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

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Today in Song and Air

Today in Song and Air

© May 16th, 2015

Vijaya Sundaram

Cheerful, tender birdsong fills the languid air.
I feel cheerful, tender and languid.
I do not feel like working.
I want to be a bird.
I want to be air.

I cannot wait,
For one day, I shall
Be air and spirit and song
And fire and sun and blinding light
And not even remotely made of flesh and bone.




The Others

, PHOTO PROMPT -© Marie Gail Stratford

PROMPT -© Marie Gail Stratford

Body text word count:  100 words

Genre:  Futuristic Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy

The Others

©May 13, 2015

By Vijaya Sundaram 

Long ago, something happened.   Nobody mentions it.  Every full moon night, we young ones emerge from underground, tiptoeing around the fenced-in field, searching.

We are the People.  There were others before us …  Stranger People.  Tall, smooth-pelted, with five-toed feet, they had no bumps on their shoulders, like we do.   Then, we came to be.

Today’s different.

A shadow crosses the moon, getting larger.   A vessel descends, the hatch opens, and a Being emerges.

I kneel.

My shoulders blossom into wings.  My webbed feet become toes.  I turn and look at my People.

“Goodbye,” I whisper, and join the Others.


Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers every week, and to Marie Gail Stratford, for the photo prompt!

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Becoming a Balloon

Becoming a Balloon

©May 12th, 2015

By Vijaya Sundaram

Detaching from something is a curious sensation,
Sad and joyful, exhilarating, downcasting.
Liberation can be scary.  Who wants to be free?
Is this why so many of us choose our own brand of slavery?
Better to be attached to something, anything, than to float away, unmourned, forgotten.
Is that it?

I would like to be a balloon.
Yes, a balloon is what I want to be
I want to fill with something lighter than air,
A thin membrane separating me from
Complete dissipation.
And, bringing joy to a child’s life, or an adult’s,
I will let myself be held lightly by a hand or two.

And then, let the winds tug at me,
Snap me loose from the hands that hold me,
And float away, so quietly, so softly,
I won’t hurt any bird, I promise,
Nor trouble any airplane’s engines.
Just float away, that’s what I’d like to do,
Until I reach the moon, or become one.

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Courage OR Writing Your Novel



Writing Your Novel

© May 11, 2015

By Vijaya Sundaram

Let your person sprout her wings

Let her fall on small blue things.

Let him stand up really tall or

Make him shrivel up so small.

Let him quarrel, let her fight

Let them be wrong, and then be right.

Let them love and let them hate

Show them truth early or late.

Let them die, or let them live

Let them take, and let them give.

Lead them from each other,

Back to sister, brother, father, mother.

Make their friends their fiercest foes

So they can stumble, fall and know

What living is, what life can be.

And thus your novel is reality.



PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods

Genre:  Realistic Fiction; current matters

Word Count:  100 words


By Vijaya Sundaram

©May 6, 2015

Rupa was in shock. Rubble surrounded her.  She was thirsty, but the taps were dry. Her dust-covered cheeks had two tear tracks, streams lost in a desert.  People were frantic, looking for their own. A neighbor offered her chappatis.  Rupa shook her head, returning to what she’d once called home.  Then, she gasped. 

A hand was clawing through the rubble. She screamed, “Kamala!”  Racing over to the spot, she began digging with bare hands.

Others came with shovels. 

An hour later, Rupa held her bruised six-year old daughter close.

“Ma?” whispered Kamala.

“What, my lotus?”

“Could I have some water?”


Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers every week,  a much-needed kick in this writer’s (my) derriere!  Thanks to Madison Woods for the photograph prompt.

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A robin stands in bright, young grass

Under a bough of white blossoms —

Whose cherry tree stands, protective

And proud ,with outstretched arms.

I understand spring is here.

And that it’s beautiful.

And it’s life leaping up

Ready to fight.

And the robin hops, happy

Inquisitive, curious, its bright eyes

Darting all around.

It looks happy.

And I should be glad.

I shall be, I will.


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They Will Not Die (Elegy #2 for Freddie Gray)

They Will Not Die (Elegy #2 for Freddie Gray)
By Vijaya Sundaram
©May 2nd, 2015

Freddie Gray is dead,
Voice-box crushed,
Back broken in a
Nickel-ride homicide.

Was there hope for Freddie Gray,
Gray in a grey world?
Nebulous justice rules, a
Cloudy truth in the world of
The makers and breakers.

Hope is crushed, lowered
Into the ground,
Back in the box whence she came.

Yet, voices outside speak aloud
Angry and proud, people stand
And march, and … then throw rocks.

For, when words don’t work, what’s left?
When actions born of peace
Lead to laughing contempt,
Blank indifference, grudging handouts,
What’s left?

When blinded eyes, blinded mouths,
Blinded hearts, blinding fears
Rule the rulers, and crush
The ruled and the damned,
What else is left?

And a city burns,
Children cry out, eyes stretched wide
And injustice rides
Comfortably, now in blue,
Shielded by certainty
That they will not lose
This game, their game.

For they own the weapons
They own the power
They own it all,
But they will never
Own the truth.

And Justice will come
For they do not own her, either,
Just her simulacrum.

And they will receive just desserts
And face an eternity
Where unending despair
And hungry remorse will
Claw and gnaw at their vitals,
And they will not die.

And Freddie Gray
Will live, if we let him,
If we remember.



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