost.

“H e l l o Nikhil”.

“What took you so long?” relieved.

“Creaky bones, my grandchild”.

“I will gift you a cell-phone, Gran”.

“Nikhil, let the whole RH know that I have someone who calls on me”, wrinkled eyes 


“Gran, I love you”.

                                 Written for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks you Rochelle Wisoff.


word count : 100

RH = Retirement Home also known as Old-Age-Home.

Click HERE to real all FF stories.

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

musical journey

                         Image result for musical journey                                   

I had always concluded that music was in my blood by the way I reacted to music or 

melody. Any instrument known or unknown captivated my being. I found rhythm in every 

action of life. The pop-up of the bread from the toaster, the rustling of the crisp pages of 

newspapers or my mom’s sewing machine were all harmonious sounds waiting to decipher 

by my keen ear.

My mom and dad being into academics could not fathom my leanings but nevertheless 

never discouraged my different interest.

My musical sojourn took me to Mumbai, India. Once airborne I had mixed feelings. I had 

earlier avoided this country but my present professional assignment left no room for 

maneuvering or manipulations.

I saw people with brown complexion, black hair and eyes. Faces adorned with smiles and 

their easy behaviour put me to ease. My earlier trepidations were washed away with the 

Arabian Sea waves. Indians have an ear for music and their various instruments and forms 

of music fascinated me.

Back in my little village in Denmark, I always felt different in my surroundings though no-

one made any obvious remarks or insinuations. But the differences distanced me in my 


I went into the interiors to a little town called Pandharpur.  The ‘bhajans’ , ‘kirtans’ 

welcomed my melodious soul and I discovered my spiritual side, hitherto unknown to me.  

My breath felt an inner connection. I looked at people walking around, seguing into a 

chore from another. None of them treated me, a foreigner, differently. I could barely 

converse with them save for a few words of greeting. My translator’s presence 

obliterated this handicap.

I never knew when they would arrive and hug me.

Were ‘they’ my flesh and blood? I may be sharing DNA with them but my parents back in 

Denmark never forbade me to search for my roots. I was adopted by my Danish parents 

from an orphanage in Pandharpur. I had my roots here and felt rooted. But my wings 

implored me to travel around the world. I will visit this bustling town once again, I 


                                    Image result for musical journey


Bhajans , kirtans  are Indian devotional songs.

Marshall Inn

Twittering Tales #42 – 25 July 2017


                   The Marshall House in Savannah, Georgia – Photo by Kat Myrman

"The occupancy rate of Marshall Inn is low. Only six rooms are lighted up."


"There is no Inn in the entire village."



             Written for Twittering Tales#42. Thanks Kat Myrman.  

(138 characters.)

the dual life

FFfAW Challenge-Week of July 25, 2017

                                                     125th Challenge


This week's photo prompt is provided by Louise with The Storyteller's Abode. Thank you Louise!

 She wore her smile and solitaries with √©lan and poise.  Her body language oozed 

confidence. She was the bulwark of a successful writer who readily shared the laurels 

with her. The flashlights went ga-ga over them. When the fourth estate questioned him 

about his realistic writing he credited it to the wife and Zamora.

Zamora was an idyllic island privately owned by him totally uninhabited save for a 


The working weekdays saw him sign deals with top corporate houses. His power lunches 

packed a punch.

She was a social butterfly and his literary agent handling his book promotions and 

releases. The proceeds from the book sales and royalty were under her scrutiny. Nothing 

missed her eye. She kept their domestic machinery well-oiled to run without a hitch. 

They were a perfect couple awed and envied by the hoi-polloi and media alike.

Every weekend he took the speedboat to the Zamora to release his literary passion to 

coalesce on paper. His grey cells worked overtime and so did his body.

                           The caretaker doubled as his mistress. 

                Written for : Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thank you Priceless Joy.


word count - 176

Click HERE  to read all the other wonderful stories.

