Tears of Autumn

Photo Prompt © Dale Rogerson

Spring has left, and taken the colours with her.

Soon winter will arrive to shroud the earth.
Then even their headstones will no longer be seen.
The lights of Christmas will no longer twinkle for me.
There will be no songs, no gifts under a tree.
What had been, will no longer be.

And because my heart is frozen, autumn cries for me.

Image © bigbenalpha via deviantart

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 8th December based on a photo by Dale Rogerson.


Every day the sun would rise and force him out of his procrastination.

Just one day wont you let me rest, would be his daily lamentation.

Trapped in a hospital bed, counting each sunrise and sunset, he now waits for his salvation.

In response to Three Line Tales, Week 95 challenge based on a photo by Tobias Keller via Unsplash

Sam, please come home

She should wait for him. Sam would be home shortly. But freshly baked bread was her weakness. God, she hoped that it wasn’t vanity to appreciate your own cooking. Just last Sunday the pastor had spoken of pride. Gulping down a little wine, she said a quick prayer.

Almost six. Yes, he should be home soon.

Suddenly the phone rang. Ah, it was Jason.

“Hello son.”

“Hi ma. Just called to check if you’ve taken your pills.”

“I will. After supper.”

“Why have you not eaten yet?”

“I’m waiting for Sam.”

“Ma… He’s not coming. Dad’s dead, remember.”

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 45 challenge based on a photo by Brooke Lark

The seasons are passing

The seasons are passing, and my expectations have reached their autumn now. The leaves have changed shades and eventually started to fall. All that remains is a few branches of hope, and they wait for winter to come and shroud them, and then you wont even see those any more.

Do you think that the death of expectation will give birth to the season of peace?

I’ve decided to forgive you. Not because you have changed, nor because I have, but because the burden of carrying my anger has started to weigh down upon me. I am weather beaten by the winds of time. Tired, so very tired, I need to stop.

Why now, why here, I do not know. Perhaps a little bit of realisation that life does not follow the script. Perhaps the wisdom that there are two sides to every story. You may be my antagonist, and I am probably yours.

Do you think that perhaps I am mistaking purgatory for life?

The seasons are passing but I seem to have missed spring. Cactus flowers, however beautiful, do not make the land fertile.

I’ve decided to stop searching, but have not decided to stop living. I’ll walk my path, and even if its not lined with roses, I’ll still stop to see the intricate patterns in the grains of sand. And when my eyes have failed, and my nerve endings die, I’ll still have worlds of imagination to explore.

So when all the seasons have passed, I’ll dream up seasons of my own. We’ll walk different shores in that picture, but we will still be in it, both you and I. Because the seasons may pass, but the threads still hold.

In response to the Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday – Season.

Helpless tears

PHOTO POMPT © Douglas M. Macilroy

“Madam, please understand. He’s a child, not a myna to repeat whatever you want, whenever you want,” I implore, trying very hard to mask my temper.
Any display of impatience would undermine the very point that I was trying to make.

“Why?” I ask him when we are alone.
He breaks down. “I don’t know. I want to be good. I swear. But I can’t remember, and then teacher gets angry, and when she shouts I forget even more. I’m… I’m sorry… I am…”

His tears flow lamenting many a helplessness. Of a teacher constrained by a system, of a system crippled by its inability to cater to individuals. Of my own powerless tears that mix with his.

Prompted by Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 13th OctoberRochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 13th October

Last Friday, the first graders of my orphanage had Parent’s Day at their school. I went to meet their teacher.
As soon as I entered, one little boy brought me a chair, while another offered me his book, because I had a pen in my hand and he thought that I might want to write.
The teacher gave me their report card, and then went on to complain in great detail about how distracted and disobedient they were, how they never completed their homework, and how they fought with the other children.
I listened politely realising that she needed to vent.

Of course the children were acting up, vying with one another to be more disruptive than the other. They were fighting for attention, any attention, even if it meant getting sent to the principal’s office.
I don’t fault anybody. My heart just cries for my babies.


When he lost mum, his beloved wife of 52 years, I expected changes.

I expected depression, memory loss, crankiness, health issues. What I did not expect was for him to call me up and announce that we were going to Egypt.

My parents did not travel.

Theirs was not an extraordinary tale.

They were born in Puducheri, went to school here, and lived their life here. He as a boring Chemistry professor, and she a History teacher. Thanks to mum’s fear of flying, they never went anywhere further than where a car or a train could take them, and even that was rare.

So where did this sudden inspiration to travel come from?

It wasn’t like he was very excited to be in Egypt either. He glumly followed the tour guide where ever he led.

It was in the Valley of the Queens that he perked up. Looking all around, he finally picked a place, and proceeded to take a mysterious bag out of his fanny pack.

“Daddy, what are you planning to do?”

“Scatter her ashes.
Her greatest wish was to see the pyramids. I have finally brought her here.
Now my queen will rest amidst the other immortal queens.”

Photo © Kathryn Forbes 2009

Written in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of October 8th 2017

The Scrivener’s Daughter

Photo by Kira auf der Heide via Unsplash

For the last year I had been procrastinating coming home despite knowing that he was unwell, and now I have finally come to receive his urn.

As I clean house, I sit down at the desk recalling all his hours hunched over, writing, inspiring, birthing the writer in me.

Picking up his dip pen, I fill page after page with memories, tears, apologies, the ink flowing like ablution.

In response to Week 88 of the Three Line Tales challenge


I’m in a void.
A never ending void that has consumed everything and left me numb. Suspended in nothingness.

I see the mourners, the protestors, their tears, their cries. Their grief, disbelief, anger. Yet my mind, my soul, are cold and silent, like a grave. Nothing. Like the dead looking upon the living with no comprehension.

I still hear the voice asking mother to leave the door a wee bit open. I see the boy, hair blowing in the wind, face flushed, as we race. The man who stood at my wedding.
The man on the news, is not him. He cannot be. Could he?
What happened? Where did my brother go?

I want to tell them I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did not know. Perhaps if I was less wrapped up in my own life I might have seen the signs. Perhaps I could have stopped him.
I’m sorry.
I want to tell them that we are all in the same hell; just dealing with different devils.

In response to the 135th challenge of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Photo prompt provided by Elaine Farrington Johnson.