Myself, caretaker.

flowers

Who you?

Wait there woenly.

You who?

You wanting admission for your childrens?

Nice boys. Twins woenly, no? What your names?

Tom and Jerry? No?

Ajay and Vijay? Verry nice!

Commeere, don’t hide Mummy’s backside.

I have chocolate for you.

Here, take.

No? Very shy no, Medam?

Office? Sorry, office is close till next week Monday.

Myself? Rawbett. Security.

Thees flaarz? Mys. I looks after thees flaarz.

I waters them everyday morning and everyday evening.

working full time.

This play moan?

Very good Medam. First class! A-one!

Children getting out of out marks.

Means full marks woenly.

Rimes learning top class- Ajay Veejay- you tell- Baa Baa Black ship avooenyvulll?

Counting numbers – wontoootreefoe…

You likes? See Childrens laughing off, nicely.

Come see my flaarz.

You want picture Medam?

Wait I getting chair.

No problem Medam, small childrens chair

For big mans also fits.

I sitting.

Wokay  me ready.

What? say ‘cheese’ Wokay! Chisss!

Good bye Medam. Bye, Bye Ajay Veejay! Ok Tata! Bye!

Best of Good Luck!

Ave a nice day!

God Bless YOUUUU!

[174 Words]

Thank you PJ for hosting the wonderful FFfAW challenge. Thank you Shivamt25 for the photo prompt.

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Head above Water

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I’ve always wanted the best view from my window.

This. Cascading water. The bustle that I could ignore. The peace.

An address that read- 24/7, Head above Water Retreat, Off the Road…

It was either this or the meds. Did I really have a choice?

I was asked where I would feel good.

It was either the mountains or water.

I loved the suspended animation the mountains could give me. But the gurgle of water soothed me.

Lofty mountains and all the chance of elevated escape, or drowning in the depths of inviting water?

I could not choose.

This little retreat that bridged the canal, perched rather precariously over the river, came into view just around the corner of the leafy lane.

To Let.

I figured out a way to get there.

Now the river sighs and gurgles under me and I am perched at a height, away from it all.

Blessed peace.

The water gushes under my haven and, with renewed energy, I marvel at the magnificent torrent that surges ahead.

The ducks paddle their placid way, pleasantly surprised by the bread I toss at them, accepting this manna from heaven.

Well, I am in Heaven.

[196 Words]

Thank you, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction. Such a lovely platform to share stories on. Thank you, A Mixed bag for the intriguing photograph.

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The Waters of Lethe

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systole/diastole

diabolic rhythm

an unwilling heart

clogged roads

life

courses

most reluctantly

systole/diastole

brash waves drive from behind

inevitable and unavoidable

foxtrot on the treadmill

tango with wires

pounding waves

pulsed into spray

on ticker

systole/diastole

a coded tempo decrees

control

systole/diastole

a heart much maligned

cannot be repaired

systole/ diastole

measures

walls of my making

rendered inflexible

systole/ diastole

rigidity sets in

i pace

rigor mortis sets in

i forget to breathe

in my fury

systole/ diastole

evergreen memories

don’t go away

condition the core

now brittle and callous

systole/diastole

regulate

thin the blood

slow the heart

adjust the rhythm

systole/diastole

take this memory

fertile

weeds of thoughts

plunder

systole/diastole

every onslaught/ failed attempt/ wretched expectation/ wrenching betrayal/ gaping wound/ gnash and gash/ cutting word/ tightening of the heart/ suppressed retort/ repressed emotion

barbed wires of a resilient memory

systole/ diastole

a pattern of my remembrance

a curse that i live with

what wouldn’t i give

to forget

Memorize

Stone Sangria

blledin

You.

Consider this.

Sangria and Stone. Blood and Marble. Dramatic contrast.

The creation of a free spirit? Not really. Speculation is rife.

In love? Hmmmm.

Committed? Who?  Not really.

Wedded? This one? Really?

Remained unwed? Really!

Rendered unsuitable. Now. Officially.

