“There amid the blue flowers, fair as the flowers themselves, sat the lady of my dreams. Her eyes, black as midnight, dreamt on as she held the petals close to her heart. Her long hair and shimmery wings ruffled in the wind, thrumming my heart strings.
And, in that moment, I fell in love with the fairy.”
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
I’m sure, the quill had lost its potency, or may be it’s the fancy ink I had purchased at the Witch’s Supplies store. They had guaranteed that anything written with the quill and ink will be accepted for publication without fail. But I should have known better–these readymade spells wear off after a few readings, and I, myself, had reread the manuscript at least four times.
Was that why it had felt rather bland in the last reading?
Now the entire thing has returned from the publisher and I had to pay for the return Owl as well. And to think, I had spent three months writing the entire thing with hands.
Once Paa hears of it, I’ll never hear the end of it. Over and over, he had offered me his spell-operated typewriter with the secret homemade Publication ink–the one he had used for all of his 18 published books. But I had been too proud to accept the favour. And now he’s busy writing his 19th, so typewriter is busy.
May be I’ll beg him for his secret ink recipe…anything for the elusive Booker Prize…
Photo by Clark Young on Unsplash
We’ve been getting too many knocks on the windows during lockdown. This series is dedicated to these neighbours.
Ever met those black coats who gather in huge numbers to discuss important matters, dissent on everything, protest for everything, speak all at once for hours, and then go away without discussing anything worthwhile? The sharp eyes, the curt manner, the voice that doesn’t accept ‘No’ for an answer…
Ever so often, they campaign for a cause. They knock on the door, squawk a curt greeting and cry “Vote, vote, vote” and hurry away before I can understand anything.
Not sure if they expect a reply. My voice won’t carry that far anyway.
Author’s note: I always believed Myna as uninteresting until I moved to Baghpat. For the first time, I noted the subtle differences between the various myna breeds that frequent the area. I don’t have decent shots of all types but here are a few.
The world was on fire, but no one felt the burning heat, except she, who walked alone on snow–barefoot, her clothes frayed from her last struggle not unlike her soul–waiting patiently for revenge, until they bring back another, as she knew they would.
Photo by Daniel Mirlea on Unsplash
The crumbling walks
and tottering walls
whisper the stories of bygone…
The gates relive the shrieks
of the maidens the princes took…
Floor echoes the laments
of farmers forced to give up
lands to build the majestic view…
The walls, washed since,
hold traces of blood
of labour forced to trade
shovel for spears
to fight the battles
they didn’t choose…
All to pacify kings
who couldn’t care less if
babies died of hunger…
The wind in the castle
passages quietly whispers
to those who’d close their eyes
to the view and just listen…
Photo by Cederic X on Unsplash
Here is an excerpt from Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. While this book is always on my mind, it came to me today because of the happenings in the past three weekends, and in fact, the past five years of my life.
“And we other boys, who would have sacrificed ten terms of our school-life for the sake of being ill for a day, and had no desire whatever to give our
parents any excuse for being stuck-up about us, couldn’t catch so much as a stiff neck. We fooled about in draughts, and it did us good, and freshened us up ; and we took things to make us sick, and they made us fat, and gave us an appetite. Nothing we
could think of seemed to make us ill until the holidays began. Then, on the breaking-up day, we caught colds, and whooping cough, and all kinds of
disorders, which lasted till the term recommenced ; when, in spite of everything we could manoeuvre to
the contrary, we would get suddenly well again, and be better than ever.”
I have low immunity and get viral fever whenever season changes, but only on weekends and, then, become completely well on Mondays and ready to work. Nearly 80 percent of my sick leave lapse unused every year while so many weekends are killed. My super manager had once joked that our team has a habit of falling ill only when there is no work. It comes back to me ever so often.
For the first time in past five years, I am out of office for illness for more than a couple of hours (five days already and would need another tomorrow). It feels weird in extreme to not open my laptop for five days in a row, as if I’ve lost a limb.
Thank goodness for the WordPress app on my phone to keep me engaged. Else, I would have gone crazy with boredom.
Hi All! One of my pieces was published on TheDrabble, a site that specialises in very short stories. Take a look.
Many of my neighbours having been calling in, in spite of the lockdown and strict government measures. This guy took it to another level.
It is one thing to ask for something to eat but raiding your neighbour’s fridge and locking yourself inside is plain rude, and stupid too. I found him inside the fridge. Too colourful–bright white background with red and green spots–so, I’m unsure if he’s a regular moth or her love-baby with a butterfly.
Since the little guy showed no intention to move his butt out of the new found haven, or may be his butt was frozen after a night’s orgy inside the fridge, I took him on my hands (he fretted a little but couldn’t fly away) and placed him on one of the walls that gets warmed by the sun.
There he stayed for another 7 hours and I saw his butt had moved a little.
Later in the night, he was gone. Either he got well and away, or Hariya, our resident lizard (a story for a different day) had a sumptuous snack. At least, someone had a good time.
The book is not part of a short-story collection available both in print and as ebook. I will share the links soon.
The story is now a part of a short-story collection available both in print and as an ebook. I will share the links soon.
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 