Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Fuelling ambition | Fiction

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"Get the inventory in order!" I heard the manager bark as I busied myself before the long line of customers.

I glanced up at Marianne for a brief moment, in between getting the change for the middle-aged, portly man, who leaned heavily at the counter, clutching packets of Marlboro in his short, stubby palm.

“Fasst…hon…you think I’ve all day?” He winked at me, his breath reeking of alcohol.

Repulsed, I banged the coins on the counter and waved him away.

Marianne held the inventory chart clumsily in the left hand, cradled a phone between her neck and left ear while simultaneously ticking off the items on the list with her right hand.

“Yeah, Sweetie..today’s when we get your baseball cap and gloves” Marianne now spoke breathlessly over the phone. She hung up a little abruptly, pushed a few Coke cans back and forth on the shelf.

“Something’s always missing,” grumbled Marianne, her frown deepening as she counted and re-counted. "Shit, I need the money!" She swore loudly.

I had a déjà vu at that moment when I was the new junior attendant at Costco. I'd patiently wait for salary day and feel a stab of pain to find the already paltry sum reduced, to compensate for the items that would routinely go missing during my shift.

I kept looking for something more than the missing item.

I’d pour the frustration into my cello lessons and draw out melancholy notes that, my faithful listeners insisted, tugged at their heart. I chose to believe them. Music filled out the empty spaces in my life.

When Marianne joined six months back, I found someone I could share the work misery with. We savoured our 15-minute lunch break outside the store. It provided us downtime, enough to simply breathe and recoup for the next few hours of stifling work and humiliation at the hands of the always harried and often entitled customers.

The foil crackled as Marianne tore opened the packet. She frowned as she took a bite of her cold tuna sandwich. Sweat had stuck her front curls to the forehead like a sort of headband. She looked at my box of hash browns and some salad with extra mayonnaise dressing. It wasn’t the usual fare of bland rice and stew. She raised her brow at me and I quickly explained,” made a few extras at the musical gig last weekend.”

“It helps to have some talent or at least brains to escape this,” She jerked her head at the store.

“Say, Marianne…” I hesitated while fishing out a crumpled piece of a pamphlet from my overcoat pocket. “What do you think of this?”

Her eyes opened wide as a saucer and she snorted, her entire body rippling with laughter. “You serious? Had I the patience…would’ve finished high school long back.”

I felt a hot flush rise to my cheeks. “Yeah..bad idea, maybe,” I mumbled and hastily thrust the piece of paper, now smudged with the remnants of cream from my fingers, back into my pocket.

I turned to my cello that night. Every right note spoke to me about perseverance and passion.

*
My stomach lurched at the smallish farewell gathering on a crisp morning a month later. My voice trembled slightly as I spoke about finding a job as a part-time cello teacher at a high school.

My manager and colleagues clapped like automated robots as I took a deep breath and added to say that I also planned to finish school. I glanced at Marianne and she wore a blank expression. My throat went dry and I wondered if it was too late to laugh out loud and say, “Gotcha!” Yet, hearing my own words gave me strength.

I placed the battered pamphlet on Marianne’s desk, grabbed my keys and dashed out of the station before my knees crumbled under the stress.

***


Seeking little joys

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Anjana’s stubby fingers bristled as she caressed the edges of the woven straw hat. A thin red satin ribbon was wound at its base, with a neat bow. The hat was two sizes large for her. But, she didn’t mind. She simply loved to touch it or see it hung over the nail above the rectangular mirror in her room.

“Whose is that?” Ma asked. They rarely owned pretty things so it stood out.

“Oh, Mary Amma gave it to me,” Anjana lied. Fortunately for Anjana, her Ma had more pressing duties like making sure the next meal was on the table than cross-verifying facts.

“Sajita Chechi has had a girl,” Ma updated as she rolled out chapatis.  She muttered to herself, “Again. .Ah, poor Chechi, God knows how she’s going to fare with 3 girls now!”