Smiles a lot? What’s cooking?

Enthusiastic?  Must be on steroids.

Thoughtful? Maybe suicidal. Rubs palms gleefully What’s up, you poor thing?

Pays attention to self? Snob. Disgusting vanity…

Doesn’t give a #%@^ about anything. What the @&^*!

Wants to live? Try getting one first!

Content with this life? What life?

Answers all questions. Must be lying…

Politely declines. Getting ahead of ourselves, now, aren’t we?

Agreeable, to a fault. Desperately seeking approval. Uh huh.

An aloof stance. Oooh!  The audacity.

tbh-You are a spectacle, like it or not.

Might as well get on the loop

Even mount yourself on a platform at the museum.

Don’t have an armour? Bleed!

Turned to stone? Wait.

There’s a spot that has freshly calcified.

Scanning target. Fresh petrification sighted. Aim. Shoot.

Rivulets flow.  Akin to art.

Mission accomplished.

So satisfying!

Shame!

[175 words]

Thank you Jade M. Wong, for the beautiful photograph.

A million thanks PJ for hosting the FFFAW challenge.

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Potent Potions

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Believe me, you don’t really want to know me before I’ve downed these three cups in the morning. It takes three different concoctions to make me this fabulously effervescent, fascinating and gorgeous creature from the grumpy, sullen and dour monster that I really am.

I fumble around the kitchen, in the ungodly hour before dawn, put the kettle on, and have my first cup, warm water with a twist of freshly cut lemon. No, nothing stimulating is added to that, it is after all dawn, not dusk. So that goes down with a shudder and grimace and then the kettle is back on, the water boiling merrily, while yoga challenges every muscle in my being, new degrees of soreness enhanced with every painful stretch.

Where’s my tea?

Finally!

None of that fragrant lavender, chamomile, exotic versions please. I want my chai, thank you very much.

An agonizing hour later, while I’m glowing with newfound health and vigour, I reach for coffee. I like it strong, do you mind? Yes, caffeinated. Yes, I know. Blah! Blah! And Blah! Take a flying leap, it’s my blood pressure, my life and eventually my doom.

Sip, guzzle, and gulp.

I’m ready for the day.

[200 Words]

Thank you Dawn Miller for the very intriguing photograph, would love to know what the original context was.

A million thanks, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. A joy to participate in, as always.spf

Amma’s Congee

Pot story

An iron fence separated the park from the lakeside where a few villagers set up their makeshift tents. Living by the lake assured them a new life, the luxuries of, cooking, cleaning and maybe even bathing, when the guard looked the other way.

Amma, eighty years old, ever-present, self-appointed mother of the lot worked around houses, ingratiating herself to the security folk of the imposing mansions. When the maids swung haughtily down the road to dump trash from the kitchen, Amma would scavenge, marvelling at the waste of good food. Chopped stubs of onions, juicy flesh intact, baked potato still clinging to peel, good enough to eat. Green chilies and curry leaves thrown away untouched were salvaged by Amma who returned home with her loot, that eventually found salvation in the boiling pots.

After excruciatingly hard labour, returning home in the evening, tired and hungry eyes lit up at this welcome sight, aromas wafting to their pinched nostrils.The flavour of the congee was so comforting.

Amma grinned as she gathered the empty pots to scour.

[175 words]

Thank you, yarnspinner for the evocative photograph, I enjoyed writing a piece centred around it.

Thank you PJ for hosting the FFFAW challenge!

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Common Ground

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A cramped space this. I need to stretch, feel the earth under my feet. A little less talk and a little more quiet.

Thriving in closed spaces, you’ve mastered the art of contorting yourself, being stashed away.

The air is mine own. My mind lifts off- a sailboat in flight, the air my water, the water grounding me and the earth a vast expanse of ocean I float on.

You and I see the same road.

You are intent; and I never really look.

When did I begin to speak a different language?

Your eyes unseeing, uncomprehending, a thousand miles away.

Your every word, every drawn breath, every expelled curse- so easy to understand, mired in the world.

