visdare

Silly Lad: A Very Short Story

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He had climbed atop the black-marble statue of the lion finally. He had desired to do so for quite long but he had never had the guts; always afraid of being caught. Sitting on the wavy lines of the sculpture, representing the fabulous furs of the lion, made him ecstatic. It was an experience he wouldn’t forget ever.

“Lad, ya aren’t supposed to be sitting here,” some one called out to him.

“But I like it here,” he replied, looking for the source of the voice. But there was no one around. Puzzled, he looked everywhere in the vicinity; up, down, right, left, front, back. But he couldn’t find anyone.

“I must have heard it in my head,” he mumbled.

“Are ya silly? Ya are sitting on top of me. It is uncomfortable. Would ya now mind stepping down or I roar out to alert the officials?”

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*For VisDare 30.

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Bruised

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She was bruised.

“You have come so late. Where have you been?”

She silently drifted towards her room without answering and latched the door. And there she fell at that very position on her knees and the tears welled up in her eyes. Her mouth gaped open and a muffled voice of shock escaped her mouth. She bit on the curtain so as to prevent her wail be heard by anyone.

She was retching. She ran towards the washroom while bile rose up in the back of her mouth and she puked her miseries out.

She couldn’t believe what had happened with her.

“It is my fault.” She wiped away what was left of her mascara and lipstick and rubbed her papery white skin. The tears had dried out. She clawed at her face.

“It is my fault.” She faced the mirror.

“I am bruised and it is my fault.”

* Written in response of VisDare 27.

Ornate: A Bizarre 150-Word Story

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“I apologize; I’m not capable of using such ornate words, Mademoiselle,” recited the French diplomat with a heavy accent.

“Never mind, Monsieur, it is alright even if you remain mum.”

The hostess continued the tour of the plush Victorian-villa for her guest.

“And this was the working lobby, where the soothsayers would fret all day, waiting for their lives to please Grandmother.”
“This is a photograph of that time,” she gestured towards an ancient snapshot, “You can imagine those men and women, some bare-chested, others wearing turbans, and yet others in even more bizarre clothing, looking into those globes or cards and some in the waters, supposedly brought from the holiest of rivers, gazing into the unfathomable layers of future.”

“Your ornate words are so ornate, Madame.”

“Would you like to know more?”

“U! Huh!”

And she continued to enunciate, as in the words of the gentleman, her ornate words.

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* Written in response of VisDare 23: Ornate