Daddy I need to pee. Little hands tugged at the man.

Stop shaking me. I’m trying to focus here.

But I need to pee. Badly.

Why didn’t you go before we left?

I did. It’s coming again.

I shouldn’t have got you that soda. Next time you’re wearing a diaper.

I’m too old for diapers.

Ya. Then your old enough to hold it in.

The cars zip by. The little boy hobs from foot to foot. The man waits for the perfect composition.

Please daddy. A silent whimper.

Focus. The camera captures the perfect picture.

It misses the flowing tears.

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 97 challenge, based on a photo by Sebastien Gabriel.


“What is it Precioussss?”

Gollum single handedly ruined the word precious for me. It went from being a term of endearment to a creepy psychotic reference.If someone called you precious, beware, they might just eats you.

I just couldnt imagine that a creature like him, despite the endearing eyes, could have once been a Hobbit. Hobbits look like us. A little shorter with disproportionate feet, but normal nonetheless. But Gollum? Yikes!

Took several years and experiences later to realise that the caricature was inspired by reality. That there are people so obsessed with amassing wealth and power or defeating death, that they indeed loose humanity and gain twisted minds. Physical evolution may be too slow to see the physical deformity, but there are so many emotional Gollums out there. They have pockets in which they keeps teeth sharpening rocks and scraps of bat wings. You just can’t see it, Precious.

In response to the Stream of Consciousness prompt word “Precious”

The Majestic

The lion had seen better days. He should have been the king of the jungle; instead here he was in a place no larger than a farm, famished, ribs showing, his fur dull and waning. In his face was the lingering signs of regality, but the eyes showed a deep sense of loneliness.

Ria looked at the logo stamped on her lunch box. The majestic winged lion. What irony!

This was merely a glorified prison for animals. A testament to man’s vicious need to establish dominion over other sentient beings. We call them wild, yet we are the predators. All the claims about breeding programs, just a guise to help the modern mind cope with a nineteenth century idea.

The zoo was a lively place. Everyone was enjoying except the animals.

In response to the 186th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo provided by Wildverbs.

Writer’s Block

After days of turmoil and cotton brain and nothing coming to fruition, I decide that what I need is to immerse myself into the intricacies and eccentricities of humans spinning the stories of their life.
I place my book upon the table. For a few moments I celebrate its emptiness, and then I start to write. One after another the words tumble from my imagination, like untidy clothes strewn on the floor waiting to be gathered and sorted.
The phone pings and I pause, taking stock. As I scratch out line after line I can almost feel the page’s disappointment at my feeble efforts, its pristine surface now ruined.
The coffee machine huffs in the background, but the real critic is the astute plant staring right at me, ridiculing every word that I write.

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 91 challenge, based on a photo by Toa Heftiba

The tongue is the sword

It’s kinda ironic that the sense organs are the ones that come into play when we are being most senseless. Like the tongue.

Such a tiny organ but can make such a huge impact. It can inspire, it can conspire, it can decimate a person’s soul. They may say that actions speak louder than words, but I beg to differ. You can do the kindest of actions, go completely out on a limb for someone, but if you follow that up with harsh words, then all your kind actions are for naught.

I should know. I’ve seen my mother do that over and over again.

As a teenager I almost hated her. She was nagging, critical, and screamed at the drop of a hat. I swore to be nothing like her. In retrospect most of the mistakes that I made in life, were dictated by the urge to spite her or the obsession to do everything differently than her.

It’s taken me half my life to realise that her actions were never wrong. She was friendly, open, extremely helpful, very generous, and knew when to fight for her rights. I should have followed all of that.
Just minus the incessant critique and volatile temper.

In response to this week’s Stream of Consciousness prompt – Organ

Familial dichotomy

My last post was almost a month back.

I am appalled. It started with ‘Not today. Positively tomorrow.‘ and eventually became ‘Is today actually today or is it already tomorrow?‘ By the time my brain smog cleared, I was wallowing in ‘Shame on you. You need to get your act together, lady!‘ Until today, eventually, after hours of self-motivating perk-up monologues, I resolved to ease myself back in with the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt.

