The Decision

There it was. Sparkling, with a personality all its own. Brimming over with attitude.  One of his own. And yet. And yet, no one seemed to have even noticed it. There it lay. Ignored. Amongst so many others that were being cheered on.

He made his decision. It deserved better than this utter neglect. No more of this indifferent world. It was time to make a dignified exit. With a firm finger he clicked the mouse and deleted his wall post.
~

A glass of wine

She took the empty glass from his hand and put it  down on a nearby table. "Oh no... come, come along with me. You can borrow a shirt from my husband."

Courtesy Tess Kincaid

Ron allowed himself to be led by the hostess to the bungalow. The party ebbed and flowed around him, by the poolside. Fairy lights glimmered in the trees and shrubs. Waiters floated noiselessly in the background, carrying trays of canapes, and a selection of drinks.

He had quickly picked up a wineglass from the nearest tray. A ruby red wine. It could easily have been mistaken for blood. Arterial. The blood that had flecked his shirt, spurting, as his... No. No. He didn't want to go there. Not down that path. Not just then..

For the moment, he was thankful of three things - a conscientious hostess, the darkness of the night, and the glass of ruby red wine. 

- Flash fiction, inspired by a Magpie Tales prompt.

The gun - a short story

A flash fiction piece written as an exercise on a writing forum

The mandate
The first words of your contribution must be:

She picked up the gun.


Somewhere in the middle you must include this line:

"Oh go and boil your head!"


The last words must be:

She grimaced. "You know, I really loved him."


My story

She picked up the gun.
It was a snub nosed colt. The blue steel was cool to touch. Could this lovely svelte object really kill a man? or a woman, come to that? Anyway, what was it doing in her hand?

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair appeared harried and disheveled due to constant running of fingers through it. The lipstick needed touching up. So many things had happened since this morning. Her world was about to turn topsy turvy. Those words still rang in her ears.

It was the cell phone ringing for the nth time. Sheil nervously approached her. “He’s called again. What should I tell him?” She was in no mood to discuss anything with him at this time. "Oh go and boil your head!" she yelled into the phone.

At last she was ready. Quietly she entered the room. A man lay on the couch, paper folded over his chest, arms crossed, eyes closed. She took a deep breath and mentally prepared for the shot. The finger stayed smoothly on the trigger.
As the cameras rolled, she fired once, and grimaced, "You know, I really loved him."

A short story - untitled

She was waiting for them outside the store, a little bored.

A procession was moving along the road. Now it had come to a stop - almost in front of her. The crowd of onlookers and shoppers jostled and milled around. In the centre, she could see men bedecked in finery moving in step to a beat.

The dholaks and drums pulsed out a heady rhythm. The throb of music rippled through her. It was alternately soft, now lusted for red hot blood and reeked of recklessness. She stood transfixed, letting the waves of music engulf her.Something inside her was pulling her towards the group of dancers. Her bones, her muscles, her very blood ached to dance, to dance with wild abandon..

A spirit was drawing her into a different world... here, there was a sense of excitement and joy all around. The palatial mansion was adorned with flowers and festoons. Fistfuls of gulaal and colours were being flung into the air… and all the faces.. they were looking at her, expectantly, smiling, celebrating... and she exulted in the triumph..

A hand tapped her lightly, “Come on, lets move.”

The connection was broken. She was back to the present. It was as though she had stood on the edge of a life she had already lived. Her mind was trying to analyse why she felt like this. Was it…?

A shiver ran through her body, that warm May evening.

© Alaka Yeravadekar

LOVE or DOVE?

“Is it love or is it Dove?” teased her colleague, referring to a well known brand of soap guaranteed to bring the glow back on every overworked and under-appreciated woman’s visage.
She smiled in reply as she thought of her new-found love.

She remembered the nth fight she had had with him.
It was a fortnight ago. It had promised to be a few days respite from work. A time to get away from the grime of the city. To spend time, strolling mountain walks and holding hands. She could imagine the unhurried discussions and the return of smiles.
Whatever had gone wrong would be set right. It would be a return to old times.

All it took was a question from her. About breakfast. That was enough to ignite the flames. The lovely morning was spoilt. She listened once again to the tirade of how she could not make good omelettes, how she could never take care of the house, how even the kids (they were adults now, for god’s sake!) had not been brought up properly by her…. and this gem - how she had brainwashed them to take her side, not his.

All thoughts of reconciliation flew out of the window.

And then she had done something that surprised even her. But at last she was free. Free to make omelettes and place furniture the way she wanted. Free to read a book or nap at any hour of the day or night. Free to just do nothing, for a while. There was no one to please. No exacting standards to be met. No one from whom to cringe in fear.

Freedom. She revelled in it.

She smiled as she thought of this new found love.

(c) Alaka Yeravadekar