PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Her excitement slowly melted into contentment as she walked the cobblestone streets, weaving her way to the sea. She had finally done it and on such a momentous day she felt the grace of the hot summer sun shimmering against bright blue skies. She couldn’t have asked for more.

On reaching, she sat completely absorbed by the sea she so loved, feeling blessed and grateful. In the quest for peace, she had discovered herself at last. She did not need the crutch of his love if the price was her self-respect. She now had faith – in herself and in God.

Word Count: 100

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


Shielding Fury

Anger spirals out of you
Binding me; choking me
Vengeful words slice me
Fury brands its scar on me

I remind myself to stay calm
forming a shield of patience
this storm shall pass too; so
don’t judge the clouds for the storm.

This last line is what I often tell myself when a loved one is furious. At that moment I do feel angry myself and dislike the person for their insensitivity. But then at the same moment, I tell myself “this is a person I love and for many many reasons. So, just ride this storm out with patience and sort it out later, Meanwhile, don’t judge the clouds for the storm.”


The pursuit

“Keep the phone” he barked
Silenced, she complied, heart-broken.
“Patience is all I need”, she thought;
Refusing to accept defeat.

She would pursue him still.
She needed him, she HAD to get him,
Times were tough and sales were slow.
She had to get customers and soon.




I can only

I can only

urge but never insist
argue but never defy
convince but never compel

I can only

coax but never control
pursue but never run after
love but never let go

Some context: This poem tries to capture the words of a woman who sees her love walking away. She is very much in love and realizes that she can neither stop him nor let him go.


Why I refuse to write about any ONE thing

Follow up post to Key to a GOOD post?  The other thing I have been told about blogging: It is advisable for a blog to follow a theme – like fashion, travel, food, inspiration, etc. This makes eminent sense; I do sense that. However, in my blog you will find a bit of EVERYTHING (with positive leanings towards positivity) – poems, fiction, observations, theories, conclusions, humor, inspiration and I know not what else. This probably makes you wonder – how can she be knowingly stupid?

I can’t comment on my level of stupidity. That is for you and others to discuss and arrive at a consensus. I can speak on the motivation for this apparent lack of sense. I love writing (as I have told you a billion times already). One of the reasons I love writing is, it is one of the few REAL things without any boundaries whatsoever (which is true of any art form I suppose). I can write about anything under the sun; anything out of this universe; anything you have never read before; anything I never knew I could write about before.This for me is a form of liberation that allows me to explore my own thought process and abilities; in the process shaping me as a person. It is the freedom to explore and live unlimited! Join me on the exploration and let us discover where this leads us to!



The accident



“Oh come on!! Now it’s raining too?!” yelled Rachel, hitting the steering of her car. The mother and baby were in critical condition and she could not afford to be late. Though Sean had already been assigned to perform the surgery, Rachel would take no chance. She HAD to be present.

As she approached the bridge, a car in front careened and rammed against its edge. Rachel veered to stop her car and ran to help. She spoke as she bent to help the unconscious, pregnant woman. “I promise. Nothing will happen to you. Not under my watch. Not again.”

Word count: 100

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

Key to a GOOD post?

I was told that a good blogger needs to meet at least two criteria: provide good content, provide it on a regular basis. However, in the one month that I have been blogging, I realized this is not the complete picture. Good content in itself is not good enough. Why you ask? Let me urge you to consider this. When anyone can read / view / hear just about anything they want to at any time, what makes them choose and return to specific content?

Continue reading “Key to a GOOD post?”

A month and counting….

I have been blogging for about a month now. In this duration, 19 precious people have allowed me to be part of their world. I don’t know much about any of the 19 of you. However, I do know that each one of you amazing people has given me the encouragement and strength to keep posting every day. Thank you so much for this motivation!! While it is gratifying to think that in some way, my writing has connected with you, I sincerely hope that you enjoyed reading my posts so far. I will continue to try my level best to write every day and write well so as to merit your time.

Please connect with me and share your thoughts – about my blog or about anything under the sun or about anything out of this universe. Let us get to know each other better.


Harmonious music

Tara put the conch to her ear and listened to his woeful tales of separation and death. The all-knowing waves let out a gentle “hush” every time they kissed the sand and gently consoled the sad beings. Tara laid the conch back on the sands to let him mourn in peace and listened to the soothing voice of the ocean. She was regaling tales from lands Tara had never seen or could ever hope to see. Tara sat conversing with the ocean for a long time. On sensing the ocean being more playful by the evening Tara got up to pace her steps to the rhythm of the ocean. With each step, the servile sand bowed out of her way while her hair entered into an intimate tango with the ever playful, whistling wind.

The world was engaged in concert; playing a grand symphony to be heard only by her. To her sightless eyes, the world was always a black canvas devoid of color. But she did not begrudge it. As the music permeated her soul, she found her harmony.


The myth


PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Satisfied, he got down from the apartment for a relaxed stroll. The gentle breeze cooled the sweat off of him as he considered the night’s work. He had perfectly executed his plan albeit with some difficulty. He walked into the bar nearby for a quiet celebration.

As he waited for his drink, he looked out the window to sight the magnificent, veiled full moon. He smiled, recollecting the myth of the full moon bringing monsters to life. Some people actually believed it! He knew the truth though. He would kill every week, irrespective of the phase of the moon.

Word count: 99 words

Flash fiction in response to Friday Fictioneer hosted by Rochelle Wisoff.


I love twilight – always have. I love it for all the usual reasons – the painted crimson sky; the music of conversation among birds. But I also love it for another reason.

Twilight stands for anything anybody wants it to be. It could be the much-awaited respite from a scorching, unrelenting glare; holding the promise of a fresh outlook and rest. It could be the harbinger of light bidding to lift the blanket of darkness; holding the promise of a job well done.

This exactly is the best part of Twilight; it marks a transition, a change. It is that critical moment where the certainty of outcome is withheld that much longer to extend out the pleasure of hope.

Invincible Nalini

Nalini was getting ready for work. It was already 7:30 AM and considering that it would take her at least 25 minutes to walk the 2km to her workplace, it would be cutting it close. She hated to be late; it was a sure way to get an earful, enough to last her the entire day. Nevertheless, she was unflustered. She stood in the light of the early morning rays streaming in through the small window and applied oil and plaited her long, black hair. She applied red circular bindi on her forehead and smeared bright red sindoor, announcing herself a wife. She carefully traced the elegant curves of her eyes with kajal. She patted down her salwar kurta that though not pressed, was neat, clean and without a single crease. Donning a dupatta, she considered herself in the small rectangular mirror, hanging on one of the walls of the single room, she called her home. The reflection beheld a young and petite 17-year-old. The red of her sindoor shone against her dark brown, clear skin. Her shiny, black hair was neat. No feature though was as powerful as her eyes. The eyes, accentuated by the black of the kajal, were radiant with her vigor, to never accept defeat.

Continue reading “Invincible Nalini”