A very wise Linda said – When you’re ready to sit down and write your post, look to the publication closest to you, and base your post on the sixth, seventh, and eighth word from the beginning of the page. Enjoy!

I picked up the paper beside me, which happened to be a real estate commercial, and read the 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th words.

That’s it. That’s bloody it.
The reason why I have not been able to write for the last month – I just couldn’t get what is the serene location nor the quiet down time.

Visitors tire me. In-laws tire me out even more. Just having to constantly watch what comes out of my mouth is tiring, its tiresome. What was fascinating, and only in retrospect, was the familial dichotomy between shared upbringing and divergent lifestyles. There was a warmth that seemingly infused the room as the siblings reminisced, and yet we were constantly aware of the undercurrent of egotistical clashes that could suck that very warmth out at any moment. Verbal communications did not always speak the same language as the emotional interactions. We smiled, we laughed, we feasted, we bid tearful farewells, and then we heaved a secret sigh of relief as some unnamed burden lifted from our souls.

It took a few more days to reclaim my living space and my routine.

Now here I am. A little older, a little more cynical, but definitely also a little richer for having gained some more insight into the intricate tapestry that is my family. After all, family shapes us. And constantly reshapes us.

We look to connections with immediate family in order to understand our place within larger communities: our neighborhoods, cities, countries and worlds, our genders, economic classes, generations, races and sexual preferences. ”
– William Tolan

The looks of me

Call me vain, but I’m quite aware of my classic French looks.

Thanks to goods genes and careful grooming, I am often told that I look more like a model than a businessman, so when women give me a second look, or when the air-hostess serves me with that extra smile, I take it as a compliment. I enjoy the attention.

But a man staring at me unflinchingly, and un-smilingly, is rather unnerving. I try not to look, focusing instead on my drink, not particularly enjoying this attention.

As we get ready to disembark, I see him pull out his white cane.

Now I stare.

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 49 challenge, based on a photo by John Luke Laube

The World’s Best Brother

He adored her.
To him, she was the world’s best sister. Anything she wanted, she got.

When they were four, mama asked her, “What do you want for Christmas, Annie?”
“A doll house for me, and a tea set for Adam.”
“Don’t you think Adam should choose his own gift!”
“A tea set for me,”
Adam affirmed.
“You’re the world’s best brother,” she said, giving him one of her bear-hugs.

For her 8th Christmas, she got a pink bike, while Adam got one in red. When she decided that his was better, he swapped without hesitation.
“You’re the world’s best brother,” she swore.

Before her 12th Christmas party, he spent the entire day with her at the mall, helping her pick her special dress, and accessorizing it.
“You’re the world’s best brother,” she squeezed his hand.

On her 16th Christmas, she caught him wearing her favourite red lace panties.
“You’re a sick freak,” she screamed. “Get out of my room.”

They did not celebrate Christmas next year.
Mama went to the cemetery after church. Dad just stayed at the bar.

© Eric Wiklund

In response to the December 10th Sunday Photo Fiction challenge


You’re sick, you need help,” he screamed as he stormed off, the slamming door a slap across my face.

If you know that*, then why wont you help me. Why wont you stay. Instead you walk out. You leave me alone. Just like every body else. Everybody who I ever loved did just that. Like I don’t mean anything to them. No one needs me. I’m not worth staying for. Too much of a problem to love. If you love me, you wont say things like clear out the trash or I’ll clear myself out. I’m trying. Can’t you see that. But every time I pick something up, I freeze in panic. What if I need it some day and then it won’t be there. How can I get rid of these things? I need them.
Please. Please don’t leave me. Not you too. Come back. I swear I’ll clean up this place.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 24th November 2017

*Hoarding Disorder is a form of OCD, and can be quite debilitating, seriously and adversely affect the person’s health and social functioning.