It’s a conspiracy!!!

The Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “flower/flour.”

You may say that it’s illogical to think that the universe is conspiring to embarrass me in front of the entire WordPress community, or to imaging that someone in some other corner of the word sat back, rubbing their hands in glee, musing, ‘Hmmm, now what prompt can I sucker punch her with?’
Logically I’m just not that important.

Now you’re wondering what the big build up is for?

Two reasons. First of all, I’m a writer, this is my stream, and giving a buildup, no matter how corny, is my prerogative. Secondly, I suck at making chapatis*, or any other flat bread that involves flour, and when you are a 40+ Indian woman, that is a real discredit to your upbringing.

I try. I really do. I’m a good girl, I am…

They tell me the trick is in the kneading. Boy do I knead. I knead like the future of my first born depends on it, (which is bloody unnecessary since my first born doesn’t even live at home with us)! Any more kneading and I could drill my way to whichever place is antipodal to India. (I just googled that. Apparently, I would emerge in the South Pacific, which makes sense since I don’t know how to swim, and that’s just how much my luck sucks.)

Next, I’m supposed to roll it out with a gentle touch. I’m so gentle that my husband wishes to be reborn a chapati!

Finally comes the roasting part… My roast is always toast.

Ya. So, since I can’t make a decent chapati, and every plant/flower that I try to nurture, ends up shriveled and dead, I’m justified in thinking that someone (I’m not taking names) somewhere (she below and the Lord above) really has it out for me.

*Chapati is an unleavened flatbread made of whole wheat flour which is a staple in the Indian Subcontinent


La ville colorée

I stare at the map in my hand.

Photo Prompt © Dale Rogerson

This was the address.

After the miles of wilderness, I had driven through to get here, this entire town was a riot of colours. I could just as well have been in Legoland. All the houses were either Brick Red or Royal Blue or Crimson Yellow. The doors were decorated with ornaments and string lights.

I reach the fountain with its beautiful translucent corals and turn right. Even this narrow alley has colourful umbrellas flying above, as if the starless sky was much too bland.

Photo Prompt © Bikurgurl

I look around, wondering if I was on the set of some film, seeking out the hidden cameras. All I see are the pedestrians walking in pairs, always in pairs…

So I am cheating a little here, combining two prompts.
The first is
Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt of 21 September 2018 based on a picture by Dale Rogerson, and the other, Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 89 prompt based on her picture taken at the Seattle Aquarium.


The boxes were bulky, the news was sound;
Now we can no longer trust what’s going around.

Fearful of becoming couch potatoes, we made the devices mobile;
Under the illusion of controlling TRPs, we never noticed when we became servile.

Debates and discussions, we felt would get us to the crux,
Yet with all the opinions and options, we remain sitting ducks.

In response to Week 138 of Three Line Tales, based on a photo by Sven Scheuermeier via Unsplash

The Smoldering

You’re not good for me.

Baby, that’s not true. We are so good together.

He says that I need to stay away from you.

The fuck does he know? Can he do for you what I do for you?

You know its not like that with him.

Like what?

Like what it was with you. What it is with you. God knows I still love you. Always will. But I got to let go.

Give me a kiss baby.


Come on baby. You know you want to. One last. Just this once.

Slowly but surely his hands drifted to her hips and pulled her flush against his warm chest. She inhaled sharply. He began nuzzling her neck with delicate kisses. Her breathing quickened as her body went limp. She urged herself to push away, but couldn’t. The next thing she knew, he had slammed his lips to hers, and as he kissed her, the world fell away, the warnings of her sponsor obliterated by the smoldering of their bodies.

Lost in passion, she never even felt him slip the Ecstasy into her pocket.

In response to Priceless Joy’s 183rd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo provided by Michelle DeAngelis


Baring my heart, surrendering my trust,
opening my mind to new possibilities.

Stepping through the door, seeking light, spirituality,
I seek to drive away the loneliness.

Wandering, trapped, in a maze of blind belief,
I don’t even realise that I am lost.