Anjana looked up quizzically at Ma. She wondered how Sajita Chechi’s news was relevant to her.
“It’s been a rough delivery. I've been asked to help her out. I’ll get double pay,” Ma continued. Anjana nodded.

Double pay meant overtime, although the pay never seemed enough. Ever since Pa died at the construction site two years ago, Anjana’s conversations with Ma meant exchanging important information in bits and slices. Worry lines creased Ma’s forehead and her mane was streaked in silver. Anjana had learned to befriend silence.

Anjana walked up to the mirror. She reached up on her toes to place the hat on the nail. As she looked at the hat, now settled crookedly on the nail, she felt a stab of shame and guilt wash over her.  It was Mary Amma’s daughter’s hat. But, neither Mary Amma nor Suju Chechi had given it to Anjana.

Suju Chechi had arrived that summer morning. Brightly coloured suitcases dotted the living room. Excited chatter filled up the spaces. Chechi’s girls bumbled in and out of the corridors, clamouring for attention. Sugary fragrance wafted through, followed by the scent of crispies fired in aromatic coconut oil. Delicacies were being laid out one by one on the kitchen counter. Ma was a superb cook and was usually summoned by the locals for special occasions including annual visits of their children from foreign shores.

Anjana had accompanied Ma that day at work, a rare occurrence. Mary Amma had insisted that they partake of the feast and celebration.

The bewitching headgear was lying in one corner, almost abandoned. Anjana’s eyes lit had up at its sight, a pinkish shade of sunset; it was beckoning her. She imagined her to be a little princess, adorning the hat, astride a white handsome horse. 

Her heart had pounded in her chest as she slunk away with the treasure that day.

A harmless trick, she thought. Soon her wooden chest was filled with knick-knacks that had all called out to her with equal urgency. She vaguely felt a sense of wrongdoing each time but also got emboldened and revelled in the merriment.

“It’s not my fault. They hypnotize me,” Anjana argued with the voices in her head that shamed her.

“The Gods will be angry!” the voices bellowed this time and Anjana felt a cold sweat trickling down her nape. She decided to seek mercy, at the local temple.  She woke up early and washed her hair. She wore the cleanest and best dress she owned, a red and brown checked hand-me-down frock with a brown belt.

Ma had been surprised but agreed to let her go to the temple. Anjana stopped to buy a string of Jasmine for the temple deity. " 2 strings for 30, buy 3 for 50." a voice behind the crowd called out. Silks swished, bangles jangled, as women jostled to get their bunch of fragrant flowers.

Anjana stood rooted to the spot, her hands were hooked in the belt, as though she could prevent them wanting to roam. The sunny Chrysanthemums whispered, casting their spell on her. They sat in neat bunches along with the Roses and Polianthes just behind the bundles of strung Jasmine and Oleanders. How they glisten with the dew!They must feel like silk..noo..I must not touch. 

“And, what does this young lady want?” The flower-seller turned towards Anjana, her wizened face crinkled with a smile. 

Anjana answered truthfully, “Just a bit of joy.” In her right hand tucked behind, was a single stalk of a yellow Chrysanthemum.

***


Caffeinated attraction

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Words jostled inside Anusha's head as she snaked her way between the tables to her favourite spot in the cozy cafe. She slid her laptop out, rested the bag beside her on the silver grey cushioned sofa and called for her favourite cappuccino. They made it just the way she preferred: the right amount of milk and coffee, the closest alternative to the filter kaapi her mom made.

Gazing out of the glass window, she sipped her beverage, letting the bitter-sweet taste linger, weighing her thoughts before her fingers could fly on the keyboard to give shape to them. The white fluffs of clouds against the clear blue skies floated gently with the summer breeze and they seemed, to the writer in her, like mischevious sheep that had strayed off the flock.

Oh, well, it's my mind that's straying now. Need to get my act right for my next submission. Anusha willed herself back to the present.

