Time Sensitive

She was sitting in the patio, waiting… waiting for more things than she could count on her fingers… waiting for nothing more than she already had… waiting… till minutes turned into hours and hours into days and days into weeks and weeks into months…time was expansive and exhaustive, it was a blink of an eye and the gaze of a face in a picture, staring at you, unblinking… beckoning, beseeching, wanting you back…. Only there was nothing or no one to go back to… for everything was here, in this moment and yet there was nothing…

Can you look back and remember that it was you – in flesh and blood in the memory that clogs your mind? Can you feel the breeze that gave you goose bumps on that windy night at the beach? When you look at your placid hands now comatose on the arms of the chair, do you relate with the firm grip of the knife that they once held? Do you remember the warm, thick blood that splashed your face when you slit his throat open? Do you play that moment over and over in your head? When you sat at the bar and smiled at him? Do you look away this time? Do you decide to sleep the night at home instead? Do you think if you could go back and change one tiny thing that could lead to an altogether different domino effect, you would? But you can’t can you now? Time only goes forward, rewinding is a concept us silly, error-prone humans have devised…

“Time for your medicines!”, a cheerful voice broke her reverie, something for which she was growing more grateful than she showed. The nurse brought the tray with different paper cups holding tablets and capsules of different sizes and colors and a glass of water and methodically emptied one cup after another in her mouth, with interludes of water.

“Would you like to get back in the room and watch some TV? There’s a new season of Archer on Netflix”. She perked up. “Oh wow! I have been waiting for it, let’s go in right away!” The nurse obliged and pushed the wheelchair inside.


My Entry for Inspirational Monday. To know more about Inspirational Monday weekly challenge, visit here.



The Brilliant Buffoon

Genre: Humor

“Did you see him? Sitting on the podium picking his nose as the chief spoke! I couldn’t believe my eyes!”

“Who didn’t? His secretary nudged him… too late though.”

“That man might be a brilliant scientist but he needs 101 on social etiquette. I feel sorry for his secretary – desperately trying to keep him from trouble while he handpicks the choicest of moments. Remember him snoring at the charity musical?”

“Matter of time before his buffoonery outwits his brilliance. His poor secretary – always a heartbeat late in saving him from the next fiasco, deserves a new boss!”


100 words for Friday Fictioneers this week, inspired from real life incidents.

For the uninitiated, in case you are wondering what is going on here, read on. Friday Fictioneers is an excellent forum for people looking to have fun as they learn the nuances of writing. Every Friday a bunch of us write 100 words (no hard rules there) for prompts posted by Rochelle who runs the show.

This week’s prompt is an intriguing art form, David Stewart happened to chance upon. Perhaps his photography skills added to the intrigue!

The Prompt:

Copyright – David Stewart

The Friends

She was a poised little lady for a twelve year old, living in an uptown neighborhood. Over the years she had grown to become more and more aloof from the most immediate of her family members. She kept company to herself and was generally found in her room, a pencil and notebook in hand, sketching the landscape as it looked from her window.

Hers was a stately residence in the outskirts of the city, for her father preferred the long journey from his office to staying deep in jarring cacophony of the mainland. There was a beautiful garden in front of the house. The garden was well maintained, with beautiful flowers blossoming in the variedly shaped flower beds. The grass was a refreshing shade of green. The families living in the area never hesitated in loosening their purse strings for the highest of maintenance of that garden.

There was a pair of swings in one corner of the garden. The girl would go to the garden every evening and spend some time on one of the swings, humming random tunes every now and then.  While the garden had its share of visitors, they were either too old or too young for our little girl of twelve.

And then one day came another girl of her age and sat on the swing next to her. She smiled genially and said her name was Sara. They would swing each other in turns. Over time, the two girls became good pals. Sara was chatty, while our little girl was not a forthcoming talker. The setup seemed to suit both of them nicely, for the one who did not like to talk could keep quiet and the one who did not like to keep quiet could speak uninterrupted.

Since our little girl was fond of sketching and painting, when the flowers bloomed to their prime in the garden, her tiny corner with the swing seemed a  little too stuffy and she moved closer to the flower beds to capture the grinning faces of roses and sunflowers and lilies and dahlias. Sara came looking after her dear friend and found her sitting on the grass, head bent on the sheet in her lap and color pallets and brushes around her. She bent forward inquiring about this hitherto unknown side of her friend. Talkative as she was, she tried to engage our young painter’s attention to her speech. But not finding the reception she was so used to, she went quietly to the swing by herself.

Few weeks went by, with Sara sitting on the swing by herself and our little girl spending time in a world of colors. Once she had captured the flowers in all their shades, the little girl went back to the swing. Sara, sitting dully on her side of the swing did not notice her friend’s return. The little girl walked behind Sara and gave her swing a gentle thrust. Sara looked back startled and got off the swing. She looked at the girl and smiled uncertainly, greeting her more formally than she had before. Our little girl was surprised, but not being the candid kinds, she followed Sara’s lead and replied with equal formality. Small talk ensued, with uncomfortable bouts of silence. Sara being the outspoken one could not keep it anymore and asked her friend why she had left her alone.

The little girl having been conditioned in aloofness was taken by surprise at the allegation. She explained to Sara in the best way she could that she never realized Sara expected her at the swing every day. She showed her the paintings she had made of the flowers. The high spirited girl that Sara was, took one look at the beautiful paintings and forgot all about her woes of the past. She asked excited, if the little girl would paint her near the flower beds. The little girl was pleased and said she would love to, only if Sara agreed to keep quiet all that while.

They laughed gaily and played till late evening that day. The little girl laughed and talked about herself. The setup was disturbed a bit, for the one who did not talk much talked more than usual and the one who did not like to keep quiet talked even more, but no one really minded the disruption.

Quest for Eldorado

‘This is the most graceless end expected’ said I, while she stared in vacuum smiling vacantly…’ No, this is the most unexpected graceless end possible…’ I corrected myself, while she continued to stare in vacuum smiling vacantly…

A yet another knitting out of obsessive compulsive pursuance of my otherwise dim cerebrum.

He lay there shunned by silence,
Gazing through watery eyes…
He strained to see through the distance,
Defiant muscles refusing to rise…

He tried hard to listen,
The bugle that never played…
He gathered his sprits to summon
The courage to move ahead…

But Ahead reached nowhere,
With darkness all around…
‘It went wrong somewhere’
He could hear the voice growing loud…

’I began with the purest heart,
I pursued it till the end’
But the voice now testy and tart
Shouted, ’Then name thy fiend!’

‘The Wind!’   fought back poor traveller…
‘The wind, it blew so hard,
I lost my strength and fervor,
Trying to know the will of Lord’

This time the voice said nothing,
A shrill laugh filling the void,
‘So how is it dying and rotting,
After all the dreams you foiled?’

He closed his eyes in submission
Tasting his mud soaked blood…
‘I followed The Lord’s rendition’
Were the last of his words…