I surged ahead, wanting nothing.

And yet, here we are.

You lead, your eyes on the road.

I follow. My eyes also on the road.

The darkness is complete till dawn breaks.

The sky bursts. Clouds scud across the palette. Tints shifting settling into a golden hue.

Let us stop here and confront each other in enforced silence.

After breakfast at this lovely place, things will seem a little less intense, our bellies warm with pancakes, omelettes, buttered toast and hot coffee.

[200 words]

Priceless Joy Thank you for hosting this challenge. I’ve missed your challenges, missed writing and it feels great to be back and alive once again. Footy and Foodie, thank you for the photograph.

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Celluloid Eyrie

203 06 June 18th 2017

Murthy’s shadow loomed on the white sheet that stretched pole to pole at the little ‘hall’ with tin sheets for a roof.

A little better than an oven when the weather was pleasant and a lot worse than a sieve on rainy days, its only claim to grandeur was a statue of a rather pompous looking bird that had seen better days.

A fire caused an uneasy calm.

It was painstakingly restored when the demand for movies became greater especially when times changed from bad to worse.

The booming from the inside, invited the passers-by in once again. Anything to escape the direct scorching heat of the midday sun. Anything to escape.

It was like an oven inside, though fans whirred sleepily when the power was there. Power cuts saw the generator operate just the projector, improving the air immensely with Kerosene fumes.

Months morphed into years. Murthy’s routine never faltered.

A sloshed brother made a half-hearted attempt to follow the enigmatic Murthy one evening and passed out effortlessly.

Nobody knew what he looked like, where he came from and where he went.

Nobody cared.

Only the haughty eagle knew, but wouldn’t say a word.

Splat!

Damn! A passing crow.

[200 words]

Thank you Al, for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction

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L’amour toujours

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Madame Sophie collected the finest things in life first. Waterford crystal. Flora Danica. And then she set her sights on people, for people were attracted to things, mais oui!

She was known for her exquisite soirees. The lustrous rope of pearls felt cool against her fevered skin. She took her place by the piano, accompanied by her dear doting husband.

Alas! La Belle Madame could not sustain the high note. She would reach it but didn’t have the confidence or the passion to stay there. She would break off…Such a pity. Oh, Mon Dieu!

She never gave up though.

Madame began trilling. She scaled higher and higher.

‘Wait for it, here it comes!’

‘Now.’

As if on cue, little Gregory, Madame Sophie’s youngest, held up the bowl of Waterford crystal and put it on his head.

Madame was well into her range when she espied little Gregory and her precious bowl. The notes escaped her glorious throat, soaring higher and higher, as she let herself go completely.

Resounding applause brought her back.

A beaming Monsieur slipped an extra pastry to Gregory.

You see, Monsieur had decided that Madame had had enough disappointment.

[193 words]

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you PJ, for the awesome opportunity! Thank you Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode for the photograph!

 

 

Maisie’s Muse

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Sunday morning. Finally. A glorious day. A getaway. All week in the cramped flat. Hardly any action. It was once a week, but enough for a girl.

He was always there before dawn to grab a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese. His steaming mug of coffee slid across the counter and he caught it in time, before it became poetry in motion, scalding her if she wasn’t careful. Helping her to scramble into the little boat, he tossed the ropes aside and set sail, bobbing all day. They left before the others and he returned with her, spent, sunburnt and sweaty, just the way she liked him.

Gosh! He smelt so good!

Maisie felt the breeze ruffle her to distraction and turned, smiling into the wind. Her perfect profile, gorgeous brown eyes, oh, a man could drown in those limpid pools of honey. She had eyes only for him, and looked at him like no woman ever looked at a man.

The quay was deserted at this time. She could be herself, with an extra spring in her step and a joyous whimper, she found herself in his arms again.

It was only he.

And she.

Woof!

[200 words]

Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Al Forbes. Thank you Al, I enjoy this challenge immensely! Thank you, Jules Paige, for the photograph. I love it!

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