The cafe was Anusha's muse, the mecca she haunted during the weekends for the past three months since she found her part-time job with an advertising agency. The work kept her finances going and, more importantly, gave fuel to her serious hobby. The process of lining up one word after another on an empty canvas, shuffling and re-shuffling them around until she found perfection filled her soul with inexplicable happiness and satisfaction.

Yet, today, the document looked back at her, stubbornly blank. There was too much chaos in her head to reign into subservience. As it always happened on the days she called home. Conversations invariably veered towards her marriage. The urgency and despair in her mom's tone always filled her with sadness and guilt. Sadness because her parents did not understand why she turned down most matches sent to her from the matrimonial site. It was another story that she got rejected many other times. She felt guilty of finding herself in a situation where she could neither summon the courage to rebel nor talk openly to her parents.

The MBA was more of an excuse to move away from home. To run away from the suffocation, the constant trials masquerading as the bride seeing visits, the prying neighbourhood; to find own feet, and perhaps romance some day.

Romance? Was she really cut out for the Mills & Boons kind of romance she secretly desired? A hot-headed feminist trying to break stereotypes, a logical person who never understood impulsiveness, a coward when it came to decision making, will she allow herself to fall in love?

A pair of teenaged girls noisily occupied the seat behind Anusha. Instinctively, Anusha leaned farther behind into the backrest. Not many moons ago, she was their age. Giggles filled up spaces between their hushed tones. They had bunked their college lecture and were discussing their latest crush. Anusha sighed. A predictably carefree life of college-goers who had no inkling of how their lives would shape up after the blissful years removed from truth and reality.

"Don't look now but check out that hunk there." said one voice, low with urgency.

"He's a bomb" gushed the other voice, stressing on 'bomb'.

A bomb? Anusha cringed and shooked her head at the language used. 'Stud' was the lingo when she was in college she recalled, immediately feeling like a fraud for judging the youngsters.

On an impulse, she looked in the direction of the ripple creator. She felt her heart skip a beat. Even her own matured eyes and mind trained to remain off flirtatious grounds agreed that he looked every bit the Greek God. Surely, a bomb that was intended to detonate any warm-blooded woman's mind, however nonchalant she appeared on the outside, to a thousand fluttering, tender feelings that sang to violins that played, without a permission, in the heart.

The words on the laptop made no sense to her and she erased them all. The submission would be delayed. The cafe was getting dangerous.

*****

Rotting humanity

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Doc, there's an emergency!

The breaking news flashes the brutal carnage. Images and voices float in my mind as I drive in manic speed to the hospital.

Of sirens blazing. Of toys and limbs lying scattered on a carpet of red and brown.

Oxygen! I scream. Pump, harder.

Doc, there's no pulse.

Shoulders slump.

I witness grief fuse into flames that rise up collectively at the mass funeral. The ashes fall lightly on me.

Will the stench of hate ever recede?

***
Written for a prompt at

A new haven

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"Papa!" squealed the little one, jumping up and down, jabbing his little hand towards the aqua blue clear water.

The father, a few meters behind, smiled wearily. His steps were slow and heavy from plodding through the ankle length snow. He caught up breathlessly alongside his son who was now beside himself with all the excitement of discovering something extraordinarily beautiful.



Despite the fatigue of setting out on a week-long expedition with the 5-year-old, the magnificent sight of the snow-clad slopes all around encasing a glistening water body right in between made the adult smile.

The chill at dawn break was prominent and in spite of being covered in thick black overcoats, they two expeditors shivered slightly.

Releasing the child from a bear hug, the father looked deep into those twinkling pair that shone with pride, happiness, and fascination.

"Papa, this place looks great. Can we move in here?" the voice was thick with hope and expectation.

"I'm afraid not, Son!"

"Why not?"

"You see, there's danger beneath the beauty in here." the father's voice dropped to a whisper

"The water here means the ice is melting," he continued, his snowy white shaggy brows twitching solemnly.

