Souls dream, dreams dare, and I dare to soar

Shackles of patriarchy in myriad guises consume me in tight embrace

I live in limbo, neither a creature of the earth nor a child of the stars

In response to Sonya’s Week 87 Three Line Tales challenge prompted by a photo by Bryan Minear via Unsplash


I watch the jeep come to a stop. He steps out and all my synapses fire. I need him like a bird needs air.

A petite brunette opens the door. With a little make up she could probably pass off as pretty, but she is no match for him. Yet his face lights up as they reach for one another.

This is the reason he is always in such a hurry to leave.

The door shuts like a slap across my face.

The Emersons‘, the name plate reads.

He’s married, my brain warns me. Does it matter, jeers the green monster.

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 38 photo challenge

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

Date Night

Camping, star gazing, candle light dinner, all the little romantic gestures that had brought them together. Yes, this was what their marriage needed.

It was natural. The mundane becomes the humdrum. It takes effort to keep a relationship alive. A few surprises would spruce it up.

She had called his office to confirm. He would be home by 9. Her little notes would direct him to the backyard where she would await him under the moon light, in her sexy ‘barely-there’ lingerie.

The languid moon traversed it path across the sky. It was only the mosquitoes who came to partake of her naked body.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers’ prompt of 25 August, based on a photo by Jan Wayne Fields.

Across the puddle [Scrivener’s Forge exercise on Plot and Endings]

This is my submission for the Scrivener’s Forge exercise on Plot and Endings.

Proposed last line: When she woke up, it was just as grey and gloomy as it had been all month. But for the first time she didn’t mind.

Thank you Neil for the exercise.
So here’s how I did it. First I decided on a last line, then my character and how I would like her story to end, and finally the sequence of events that could possibly lead up to it.

    Across The Puddle

Hiking up her skirt, she stepped over the puddle, and just as she was about to rejoice a successful crossing, a SUV sped by. Splash! Bloody hell. Now her shoes and skirt were splattered with muck. As if she did not have enough to do, she would have to go back and wash both. Gawd…She hated the monsoons. She hated the gloomy sky and slushy roads. She hated the way her hair and clothes plastered themselves to her sweaty body. She hated the inconsiderate vehicles who cared not for the inconvenience faces by pedestrians. Actually she just hated everyone who got to drive. She on the other hand would have to trudge through the muck to reach the bus stand, then stand in the shivering cold until the bus decided to grace her with its arrival, finish all the bloody shopping and once again come back the same way carry all those heavy bags.
She hated her life.

Why couldn’t he just get her a car? It’s not like he couldn’t afford it. Damn, he owed her a car. All those years she had cycled up and down the hill through rain and snow, working her ass off, supporting him financially until he finished school. And now that he was a successful orthodontist, he acted like she did nothing. “All you do is sit at home, why do you need a car?” he says. Really? So she just sat around and everything happened magically. The house ran itself. His clothes laundered themselves. The kids took care of themselves.

The bus reached its destination jolting her out of her misery. She stepped out, took out her list, and started working through it. It was on her way to the bakery that she saw them. Outside the Louis Vuitton store, she in her short hot pink skirt riding itself up till her butt was almost visible, shopping bags resting at her feet like offerings to a diva, he in his unmistakable green shirt that she had ironed just yesterday, she remembered cause she had to really scrub the scruff on that one, as they stood devouring each other like horny teenagers.

On retrospect she should have felt angry, betrayed, she should have felt something. She should have crossed the road, pried them apart, screamed, cried, threatened. Instead she proceeded to the bakery to finish her shopping. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last.
There was dinner to be made.

It was only after she had put everything in the pantry that she grabbed a few garbage bags. His clothes, his files, his precious music collection, the damn magazines that he valued more than the bible, everything went in. Once done, she hauled them out, left them by the road, bolted the doors from inside, and went up to sleep.
So tired.

The door rattled, the phone rang, the answering machine recorded message after message, but despite it all she slept like a baby.

When she woke up, it was just as grey and gloomy as it had been all month. But for the first time she didn’t mind.

Stolen choices


I look at his pictures rapturously. “It’s beautiful,” I exhale, “spectacular but tranquil, a perfect slice of heaven. And you have captured it perfectly. I mean, really, you should exhibit these.”

“You should have been there,” he replies softly.

I should have known that my best friend would not miss the longing in my eyes. That’s the thing I hated and loved about him. He always saw through me.

“You could have been there.” He is almost inaudible now but I hear him.

I run my hand over my distended belly feeling the life within. No. That was never an option.

Written for Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday, Week 21 challenge, based on photo prompt by Ales Krivec

Goodbye love


I would have like to say that all I need is your love. But it isn’t.

Yes I need you to love me, but even more importantly, I need me to love me. I need to respect my desires, my work, my space, and my people.

I would have liked to say that you are my home. But a home on an island will eventually get lonely.

My home needs to have its special corners for my memories and my dreams. Its doors need to open wide to welcome my past and my future.

If loving me, requires saying goodbye to you, then goodbye my love.

Written for 100 Word Wednesday, Week 19, based on photo prompt by William Stitt


“Is this how relationships end?” she probed, looking around the familiar shabby café.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Here we are, sitting in a local café drinking free coke in disposable glasses. We’ve become so familiar with one another that we’ve stopped putting any effort into the relationship.”
What she didn’t say was that after three years of dating she had assumed he would remember her birthday. She expected cards, chocolates, fine dining and fireworks. Not drinks at the café owned by his family.
“Familiarity is comfort that comes when two people understand each another. Plus I thought you love nana’s quiche.”

She wanted to shake him up, pour the coke down his new shirt and storm out, but he was right. She loved nana’s cooking.
Storming out deferred.

Cynically she snapped open the fortune cookie on their table expecting yet another platitude. Something shiny popped out with a cling. A ring!


“Will you marry me?” he asked.

Behind the counter she spotted nana quivering in excitement.


In Response to: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, 112th challenge
Photo by Dawn M. Miller

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

Walking tall

The brogues had seduced her right through the display window of the bespoke shoe store. Soft black leather, four inch stilettos, thick soles, impeccable stitches, neat holes, and elegant satin laces – who said formal and practical couldn’t be feminine and sexy!

She pictured herself rocking the look at the interview; those brogues with black stockings, her burgundy short skirt topped off with the matching long coat. Nailed it.

Well yes, she couldn’t afford them presently, but she had the card, and once she got the job everything would be fine.
Seriously, how could anything ever go wrong in foot-ware like that?

Inspired by: Friday Fictioneers, 21 April 2017
Photo by: Magaly Guerrero