The search

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PHOTO PROMPT © Kent Bonham

I had feared the worst when I had not seen the old man for a few Sundays. I had searched for the immaculate, blue Volkswagen in front of the church; strained to glimpse him nodding to me from under the trees while he patiently waited. I had surmised his atheism was at peace with another’s faith. Where was he?

Next Sunday, I was relieved to see the car. After a hurried search in the trees, I entered the church to find him in tearful prayer. I gasped as I heard Father tell him “She is with Him. She is happy”.

Word count: 100


Flash fiction in response to Friday Fictioneers hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff.

Being childlike

“Be childlike and not childish” they say. So what does it mean to be childlike? There are so many many pages that talk about what it means to be childlike and how to consciously live a life guided by this mantra. A one line answer to the question could be “a simpler and as a result, maybe a happier life”. So, is there any downside?

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The recycled soul?

Two independent events over the weekend that were coincidentally relevant have forced me to think about fundamental questions of birth and death. In the past, I have studied the questions of birth and death, life and its vagaries, desire and pain, destiny and free will as explained from multiple religious standpoints. However, in the recent past, I have learned to simplify my existence, my world view, my understanding and love of God to very few basic principles. This simplification has allowed me to be far less questioning and far more accepting thereby making life, well, more simple. But these two seemingly small events revived the questions from the past that had been blissfully suppressed so far. Quick context. Event 1: Advertisement that called for essay entries with the title “Who am I”. Event 2: Unplanned spontaneous discussion on reincarnation for a Hindu.

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The recluse

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PHOTO PROMPT © Janet Webb

Laden with an assortment of items – paints, jars, crystals, marbles, buttons, she slipped unnoticed through the market, making her way back home. On reaching, she closed the door of her small one room home and smiled with relief. The ordeal was over.

She carefully arranged everything, reserving special tenderness for the lone window. She viewed it from the chair in front of her easel, admiring the golden streaks painted by the sun falling on the jar. Later, light would shine through the crystals in the candle stand to make a remarkable collage. She sighed contentedly and picked her brush.

Word count: 100


Flash fiction in response to Friday Fictioneers hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff.


The lady in the story might be a recluse who shies away from people and finds everyday activities tedious. However, she is an artist and finds joy in the colors and shapes of nature and works of art. She is content, happy and at peace, in the little abode, she calls home. I am quite taken by her I must admit. 🙂


Her prayer

She followed the white plume that rose from the glowing incense stick. The smoke rose as a single sheet before branching out into barely discernible tiny veins and then vanishing altogether. She was engrossed in its fluid shapelessness; shifting every moment before she could even accept the picture through her eyes. She could only observe. Observe the ever changing ephemeral beauty while standing still in the chaos.

She wondered. Perhaps he was drifting too. Weightless, unbound, liberated. Just rising towards his God effortlessly while his body decayed like the slowly burning incense turning into ashes. However, just as everyone would sense the incense by its scent long after the ashes had been swept, she would feel him too long after he was gone. He would be with her in every smile and tear, in every moment of courage and weakness, in every breath and death.

She followed the stream of smoke till her eyes rested on the face of God. She stared into His serene face and did the only thing she could. “Please accept him God” she prayed with all her soul’s strength. “Please keep him happy.”

What defines me

Memories of you seize me in unguarded moments
Washing over me and pelting me, like torrential rain
Where do I seek shelter, when it is myself I am running from?

Everyone says, whatever happens, happens for the good
Show me all the things I hate about you; tell me it’s good riddance
Is it? I question myself. Has my love for you been so blind?

It must be; for it screened from me all the signs and hints
Now, as I set out to chart out the lonely path of discovery,
What do I deserve and what is in store, who can tell?

I KNOW one thing for sure though; the one guiding lamp to my path
You may have found me worthless, a dead weight around your leg
But that is YOUR scale, not mine. I will NOT let this define me.

The hostages

He walked with a swagger that announced his attitude; “Don’t mess with me or else….!!!”. Absolutely nothing bothered him and if at all anything did, he knew how to deal with it. Every one of the hostages in the room was fearful of him; wary of his movements. They tried their best to remain calm while waiting for the next demand. Till now, all his demands had been met – without any delay. He just had to point and he was served with his wish. What was next, no one knew.

No one dared to confront him, let alone raise their voice against him. History was proof that he had been the victor of every confrontation. People had been beaten, slapped and punched innumerable times without having been able to land a single blow on him. He simply had his way and that was that. This time would be no different. Everyone in the room eyed the wall clock almost every minute only to sense that it was ticking slower with every glance. They were hopeful though that rescue was close at hand. They would be relieved any minute now, if only they all stayed calm.

It was 6:10 PM and still no sign of respite. Just as some began to wonder how much longer they could take the pressure, she walked in hurriedly with an apologetic look on her face. She quickly glanced around the room to take in the situation and looked straight into his face. He had noticed her entrance almost instantly too and ran to her. She scooped up her one-year-old son into her arms and gave him a tight hug. She planted a kiss on his cheek and looked around the room to her weary, tired family saying “I am really sorry I am late. Did he trouble you a lot?”