"Why did the ice melt, Papa?" the little voice was now choked with fear.

"Men," the old flightless bird clenched his fist in anger. "And their selfish ways."

*****

Written for the prompt "Ice and Men" for BarAThon.


The fault in our stares #100-wordfiction

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He offered to walk her to the station. She sensed his well-toned arm within the suede jacket brushing against her slender, bare one as they tried to match their uneven strides. He leaned in suddenly towards her ear to whisper something. Her tensed muscles relaxed even as her full-throated laughter echoed through the dimly-lit streets. As the wind teased, his hands enveloped her from behind draping the jacket over her.

Despite enjoying the pleasant company, she felt at unease. She instinctively knew they weren't alone that night.

The judgemental stares turned into full-blown gossip by the time she came home.

______

100-word fiction story written for a prompt "The fault in our stares" at the BarAThon second edition.

Would you like to read the other posts in this series?

Outnumbered
A new haven
An irrational dream

Cross over- Micro-prose in 50 words

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Tread on gently.

It's tough to say goodbye. Even when you know it's desirable. Explain, if you must, but keep it short. Do not mock the tears that might flow out. Don't utter words that you'd regret.

A schism has been formed, but there's no need to burn the bridge.

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The stolen bead

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Image source

One..two..three...Anju counted her precious beads carefully before putting it away in the safe place away from her younger sister Maya's eyes. Anju found it infuriating that Maya always eyed her stuff. Anju took one last look at her hiding place and returned tip-toeing to her bedroom to find Maya fast asleep.

Anju and Maya were a year apart; different as chalk and cheese. Anju was conscientious and serious while Maya was happy-go-lucky and a dreamer. The sisters got along for the most part but also squabbled bitterly when it came to their individual dispositions.

Early next morning, as Anju retrieved her possession, she let out a gasp of horror when she found a bead missing and looked pointedly at Maya who was busy decorating her doll's hair with similar looking beads.

"You stole mine, isn't it? You never had the color "pink" in your collection!" discerned Anju bitterly.

Each of the sisters had got a set of beads in different colors as a gift from a visiting relative. Anju liked to preserve her gifts and use them judiciously. Maya, on the other hand, gave in to her impulses and remained carefree with her belongings.

"Of course, I didn't. I don't know where yours are. Besides, what makes you think Chinni bua wouldn't give me my favorite color!" shot back Maya.

Anju stormed out of the room in the hope of finding the culprit.

Maya just rolled her eyes and impishly thought to herself, "How silly! As though the thief would sit there waiting to be caught red-handed!"

Anju was, but, sure of finding a clue at her hideout and her eyes almost popped out upon arriving there.

She looked on incredulously before letting out a small chuckle.

She was so sure it was Maya.

A lone bead shone out in the brilliant color of Fuchsia as the rays of the mid-morning sun now fell on it. It must have rolled out of her case somehow and got wedged in the hitherto dark recess of the tiny closet.

And, yes, it was Maya, an illusion, indeed!

Linking it to day 4 at the BarAThon


Truth is stranger than fiction

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Siddharth entered his grandpa's study. The sunlight filtered in through the translucent flowery drapes and fell on the large mahogany bookcase that was filled with his dadaji's favourite books. The study table was as tidy as he remembered from his childhood. As a curious kid, he'd often wander into the study only to be admonished by the old disciplinarian. Today, however, he had entered the deceased grandparent's sanctuary as a young adult to gather some old business files and in turn, revisit fond memories.

**

Siddharth Sahani was the sole heir to the famous Sahani group of companies. The young, capable and ambitious youth had heard famous stories about his successful grandfather Ashok Sahani; of how he built the empire from scratch and was such a genuine philanthropist despite being so successful. 

