Liberate me: A 100 Word Story

The train has stopped and I mingle with the crowd coursing out, journeying up to the street where all go their own way. I am on the look out for a library.

I sing:

“Wandering here in the wild
shadowed by the bright day
I look here, there, I’m a child,
liberate me from this dark play”

There is no one I encounter on my path; the sunlight pierces my eyes and I am going blind. The knowledge of truth is out of my reach.

And this is when I touch upon the undeniable sprout of insanity growing in me.

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Written in consideration of Friday Fictioneers’ Weekly Prompt.

Image copyright: Randy Mazie

Awakened: A Very Short Story

To bury my hands in loose soil, so to conceal them and embrace estrangement, was a choice. It is always a choice, only brought about by a fate that leaves you skeptical about the spirit of human.

I have a furtive understanding with those in my surroundings, which was not there earlier. And now when I meet them, they know that unlike them, I have many worlds colliding with each other. And sometimes I am in their realm and at other times, I am hollow when I am somewhere lost in the worlds of my own making.

I visit them quite often now, if not in my physical self but then, as a reminiscence, clinging to a wall as they sit and talk, unaware that the sun faces another eclipse.

“He is a Ravana with the ten heads,” they articulate. I cackle, my 320 teeth glinting in moonlight.

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Linked up with VisDare 65. It has been a while since I last participated in a VisDare prompt and it is good to derive inspiration from this amazing photograph.

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Gathering: A Short Story

They gather out of nowhere, like a crowd that drifts towards where blood gets spilled. And the blood is spilled this day, right outside where I fell down, while playing with the neighbourhood guys. I cried many tears and made a puddle out of them on my palms.

I was rushed to the doctor. I do not remember much but for the agony, when he sprayed some liquid which coagulated my blood there and then, which still is circumventing through my mind. I have been acting like a lame person ever since returning back home.

And now they have gathered. I have loved them since as long as I can remember. Mum tells me that it had rained the morning I was born and my first cry was accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and the morning hymns of the gurudwara, symphonising with the drip-drop of water pearls. So, it may very well be so that we are connected in some way.

“It is going to rain,” my sister says what everyone already knows. She rushes off to the terrace to gather the clothes, hanging to get dried in the sun, but the fate has it that it must rain today.

I cripple along her up the stairs and reach in time to have the first drops to fall down on my cheeks and stream down my throat to the chest. I feel light.

She gets angry and asks me to go back down but I am not the one to listen. I am here to pick at them and gather what I can, hiding them in every possible crevice of my body. I do not joke and thus, my intent is true.

She has gathered the clothes. They are now flung on her left arm and she hands over her right for me to take so that we can go back down. But I rather hold onto the door and crouch because I do not want to be taken away. I want to see my destiny in the few drops that have painted the dust riddled bricks below me. My blood had made stains just like that.

And then, the thunder crackles and the lightning zooms piercing the sky apart and showering blessed pearls. She exclaims in horror and takes me by force and yet, my arms try to reach out to them as she makes me walk down with her.

Stepping down the stairs, I lose my view of them at their gathering. I want to join them. My vision, thus screened, and I am thrust to darkness.

Now, I rise, feeling the trace of those drops on my cheeks that stream along, down my throat to my chest. I feel light.

I clutch at them dotted on my skin where the matchsticks have branded them. Feeling my ribs, I fall down on the bed, zooming through the many gatherings of visions or dreams. It doesn’t matter what they are because they are tangible to me.

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A 500 word story for Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt. It is a blend of reality and fiction… what is what… I don’t know and I won’t tell.

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Dream: A 100 Word Story

“You know… you know what, I saw a dream but it was like reality. And you know where I was.” He plunged into the fantasy, becoming a phantom of happiness.

“Where were you?” The other one asked, from the other side of things.

“It was… you know- a mountain top… No. It was a hilly area but I was living in a small hut at the jutting high rocks of the sea shore. It was warm and cold at once. I…”

“It was a dream,” the mirrored-one replied.

His reflection flickered as he subsided into his convulsing cocoon of darkness.

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* For Trifecta.

Live: A 100 Word Story

“The cyclone will hit in the evening. They are here to take us away to the temporary shelters.”

“What of our house… and furniture, and jewelry?”

“Hurry up… we need to go.” He looked away, hiding his tears from his wife who was still bewildered by the emergency of the moment.

“But…” She tried to voice her concern for everything they had earned in their lifetime.

He took her hands. “Is this life more important or these material possessions? I am sorry. Just pick a suitcase and take the clothes and jewelry, you could pack into it. We need to leave/live.”

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Image copyright: Janet M. Webb

* For Friday Fictioneers.

The Hero

It was when the hero succumbed to the maenads’ seduction, when Bacchus appeared as the intoxicated child, wearing a tiara of vine leaves; a wine goblet in his hands, pouring the nectar down his throat, aggravating his thirst, as the fluid dripped out simultaneously.

“Uhhh..uhhhppp…” His hiccup resounded across the seven seas. “Come… join me… I have always got a space left beside me for the fools like you.”

The hero, who was still lost in the beehive hair of the maenads, nodded and joined Bacchus.

And this is how the gods took the soul of the last half-man.

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* A 99 word story for Trifecta. The word of my choice for the challenge is Bacchus.

Oil Painting by Guido Reni, titled Drinking Bacchus.

Greece: A 100 Word Story

“I wish I could visit Greece. I am fascinated by the mythology. I would love to walk through those amphitheaters, pavilions and temples. I know much of it is in ruins now… still…,” he spoke to his friend.

“But of course you can get the experience anytime,” she replied.

“Oh! Where will I get the funds for such an exciting endeavor?”

“Not necessary… just come along with me.” She took his hand and walked him to the computer table.

“Are you buying me a vacation?” he asked, excitedly, but soon his expression turned sour as she opened up Google images.

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* For Friday Fictineers.