Category Archives: Fiction

Vignette: Anger

Vignette 1
Image Courtesy: Pixabay

Anita kicked the bedpost. Once. Twice. And once more. Third time she missed, and hit the vase stand. Pieces flew all over the room. Broken, shattered bits. Like her. Her mum didn’t see that, didn’t care about that. She cared about the breaking sound. The noise which aggravated her headache. That she compared to the house falling. More like a rats in the cupboard din, Anita thought. It was more than she could take.

She scurried to the garden. Her solace through the years. Not today. The sun was in a bad mood too. His fury burned her skin. The odour of dog poo greeted her instead of the sweet-smelling roses. She picked up a sharp rock. Of course, she would never hurt the neighbour’s dog. Even though he was the re-incarnation of Zoltan. Instead she hurled it at the letter box.

The flowers weren’t co-operative either. The rose drew her blood. The Hibiscus refused to placate her nose. She crushed the flower for the offense. Too late she recollected that the poor flower never boasted of fragrance. The hibiscus wouldn’t become a sweet scented flower just like she couldn’t be the son her mother wanted so much. It didn’t matter. She straightened the crushed petals. She loved every flower just as it was.

*One of my assignments at a Flash Fiction Workshop. The task was to write a piece portraying a strong emotion.

Image Source: Jill111 at Pixabay 

Image is CC0 Creative Commons

Let me know whether you like it or not.Your encouragement makes my day, and criticism makes my writing 🙂

 

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The Observer

Observing the street
Image Courtesy: Pixabay

Watching people through the window is his job. Well, not exactly his job, but a prelude to it.

Staring out the window at the lush landscape, tickling streams—not his scene. Why sit on the other side of the wall when you could directly bask in the sun, play with the waters, and climb the mountains? Maybe when it’s raining. But then he would rather go out in the rain than watch through a hole in the wall. He loves dancing in the rain as much as he loves making people dance to his tunes.

His window seat doesn’t face nature, but the concrete street—a crowded road with heavy footfall—not the highway packed with moving vehicles. He isn’t interested in watching the different models of automobiles passing, though he does love cars and bikes. Watching people isn’t a hobby, but a necessity. Else, how would he find someone suitable? He doesn’t like to use someone he knows. That would be risky. His feelings would interfere with what he has to do. Watching a crowd is safe. There he finds strangers, whose pain and sufferings he can bear with a detached mind. Continue reading The Observer

his love gave her words,

his absence motivation—

a writer was born

Writing

Image Courtesy: WerbeFabrik at Pixabay 

Image: CC0 Creative Commons

Where’s Papa?

Nina ate with her mouth closed, took care that very few crumbs fell on the table around her plate. She did her homework on time. She even cleaned her room.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Papa did not return home early. Not even after she called him to tell him about her best behaviour.

###

Four days! She hadn’t seen Papa for four long days. He came after she slept. And went to the office before she woke up.

She decided to catch him tonight. She wouldn’t sleep that night. Not early at any rate.

“No,” she said when mommy tried to force her into bed. “It won’t matter if you switch off the TV. I’ll just sit staring at it.”

At 8.30 she started fidgeting. Nobody worked at office till 8.30, did they? She stifled a yawn, and played with Smelly, her teddy. At 8.45, she had to physically pull her eyelids, so that they didn’t close. No use. The next thing she knew, it was 9; she was in her bed, and Papa already gone to work for the day.

###

She would catch him before he left. Waking up in the morning was easy. During school days, she woke up at 7.30. She would do it now. She set up an alarm clock for 4 O’ clock. No way Papa would ever leave before that.

Tears trickled down her cheeks the next morning, when her mum said, “why would you set up the alarm at 4? Your poor father couldn’t sleep after it woke him.”

If her Papa couldn’t sleep, the least he could have done was wake her up.

###

This was a part of my assignment at a Flash Fiction Workshop. The task was to write three paragraphs/incidents which could be interchanged chronologically.

Let me know whether you like it or not. Your encouragement makes my day, and criticism makes my writing 🙂

Everyone is born different

Born different
Some are born to love;
Some are born for passion.

He might love the feel of breeze;
She creates a cyclone.
While some people live their lives,
Others need to feel alive.

Not everyone runs the same race,
Not even for the same reason.
Some covet the shiny trophy;
Others like the roadside scene.

While some aim for lofty goals,
Some just want the thrill of chase.
Not all wish to settle down,
Some are born to run free.

© (2017) Kiran Acharya

The Splendid Statue

The Splendid Statue
The misery of the sculpture… 😢 

The past

her past
When the past refuses to shut up…

A haiku

gone with the deluge…

dusty window-pane drawings

childhood mementos

© 2016 Kiran Acharya

Reflected glory

Reflected glory

Timeswept tale

Timeswept fairy tale