However, as a child, Siddharth loved to hear the stories told by his doting grandfather himself. One particular story always caught his fancy and he'd demand to hear it again and again. It was a story about how three blind men robbed a bank*. They had pulled off an impossible feat that would go down in the annals of crime. The planning and execution would make a classic case for your management studies, his grandpa would add with a twinkle in his eye. He'd narrate the story with the same passion and details as if it were a real story and he a part of it. "Truth is always stranger than fiction", was his oft-quoted line.

Although the duo was very close, there were some things that Ashok preferred to guard about himself. Siddharth always sensed an element of mystery about the older Sahani. But he idolized his dadaji and always sought the latter's opinions on matters of life and career. The business tycoon had only one thing to say, "Life is full of mysteries and surprises. So, be prepared to achieve your goals but always have a backup plan."

**
As Siddharth rummaged through the old files, his mind playing out snippets of memories in a loop, a newspaper clipping fell off from between the sheets. Yellowed with age, the print was fading off from several portions. Yet, the headline caption seemed to scream out loud and clear,

"Biggest Bank heist leaves the Investigative Agency baffled"

Worn by time, the entire report was not quite legible. Yet, it sufficed to ring a bell, far too familiar.

Siddharth was nonplussed.

Why was this news article safeguarded? Why was dadaji so fond of this story? What did he mean by "truth is stranger than fiction" ?

Some things will always remain a mystery.

****

*Inspired by this.

Linking this to the first day at Bar-A-Thon




Talespin

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PHOTO PROMPT – © C. Hase
“See these huge chains? They are used to fish out the sunken ships from seas,” fibbed my nerdy elder one earnestly to the dreamy younger who listened with rapt attention, taking in all that her brother said with complete acceptance.

“Wow, but, who put the ships under the sea, Anna*?”

"The monsters, silly! Didn't you know?"

Overhearing their conversation from the next room, I chuckled at the cute mix of innocence and vivid imagination.

The innocence, I knew, would leave them. But, I prayed that the ability to spin tales from random muses stayed. A writer’s wish, indeed!


* Elder brother in Tamil

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 Linking up the 100-word fiction to the Friday Fictioneers, June 5th.

The Contest

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They lined up looking their best; all polished and groomed, appearing for yet another gruelling round in the beauty pageant.  They all looked cut from the same cloth, similar in size, stature, colour and attire making the contest equally poised and difficult to judge.

Their similarities did not end with the external get-up. And, if only the inner thoughts were put to a test, the charade of the contest would’ve come to the fore. Each of the six finalists nursed a desire to crush the other and emerge victorious, believing that the end would somehow justify the means. Interestingly, these sinister thoughts were kept tightly wrapped with a superficial display of courteous and polite demeanour glittering under flashy lights.

Suddenly, there was a hush. A different kind of tension filled the air. Out of nowhere, two tiny-tots emerged to unite with their lost mother. There were some rushed talks between the judges and the lady, one of the finalists. The others gleamed with wicked relief. How dare a married woman that too one with kids look fitter and younger enough to participate in contests putting to shame the rest of the so-called youth! Now that she was put in her place, they had one less dream to squash into pulp.

Picture credit: Aparna George, who blogs here.


  Linking this to the Wordy Wednesday Prompts at the B-A-R 

Tame the wild

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“They need to be tamed,” remarked the husband exasperatedly as I struggled yet again to rein in my wayward creative juices.

Epiphany struck even as I heard him cry triumphantly,

"There! Found you!"

Followed by chastened meows from under a thick blanket.

Image credit: pixaby.com

Word count: 42
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Written for 


An Omen

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The night was cool and damp. She walked on easily, as though her feet never touched the ground. Her eyes were on the road ahead, but she was not sure where she was heading. A growing, gnawing sense of restlessness was enveloping around her, engulfing her in their grey fumes. And, then, she saw someone ahead. She wanted to call out, but her mouth seemed to be filled with cotton balls. Her voice seemed to have deserted her. She struggled to hasten her pace, but the sudden wind seemed to push her behind. The apparition ahead stopped suddenly and turned to face her. The sight both overwhelmed and startled her.