Monday, 24 July 2017

the wild is tamed

Prompt #3060 Hunting the Hunters

Fiction Writing Prompt: Write a horror story about something that hunts the hunters in the woods.

Journaling Prompt: What scares you about being in a wilderness area.

Art Prompt: Hunted

Non-Fiction / Speechwriting Prompt: Tell your audience about common fears about going out into the wilderness and what they can do to stay safe.

The Law of the Jungle

when hungry find a prey and strangle

devour, retreat and sleep

into the woods deep

Survival of the fittest

works at its best

the economy of forest is maintained

the ecology is balanced

Nature guides by her rules 

all creatures obey and no-one fools

There aren't any Laws of the concrete Jungle

a civilized mass single

smothers, batters and kills

even after a sumptuous fill 

hunted and the hunter , the line blurs

in all shapes sizes and colours

the poachers invade for the hides and horn

the wild scamper with anger and scorn.

Governments built Animal Reserves 

every extinct species deserves

a right to survive

a right to thrive.

Jungle means forest

Sunday, 23 July 2017

Parting at the crossroad

Weekend Writing Prompt #12 – Indecision

A word and photo prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend.  Use the prompts

separately or together.  It’s up to you.  Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for

your novel…anything you like.  Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes (it’s not a

competition) but rather a fun writing exercise. 
Word Prompt


Photo Prompt

Prose Challenge – Write a story in no more than 300 words that begins at a crossroads.
Poetry Challenge – Write a poem in no more than 20 lines that contains the following words at least once:
  • indecision
  • sign or signpost
  • choice
  • hesitating or dithering

The lone sign post indicating the place of my onward journey stood rooted to the ground. 

It pointed out to the right direction. What option should I have to choose? And why? I was 

staring at the strange crosswords of my life.

The tranquil countryside could not tame the reverberations nay the hurricane gathering 

in my mind. Uncertainty and indecision were the twin tormentors.

The judge looked solemnly at me. I could feel his piercing glare pitying me.

“Angela, whom do you choose to live with?”

I looked at mom. Her quivering and imploring lips wanted me. Dad’s countenance gave 

me freedom. A part of me wanted to be with both of them, together. I didn’t want to 

split my happiness piecemeal.

Something had gnawed the happy family of three over a decade. The fabric of relationships was 

slowly pulled on either sides. The threads of bond withstood the tension albeit for a short period of 

time. Slowly the tatter was visible. The two warring parties held on to their pieces of grievances and 

refused to mend the differences.

The acrimonious parting was inevitable.

“Angela, whom do you choose to live with?” pierced my eardrum and shook my senses.

A pair of eyes complete the vision. Could one eye do any justice? How do I choose and 


I gulped down wetting my parched throat.

“I choose life”, I declared.

My Godmother embraced me.  “Welcome Angela”, she said warmly.

She smiled and wished me, “Happy sixteenth birthday, Angela”.

My parents had forgotten a milestone of my life.

Written for :Weekend Writing Prompt  # 12 - Indecision. Thank you Sammi Cox.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Rani Padmavati

           Thursday photo prompt – Mask #writephoto


Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder as the oft quoted proverb goes. Her beauty 

enraptured and captured the eyes of the royals who beheld her.

King Ratan Sen and his royal bride were basking in their marital bliss much to the chagrin 

of Queen Nagmati , his first wife. But there were external enemies other than searing 

jealousy who invaded the kingdom and their new-found love.

Allaudin Khilji 's eyes burnt with lust as he heard about her beauty. The self-repecting 

Rajput Queen refused to give him an audience . With treachery and deceit he managed 

to catch her glimpse in the mirror. Her reflection strengthened his resolve to  possess her.

King Ratan Sen was killed in a duel by another neighboring King.

Allaudin Khilji with his retinue of followers and armed forces besieged the Chittor Fort in 

a bid to win her.

Alladin Khiliji managed to invade the Chittor fort only to be welcomed by raging tongues 

of fire and the acrid smell of burning flesh. The cries of women deafened his senses.

The beautiful Queen for whom her beauty had become a curse had committed 'Sati'.

