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

The house at the end of the rainbow

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…

You’re going to love it, honey. A week at a remote home-stay, out in the middle of nowhere, living the life of a farm-hand, free of pollution or technology.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true…

They don’t even have cellular coverage, so no urgent messages from the boss. And it’s so cheap. He said that we are his first guests and he’s planned everything perfectly.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me…

Why are you doing this? Please. We’ll give you whatever you want. Just let us go. Don’t touch her. I’ll do whatever you want. STOP. STOP.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me…


If happy little blue birds fly beyond the rainbow
Why oh why can’t I?

In response to the 150th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by @any1mark66. Thank you Mark!

The story is intertwined with the lyrics of Judy Garland’s “Somewhere over the rainbow”. My thanks and apologies for the same.

Emotions recycled

Steel dragons. As dead as the relationship that I called marriage. As cold as the man I called husband.

Everything unwanted should be recycled, he always said. So everyday, every moment, I strived for perfection. Always afraid that if I let up for even a moment, then I would be unwanted, discarded. Just someone to be recycled.

Reused. Refused. Recycled.

The security tapes and backup have been deleted. I always told him not to use birthdays as passwords. The man was too arrogant to listen. He never did understand technology. Never understood that the cameras recording the employee movements, recorded his movements too. Never understood the concept of remote monitoring.

In the forge, the furnace simmers leaving no evidence of its greed and rage. No bones. No ashes. No evidence of sweaty undulating bodies. No evidence of blood soaked steel.

Everything unwanted should be recycled.

Emotions recycled.

Karma. The ultimate recycle.

In response to the 140th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a photo provided by Enisa.

The Insignia

… ‘And these beautiful vases and pots are shaped by the students of our pottery class,’ the teacher proudly droned on.

‘Damn, stupid kid used the family insignia! How did she even remember?’ I hear Mark’s frustration.

Please no. I cant do it again. ‘No one will make the connection,’ I plead.

‘We can’t take the chance.’

The next day the school’s website proudly displayed the vase, with the dotted yellow cornucopia featuring prominently.

We started packing. The federal agents would be here soon.

New place. New identity.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt of 3rd November, based on a photo by Sarah Ann Hall

Recent Call Log

Hello. Boss? This is Ricco.
The crew are still fighting for that raise. I know the ship is scheduled to sail tomorrow. They are threatening not to work unless you promise them a raise.
Yes. They have signed agreements. Yes, all of them.
No No. No need to threaten arrest. I’ll talk to them right away.

Hey man. This is Ricco.
Just spoke to the boss. He wont budge. Says to tell you that your messing with the wrong man. Unless you’re guys report to work tomorrow, he’s going to have you arrested.
No, he’s not bluffing. He can do it man. You signed an agreement, remember.
You better convince your boys.
Sorry man. I tried.

Boss? Boss? This is Ricco.
One of the lifeboats came crashing down right before we started boarding.
No. No one got hurt, but we can’t sail now.
No, we wont be able to sail until we do a full safety inspection.
You better get here soon. The passengers are screaming, threatening to sue.
Ya. Right now. No, I’ll handle that. You need to come handle the passengers.
I don’t know how it happened. The cables snapped. No, they were new cables. The crew inspected them.
Sabotage? I can’t say boss.
Hello. Boss? Boss…

In response to the Sunday Photo Fictioneers challenge of October 15th 2017, based on a photo by A Mixed Bag 2013.

The Valedictorian

She doubled over as her stomach cramped again. No. No. She was late. It was graduation. She was Valedictorian. She had to be there. If she could just get across that bridge.
But it hurt…

Years of hard work, dreams, hers, her parents’, they were finally coming to fruition. Everyone was happy. She was happy. She had to be happy.

Just one blip, one moment, she should simply forget it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was over reacting. One moment shouldn’t overshadow a million other.

She should keep her focus on the path, on moving one foot in front of the other. Why wouldn’t they move? It was like someone had filled her insides with lead…

As she cast her eyes upwards, her breaths became gasps, her heart thumping, like seeing a traitorous foe who had once been a lover, and she crumpled down. A used rag. A broken doll. All she could recall was that one moment, that one moment playing in loop, blanking out all other.

A party. Her short dress. Too short. So loud, the music was so loud. Everyone was drinking. She was drinking. Why did she wear a thong. Laughter. Jeers. It hurts. He was her boyfriend. They were her friends. O God, it hurts…
It hurts…

In response to Sunday Photo Fiction of September 17th, based on a photo by John Robinson

Grandma’s gifts

When ever grandma came to visit us she brought us bread. Lots and lots of bread. Of different shapes, sizes and even textures.
For the next few days it would be sandwiches for breakfast and bread with curry for dinner. Frankly her bread did not even taste good and was often broken and crumbly.

Yet mama and papa welcomed her gifts with arms outstretched and faces aglow, all the while thanking God for her safe passage. Huh!

But today mama is weeping cause grandma didn’t make it home.

Why did the police arrest poor grandma?

And what exactly is cannabis?

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers of 15th September based on a photo by Kelvin M. Knight

The hunters

She looked gorgeous in black. With her cascade of obsidian hair in sharp contrast to her alabaster skin, those high cheek bones and sharp nose, she may have been the grieving widow, but she was still the sexiest woman in the room, and she knew it.

From behind the veil, her kohl lined eyes scanned the room, finally coming to rest upon the young man in the fourth row, taking in his muscles, clean shaven square jaw, the fine lines of his bespoke suit, and the subtle glint of his Rolex. He was probably at least ten years younger than her, but that only made the chase more exciting. She decided right then that she wanted him, and what she wanted she always got. One way or another.


She stared at the pictures before her. This was not the first time that he was cheating on her. He was young, rich and handsome, women threw themselves at him, but he always came back to her. Normally she didn’t care. But this bitch was obviously pregnant. This time she was scared.


She had nothing. He had been slowly and systematically transferring all their assets into his name and she hadn’t even noticed. In her crazy whirlwind life of parties and holidays, she hadn’t realised when the ground had disappeared from under her feet.

Loading her husband’s old pistol she could not help but scoff at the irony of the picture hanging above the mantle…

Time is like a ravenous lion – he devours everything.

In response to the Photo-Fiction #102 challenge