A loud, echoing sound boomed, shaking the ground on which she stood. The next moment, she found herself on the bed, drenched in her sweat. The alarm beside her flashed mercilessly, reminding her of reality. It was all a dream. Only, it seemed very real. The emotions she had felt seemed raw and fresh. What did it all mean? Where was she going? Who was that person? Did he mean harm or was he a spiritual guru?

To an outsider, she led an enviable life: a beautiful home, well-cared for children, a successful husband, exotic holidays and the likes. She seemed happy, but then, was she indeed? Of late, she was consumed by deeper thoughts. Questions about her true calling and meaning to life itself manifested themselves in various forms. But, there was nothing about her demeanour that revealed what she felt from within. She carried out her tasks as usual, smiling at all, cracking jokes, even. Only she could sense the silence, the vacuum within her heart that spoke when the world outside fell silent.

But, now, this dream was like a wake-up call. Was it an omen?

Image credit: Pixaby.com

Serendipity

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The fierce rain lashed against the glass pane, leaving back angry drops to slide slowly away into nothingness. The gusty wind threatened to break down the frames that ensconced the glass leaving it vulnerable.

The outside temperament matched her internal turmoil. She was incarcerated by her own thoughts that pinned her to a single place, mentally. Life was opening up to her in a way she had never imagined. But, the past clung to her; rather she had clasped her fingers tightly over a handful of painful memories that were slipping through the gaps, staining her present.

She was afraid; of not being worthy of what life was offering her; of exposing her vulnerable side to the universe. What if she failed? What if she couldn’t meet the expectations that some people had of her; or her own expectations?

Even as she battled with her thoughts, the rains magically stopped. The sun peaked ever so slightly from behind the dark clouds and a magnificent rainbow emerged. Though not an unusual sight where she lived, this took her breath twice over since a faint second one appeared over the stronger one almost as a reassuring sign of good times ahead.
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"Fear is False Experiences Appearing Real." ~ Unknown 


https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/
 Word count: 200
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 200 word fiction written for the photo prompt at the Sunday Photo Fictioneers

Bite sized philosophy!

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Ketaki looked down at the dress chosen for the show. It looked elegant and new except for the slight yellowish stain at a corner. She pursed her lips at the thought of not having a new dress. It was always the hand-me-downs from her much older sister, Revathi. 

Revathi was the cynosure of all eyes. She was also dominating and confident unlike her- a puny and shy girl, thought Ketaki bitterly. Fighting all odds, perhaps, came to Ketaki naturally. Born prematurely at 7 months, the doctors had given Ketaki only 3 months to survive.

But she survived beyond that. She survived her birth, the frequent and unfair comparison with her sister and the skewed affection from people. She was not just a survivor but a brave fighter too. She’d show them all someday. For now, she would nibble at what was being offered to her. Life was tough at the circus.

Picture prompt for BAR

Word Count: 151

Linking the post to the Wordy Wednesday at the B-A-R.

To read more about the prompt and link up your posts, click here 


Leaving behind lasting memories

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Sophie caressed her Grandmother Becky’s wrinkled skin as she was being lowered into the coffin. A lifetime of goodness, love, warmth and care seemed to be wrapped into the black case that cold morning.

Sophie knew she’d miss her grandma’s practical advice and infectious smile that belied her tumultuous and difficult personal life.

“Who’d look after the beautiful garden?” lamented Sophie as the yellow bougainvilleas in the backyard, bejeweled with icicles, caught her eye.

Becky loved bougainvilleas and nurtured their attributes-of being in ever- bloom-within her. Like them, no amount of blustery wind or cold snow could dampen her spirit.  


PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright Janet Webb
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Word count:100
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100 word story written in response to the photo prompt at Friday Fictioneers at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. You can post one of your own or read the other entries here.