                    She was Rani Padamavati of Chittor Kingdom.

             written for  : Thursday Photo Prompt -#Mask writephoto.Thank you Sue Vincent.


Click HERE to read more about Rani Padmavati.

Rani means Queen in Indian language.

The Kings had many wives and polygamy was practised.

Sati - an Indian practise where the widow sat on her husband's pyre or burnt herself to death to avoid falling into enemy hands . The Queens or members of the female members of royal family preferred death to dishonor and disgrace.

Friday, 21 July 2017

(pie)ce of my mind.


July 20, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a pie. You can make it any kind of pie, focus on filling or crust, or tell us about the pie-maker. How does pie set a tone in a story? Does it warm the hearth or bring disappointment?

She bought all the ingredients from HyperCity.

                                    There is no market for my emotions.

Sieving the flour, granulated-sugar, baking-powder.

                                   Sifting my anger from my failures I should take stock of   
                                  my residual expectations.

Kneaded the dough firmly.

                                 I have to shape and mould my ambitions to rise in life.

She stuffed crushed dry-fruits into the pastry and covered it.

                               My confidence needs to be upholstered to boost my image.

The oven is heated up.
                              The fire in me has to be re-kindled.

The pie is baked to be devoured by family.

                             I am going to be MasterChef on television.

                                                 Image result for a lady chef

written for  :  Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction.  Thank you Charli Mills.


HyperCity is a supermarket chain.


Haiku Horizons prompt “dark”

the dark moor of venice

rips open her heart

a faithful wife inside

                                        written for : Haiku Horizons

                                         Read more about Othello

                               Read all the wonderful haiku HERE

Thursday, 20 July 2017

blame game


                                                                                      PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

“I always stand by you when your aces are down”, an agitated Angela

“You turn your back when I need you the most”, raising her tone.

“Where are you when I need a shoulder to lean on?” grinding her teeth.

“I bail you out when you default on your car EMI”, shrieking and pointing her index

finger towards the blue vehicle.

“For God’s sake keep the ‘I' and ‘You’ out, can’t you for once say ‘WE’?”, a hurt but composed


Her anger melts to tears rolling down her crimson cheeks and she spreads her arms to 

envelope him.


                   Written for Friday Fictioneers. Thank you Rochelle Wisoff.

                        Also linking this post to Six Sentence Stories # Stand. Thanks Zoe.


Wednesday, 19 July 2017

the haughty Princess

100 Word Wednesday: Week 28


Image by Bikurgurl

Her dowry boasted of gold, diamonds and rare precious stones besides delicate blue-and-

white porcelain-ware which were family heirloom supposedly from the treasures of Ming 


She dusted her collection and displayed it to the royal visiting guests of the palace. The 

awe struck guests envied the pieces of priceless art but sniggered behind closed doors 

about the Princess’s fate.

She ruled her subjects with an iron hand.

Her husband, a nobleman, left her and her land never ever to return.

It was rumoured that the nobleman found her trousseau inadequate.

Love, compassion, respect were the virtues she was bereft of.

Written for : 100 Word Wednesday.Thank you Bikurgul.

Readers can comment on my Facebook Page if unable to comment here :

nipped in the bud

Heeding Haiku With Ch√®vrefeuille, July 19th 2017, holiday / vacation

Image result for Radhanagari Beach

(Google Image)

Simran sunk her toes into the pristine sand of Radhanagari beach. 

The stunning scenes seemed surreal. Today she ticked off one destination from her bucket list.

The other places will have to wait till she soaks into the Havelock experience. Raj had 

spent more time on their honeymoon plans than their wedding.

They were to return to Port Blair the next day.

The horizon suddenly changed. Huge tongues of water leapt swallowing everything on the 

way to the shore. Cries of helplessness shrieked the air.

fury lashed
drowning hopes
corpses floating

26th December 2004 was a Black Boxing Day.

                                   Written  for : Heeding Haiku With Chevrefeuille at MLMM.

word count : 99