Varadharajan Ramesh's Blog, page 6

Spark the change

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I saw a spark and decided to keep it safe in the hollow of a forest tree. The forest smoldered and reduced to ashes. For that is the prowess of fire, be it a spark or an inferno.

So said the poet Bharathi. And I concur, fire is fire – all consuming, purifying. And a fire is exactly what we need now, to burn the still-existing, decadent systems put in place to control our forefathers.

All I need is a spark that will grow into a raging inferno.

No, I don’t believe in self-immolation.

Let them burn for a change.

Written for the weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week’s prompt is from Anshu. To read other entries, please click here. 

Three Reclining Chairs Outside Humanity

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They gazed at the desolate landscape around them and sighed. Their faces were weary and weathered. They felt old, not just because of their age. Well, that too; they were ancient, but for the first time in their existence they felt their age.

‘Well, that went south awfully quick, didn’t it?’ The man with the long gossamer-white beard broke the silence.

The woman nodded, ‘I still can’t believe that they cast us out, after all we have done for them.’

The bald man smiled ruefully, ‘Let them enjoy their decadence. The end is nigh for them.’

Gods do give up.

Written for the weekly Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle. This week’s prompt is from Renee Heath. To read other stories based on this challenge, please click here. 

[image error] My collection of short stories is now available on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited. Please click the image for the link. I would appreciate your support and views.

The Car

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He walks at a steady pace, tapping his cane on the mud-caked road. The car is still there, a grotesque bas-relief amidst the scenic greenery. It was his car once, his prized possession, his black beauty.

He walks towards the car and runs a loving hand over it. Twenty years ago, his wife, her mind addled by alcohol and anger, had crashed his car at the very spot. He hadn’t remarried and he never purchased another car.

The bolts he had removed from the brakes all those years ago still occupy a prominent spot along his wife’s picture.

Written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s prompt is from Ted Strutz. Please click here to read other stories. 

Not Today

I began 2019 with a nice trek on the Himalayas. We saw the snow-capped magnificence of Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third tallest peak in the world after the Everest and K2. After a week well spent in the mountains, its time for yet another edition of Friday Fictioneers hosted by our delightful host Rochelle. This week’s picture prompt is from Dale. Thank you Rochelle & Dale. To read other stories, please click this link. 

(A pic of the massif is at the end of this story.

My First!

They never said it would be this messy, and bloody!

All they spoke was about the pleasure and the orgasmic high once it’s done.

How do I clean the sheets? Mom’s gonna kill me.

I’m so done with murder!

Borders

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‘Hello…’

‘Good to hear your voice…’

‘Yeah! Yours as well…’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘What?’

‘Talking to me?’

‘No! Better than the silence.’

‘Same here.’

‘Had your tea?’

‘Yes! You?’

‘Having it as we speak…’

‘Alright! Until later.’

Static filled the tent that had been his home for the past six years. The barbed wire fence that marked the boundary between two countries stretched in front of him like a never-ending serpent.

He thought about his counterpart on the other side of the fence. He knew that they will never meet. If they did, one of them had to die.

A very Happy New Year to my fellow Friday Fictioneers. This week’s prompt is from our resident fun-smith Russell Gayer. Thanks to Rochelle for being our gracious host every week. To read more stories, please head over here. 

Love

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She sets her little wooden chair next to the grave of her beloved and after a session of sighs and tears, she starts reading from the book he once loved. Fresh chrysanthemums adorn his grave, filling me with jealousy. Sometimes, I wish someone comes to sit for a moment next to my grave.

I know that the girl I loved is dead, but she never came to see me. Some people do have it all, eh?

I feel sorry for the girl. She needs to move on, after all her man keeps hanging out near the grave of that supermodel.

Word Count: 100

Written in response to the picture prompt provided by Randy Mazie for the weekly Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff – Fields. 

Please find other entries here. 

Stan’s Boots

After a very travel-heavy week during which I couldn’t get any reading done, this week promises to be a little slow. Hopefully, I’ll be able to read most of the entries this week and reply to the comments on my last week’s post. Another Wednesday and another edition of Friday Fictioneers hosted by our delightful host Rochelle Wisoff – Fields. This week’s photo prompt is from Adam Ickes. Please read other entries to this week’s prompt here. 

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My friend Stan’s grandfather, Jonah, was a very funny man. He used to make up little rhymes and tell his tales in a roundabout way. Once, Stan and I were climbing a fence when the rickety old thing collapsed. Jonah saw us and sang

Only thing that’s more broken

Than the fence is your pride

Life took us in different directions. I became a wall street slave, Stan went to fight for our country. I visited Jonah few years later and asked about Stan. Jonah pointed at a pair of boots

Little man went to fight and shoot

Big man graciously returned his boots.

Reunion

I met my estranged sister after two decades and I have to say that we cried quite shamelessly in the middle of the plaza. Growing up, we were almost inseparable until our parents’ acrimonious divorce dropped the figurative Grand Canyon between us. I still remember her as an eight-year-old, the last time I saw her, with her front teeth missing and tears streaming from her beautiful blue eyes. Now, she has grown to become a beautiful young woman, confident, strong, a little authoritarian in fact. Yet, her smile is almost the same and her eyes are still blue, maybe a shade paler.

‘Let’s play that game you loved,’ I sipped coffee and watched her turn a furious shade of red.

‘Really? That’s what you want to do? After all these years?’

‘Why not? Let’s pick up from where we left.’

‘But it was so stupid then, needless to say now.’

I shrugged and said, ‘Mrs. Wheeler was my favourite teacher.’

She winked and said, ‘False! You hated her. My turn, Tony kissed me outside the school.’

‘False, it was inside the school and you kissed him.’

She laughed, I liked it.

‘You considered Olivia as your soulmate.’

I stared at her, nodded slowly and said, ‘True! You are a lesbian.’

She looked at me dumbstruck, ‘How?’

I shrugged nonchalantly, ‘I wrote in my diary that Olivia was my soulmate and the diary went along with mom’s things. I wanted to rip that page to shreds, you know?’

‘Why?’

I pulled out my nine millimeter and pointed it at her, ‘My sister would have known why!’

I shot her and walked away.

Written for #TellTaleThursday, hosted by Priya and Anshu. 

Comeuppance

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Nero stared at the bleeding man bound to the worktable. The man grunted and moaned pitifully, his sobs choked by a ball-gag fastened around his mouth. He was missing fingers in both his hands. Scratches, welts, and bruises covered his naked torso.

Nero looked at the poll results on an encrypted website, ‘We have a winner!’

He switched on a blow torch. The bound man started screaming.

‘How much money you’d have made with this torture website of yours!’ Nero said, ‘Now, you get to go like all your victims. Well, at least you’ll die doing what you loved eh?’

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff – Fields. This week’s image is from Douglas M. MacIlroy. To read other stories on this prompt, do head over here.