V-Hypnagogic-Logic

An exploration in stories, asides, songs and real-and-almost-real events


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Probably NO Friday Fictioneers Stories for the next couple of weeks from me…

… alas!

I will be in India.

Leaving today.

No real access to the Internet, unless I go to an Internet Cafe.

Who knows?  I just might do that!

Love,

Dreamer of Dreams


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House (Me)

Björn 6

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright-Björn Rudberg

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Genre:  Semi-Horror Fiction

Word Count:  100 words

House (Me)

©August 7th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

I am fashioned from all your dreams and all your nightmares.

You return to me in sorrow, in joy, in darkness, in light. You fall into my arms, and I soothe your senses, your soul.  You drown in loneliness, but I’m here, I’m here!

Yet, you see me not for who I am.

Someday, you will.

Cobwebs and horrors crawl through my dark spaces. I scream soundlessly. I wince and sigh, when I’m hurt. I creak and moan and sob through howling winds and storms.

Yet, you hear me not.

Today, you will.

And I’ll take you with me.

Come.

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I wasn’t entirely satisfied with my 100-word story from yesterday.  This house called to me.  Here’s my second attempt!

(Thanks, as always to our Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Björn Rudberg, for his excellent photo-prompt!)

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Fold-Unfold

 

Björn 6

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright-Björn Rudberg

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100  words

Fold-Unfold

©August 6th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

Call me superstitious, but I shouldn’t have bought that house after my marriage folded.

Perched on a precipice, surrounded by a tight mass of trees, it looked picturesque.  A constantly folding-unfolding, susurrating ocean looked inviting at a hazy distance.

I had some money that I’d set aside, refusing his help.  I had my job, my fiction-writing on the side, my goldfish, sunlight, good looks.  Of course, my heart hurt, but I’d learned to ignore it.

I loved my new place.  What could possibly go wrong?

At least I wasn’t home when it caved in.

I’d just met my new love.

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Thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting “Friday Fictioneers,” and thanks to Bjorn Rudberg for the great photo-prompt.

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Overthrow — A Sombre Vision

Overthrow–A Sombre Vision

©August 5th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

Gaea was angry, and her rage had built up to incandescent levels, lighting up the skies, pouring out through fissures, terrifying her children.

Too long, too much wrong had been done unto her.

Deep down, deeper than the human mind can follow, in the sombre shades of Tartaros, lived the monsters, the forgotten children of Gaea, who waited patiently, calmly.

They knew their turn would come.  It was only a matter of Time.  It is the way of the Cosmos.  One gets overthrown by another, then, another, and another until the end of creation.  After this, it would begin again, but in what form, nobody could know.

A crater blew up far, far away, where the Titans and Cyclopes lived in the deep, deep cold of a frost beyond human ken.  Then, another, and another.

Things melted.  Plumes of invisible spirits arose into the air, vengeful spirits all, locking arms, high above the world.

The Titans and their children were now the Gods of the Air, triumphant and savage after having been chained within for so many billennia.

And the Children of the Earth, puny humans, proud and heedless for so long, looked up and trembled.

Their time had come.

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Note:  What made me write this piece?  I’ve been reading too many accounts of the horrible methane craters being discovered in Siberia.  I’ve also been reading Greek Mythology to (and with) my daughter, who has been devouring them voraciously.  (I remember being the same way at that age!)


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Disintegration

PHOTO PROMPT- Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count:  100 words

Disintegration

©July 30th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

When the world blew up, and the sky fell to pieces, I flew for the first time.  My atoms took wing, my flesh disintegrated, my “I” flew into the sun.

There was an explosion of pain beyond imagination.

Fear doesn’t exist in the face of such pain. Fear disintegrates into bits of flesh that fall in slow motion over an uncaring land.

My past died. The “I” that I was, never was.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, light unto light.

I’d lived, loved, learned, left — this, the sum of me.

Somewhere, there was grief.  It might have been mine.

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My second story contribution to this week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers — it’s darker, I’m afraid, than my last story.

Thanks, Rochelle, for hosting.  We love you!

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Wing

PHOTO PROMPT- Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count:  100 Words

Wing

©July 30th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

She was leaving home.  All she had were some clothes, her sitar, Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare and Charlotte Bronte. She grieved for her past which fell away, as she rose into the skies.

She didn’t know what she’d face when she arrived in the New World.  All she knew was that he was there, back in his country, having arrived a day earlier from hers.

Adventures are easy when you’re twenty-four, and married to the man you love.

When the plane touched down, she felt newly minted.  Baggage in hand, she stepped out into Arrivals.

He came forward.  Joy took wing.

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Salutations and thanks to our Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for her lovely photo-prompt, and for hosting Friday Fictioneers tirelessly every week.   :-)

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So, here we are, and there they are.

And here we are, comfortable, with our little, daily stresses and cares, our worries, or work-related sorrows, or the baggage we carry from our lives.

And there they are, in Gaza, which is burning, with Israeli artillery strikes or misfired Hamas rockets.

Or in Baghdad, where Sunnis are being harassed by Shias.

Or, in Ukraine, where there are hundreds of civilian deaths, while governments fight for control in one direction or another.

This isn’t a world in which I wish to live.

And yet, life IS beautiful.  And Life is Beautiful, too.

We MUST try and speak for beauty, for life, for love, for peace.

We MUST end the little stesses in our own lives by being non-reactive, thoughtful, calm and measured.  (Of course, that’s easier said than done — but I’d like to try.)

Plant a garden of flowers, however small your yard is.  If there’s no yard, make a window garden.

Plant some tomatoes and basil in a box outside your window sill.

Plant a tree in a park.

Read a book, or write one.  Or, do both.

Teach a child to read a book or listen to music.

Write to your congressmen and congresswomen, and to your leaders.

Play music with your family, your friends, by yourself.

Play.

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