In response to Week 137 of Three Line Tales prompt based on a photo by Nathan Wright via Unsplash

The Ocean Symphony

The sea is perfectly calm today. Even the waves seem to be asleep.

He watched his wife, her eyes closed, her gentle snores synchronized to the ocean’s soft lullaby. Candy-floss clouds moved lazily across a clear sky, as the sun gleamed brightly forcing him to squint and look down.
The water moved softly around his outstretched fingers, nonchalantly caressing, eddying in its wake. He pulled his hand out watching the droplets drip, as gravity greedily sucked it in to the saline below, each one swiftly haloed by ever-growing rings, distorting the peaceful transparent sheath. His hand is cold, but his face is warmed by the summer sun.
Beside him the snores start to get louder as she takes in the ocean’s salty breath.
Smiling contently, he placed the headphones over his ears, allowing Bach’s symphony to override the ocean’s.

Eyes closed, he neither saw the fin circling, nor heard the screams from the distant shore.

In response to Susan Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge, based on her photo prompt.

From the Gods

100 Word Wednesday

Ah, the smell of old books. Biblichor. The fluid that flows from the veins of the gods. What a perfect term.

Mrs Darcy ran her hands across the books, feeling their distinctive character coming through, infusing her heart with their warm familiarity.

She picked out a book, opening it carefully, feeling the softness of thin oniony pages, wondering what secrets they held they could unveil.

Her vision may have failed her, but the pleasure of holding a book still held her in its thrall.

In response to the 100 Word Wednesday challenge

The unfortunate wait of Mr. Chron

JHC Clock

Mr. Chron’s mind travelled to the past, to when he was a gentleman of importance. When he stepped into the room, his arrival was marked by pomp and created quite a ripple. At Mr. Chron’s word, eager mothers would hush their little ones, while the gentlemen would set down their tea and get to pursuits of more imperative nature.

With automation, his role became more ceremonial. Yet heads turned, eyes shone, and little ones clapped in greeting.

Now, he’s just window dressing. He’s been staring at the room in silence, waiting for someone to wonder why he won’t retire to his chambers any more.

Its been a rather long wait.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 14 September 2018, based on a photo contributed by J Hardy Carroll.

As I gaze

I make my own tiny window within the window. Sitting on the ledge I peek out at the empty street. The rain has washed everything clean, like God suddenly decided to take out the clutter. One by one the objects will be filled in again. Bright yellow buses will arrive to spill out colourful children. Cars of all sizes will zip by.

They think I’m foolish to sit here every chance I get. While they go off to do important things, chase the tangible, I wait here observing the mundane, contemplating the details of existence. The way I see it, they are missing out on the greatest art in progress.

They say what I do doesn’t matter. They are wrong. I am the quiet stream along whose bank flowers grow. I am the coolness they sip to quench their parched throat.

And when I hear the buzzer ring, I rise in positive purpose. The apple pie is done and the winter vegetables need to be roasted.

In response to Priceless Joy‘s 182nd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo prompt contributed by wildverbs.

Identity crisis

The Bagpiper


The scream that rent the air was as good as a siren. That unmistakable sound of pure terror had every head turn in its direction.

The screaming went on and on. It didn’t even sound like she was pausing long enough to breathe. Surely she’d have to either stop or pass out soon.

She must have been at least five, beet red in the face, streaming tears, flat on the floor clinging on to some guy’s, probably her Dad‘s, leg. With another kid I might have passed it off as a temper tantrum, but the befuddled expression of the man convinced me that it was not so.

Maternal instincts kicking in, I rushed over.

‘I’ll be good daddy, I swear I will,’ she was bawling now.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked the father.

‘Honestly? I don’t know. All I said was that we’ll go see the bagpiper.’

‘Not him daddy. He’ll make me follow him to the sea. Please daddy please,’ she added in great gasps.

Suddenly her terror made sense. ‘O no darling. He’s not the pied piper. No one’s taking you away.’

In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge based on a photo by C. E. Ayr.