Decapitated heads, bed’s wet, cuticles bleeding,

Dark secrets buried beneath hopeless eyes.

Innocence mutilated, humanity decimated.


In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt of week 69 based on photo by Carson Arias via Unsplash

When the bough breaks

We were more than sisters. We were two halves of a whole. The neighbourhood called us the twins and considering how inseparable we were, we might as well have been conjoined. Whether it was playing, shopping, movies, or school, I can’t recall a time when we were not together. The summer when I fell of that stupid tree, broke my leg, and was stuck at home, she skipped camp to stay back with me. When her father left, it was me she came too. Only I knew that she knew what had happened and we pinky swore that no one else would ever know.
Life was perfect. We were happy. Then Robert Smith walked through the school gates.

Now all she thinks about is him. “Robbie loves this… Robbie likes that… Robbie’s taking me to this movie…”
Robbie… Robbie… Robbie… How could this guy who landed up just yesterday know her better than me? And now she’s doing the School Day play with him! With him!

Well if she wants to be left alone, I’ll leave her alone. Let’s see how she feels about these pictures on Facebook. When the School Play’s gone, and Robbie’s gone, let’s see whom she comes to when she’s all alone.

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of 21 May 2017 based on photo prompt by A Mixed Bag 2009

Of the filament that endures


A woman must endure pain with a quiet dignity, like the filament in this bulb, that allows itself to burn so that it may illuminate the garden with glorious light,” he expounded haughtily, obviously pleased at his absurd allegory.

For your information a filament starts heating up and glowing only because it has a really high resistance, and it does not burn out, it slowly gets vapourised!” she retorted.
And that poor bulb can illuminate your stupid garden only if you don’t cover it up with your senseless obstacles and blockades and allow it to hang free.


In response to: Three Line Tales, Week 64
Photo by: Nick de Partee via Unsplash

Tidying the backdrop

No one comes to this corner of the park.
No surprise there. It’s such an ugly-ass eyesore of a ship. Seriously, what’s it supposed to be? Chinese? Viking? And to what end? It’s not a part of the amusement arcade. It’s neither utilitarian nor aesthetic. I suppose, if you ever wanted to show a craftsmen class an example of some really really bad work, you could bring them around here.

Let it go you tell me.

How? How can I let it go?

I spent months working on my life size chinese warriors, and that’s not including the time I spent on research. Do you see the soft pleads on their armour, the inscription on the hilt of their sword? I worked day and night to ensure that every micro expression is perfect. Hell, it took me almost a week to just blend the perfect shade for their face. This is a labour of love. My magnum opus. My legacy.
And they go and place them in front of that monstrosity.

No Sir. Not as long as I can do something about it.

What can I do, you ask?

Well, the only good thing about that monstrosity is that it’s made of dry wood. And dry wood burns easily. Very easily.


In response to: The Sunday Photo Fiction, April 9th, 2017
Image by: A Mixed Bag

It’s time


How many bottles?

Almost two dozens.

How many litres?

Enough, and some to go.

Are we ready to do this? If anyone wants to leave, do so now.

No one moved.

The plan was in motion.

Everybody had had enough. They had come into our street, armed with their guns and sticks, wearing helmets and bullet-proof jackets, under the guise of protecting and serving, but they served only themselves, protected only each other. They cursed and spat at us, stole from us. Protection money – they called it. You took our money to protect us from you, but in the end you didn’t even protect us.

It was a Naxal attack, they told the media. Naxalites had abused our women, brutalised our children, and kidnapped our youth to brainwash them into joining their camps, they claimed. But we know the truth. We recognise the cold hateful eyes of our tormentors. Some wore the uniform, others were chosen by the uniforms. They knew we were helpless but they did not hesitate, they did not show mercy.

We were helpless and unprepared then. Not anymore.

When you treat a man like an animal, you are going to bring out the beast in him.


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction – Feb 5thSunday Photo Fiction – Feb 5th