Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Ebb Tide – A Short Story ©By Vijaya Sundaram Nov. 4th, 2009
They looked at him in the darkness – he could see their dim shapes by the faraway streetlights. A truck rumbled by, and he could hear his heart beating.
“Well? Are you coming with us, or are you going to rat on us?” asked the one with the ski-mask.
Jack looked at them…and his mind went into a tailspin. He had worked hard to be a part of this group of boys, only because his friend, whom he had always looked up to, had joined it. Jack did not like what they stood for, nor what his friend appeared to have become, and yet …
Somewhere in the corner of his vision, he was aware that the moon shone, a slim sliver of a crescent, shedding more darkness than light onto the group.
He could feel their eyes boring into him. His mother would be working at the hospital all night – she was a nurse. His father was sleeping off a drunken stupor, but before that, Jack had been the target of his father’s inchoate rage. He could feel bruises swelling and turning purple under his shirt.
Nobody would miss him. He had been hoping for acceptance all his life. Here was his chance. Should he take it?
“Yes,” he mumbled, looking down at his sneakers.
“Let’s go, then!” said the leader of the group, and they moved with determination towards the abandoned building, spray cans in hand. Jack’s friend gave him a friendly shove. He didn’t respond.
And then, the wild rumpus began.
They sprayed the walls with graffiti, drew obscene images, and gang slogans that he didn’t even know about. Occasionally they sprayed each other’s jackets, and laughed in uproarious glee at their foolishness. Innocently criminal behavior, that’s all it was. Just a bunch of graffiti artists, he said to himself.
They didn’t notice the police car pull up behind them. They didn’t see the cop get out, didn’t see the other detective step out from the passenger seat.
It was only when the lights went on, that they turned in fright. Spinning blue and red lights, whirling like dancers in a dream, flashed rhythmically on the walls they had just sprayed.
Jack froze. So did the others. Then, chaos erupted. The boys ran in different directions. A shot rang out.
Jack felt his consciousness recede, waves ebbing away from the shore. Hold on, he thought, hold on. The waves pulled him farther out. Mom, he thought. I never told Mom that I was going out …
Then, the darkness closed in, and silence welcomed him into her arms forever.
And into that silence, the moon continued to shine dimly, shedding more darkness than light.
Ebb tide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, acceptance, bad choices, Juvenile delinquent, parental neglect, tragedy
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The End and the Beginning – A Narrative of a New Race ©By Vijaya Sundaram January 24, 2012
The planet swung around on its appointed course around the sun, dutifully, tiredly, imperceptibly tilting ever more to the right. Lands grew cold and hot and cold and hot again. Forests died, and mountains grew taller. Tsunamis rose up and islands sank. The desert blazed unmercifully. Birds fell out of the sky. Quietly, entire species died, as the decades drifted by like seaweed on dead oceans. The polar caps melted, and methane clouds rose into the air like ghosts promising a holocaust of fire, ready to ignite, ready to unleash their fierce tendrils of blazing death on the straggling populations of weary humans who eked out their lives in the few safe places on earth.
It was into such a world that the Stranger came drifting through the clouds in her vehicle from a faraway universe.
The Stranger stood, light as air on her feet, straddling continents, and gazing hopelessly around, while the vehicle blended into the very air, so as not to set off any methane into instability. Fire-power was not what propelled her vehicle. What propelled her vehicle was a substance which had no name, and would never be discovered by humans.
Sorrow filled her face as she looked at the tiny dwellings of the people huddled in the mountains, the history of the rise and fall of the human race in their eyes, as they gazed about them at the increasingly hostile world they had inherited from their rapacious forbears. Clad in their animal skins, in shelters of scrub and brush, they gazed around, their scarred visages showing apathy and absolute despair. Scattered around them were the bones of animals, and small straggling fields of corn. There was no evidence of fire.
I should never have seeded this planet, she thought to herself. I should have gone to another star system. This very planet is fighting my descendants. The planet hates them. The planet wants to shake them off like fleas. What shall I do?
And an idea came to her. To make it all happen, she needed a hundred years or two. Time passed, as time does. Eventually, what she wanted, willed, worked for, happened. The planet straightened itself to the exact tilt necessary for life to sustain itself. All the methane released from the melting of snows on polar caps was gathered up into her spacecraft, excess carbon dioxide powered it, and fresh, oxygen-rich air swirled hopefully around the planet. Rains fell, tides rose and ebbed in predictable patterns, and new, green forests sprang up where they hadn’t been for a while.
Humans in the tropics looked around them, and saw fresh green where there hadn’t been any for decades. Polar caps began to freeze again. Others on the far northern ends of continents looked up and felt snowflakes falling. Nobody knew what it was, but it felt good.
And the migrations began. But this time, things were different. This time, the earth purred. Humans weren’t fleas. Humans were benign extensions of earth’s self. They lived with nature, freely, joyously. Then, they discovered the use of fire. This time, something held them back. They looked up. The sun smiled down.
And though it all started all over again, humans had evolved. Their bodies held all the heat and light, air and water they needed. A new race began, straightened its shoulders and rose up into the air.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The Beginning~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Hope, Aliens, Beginnings, Climate Change, Endings, Evolution, Human Life, Planet Earth, Strangeres
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Horse With No Shame – A Transformation Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 24, 2012
I’m going to turn my teacher into a horse! thought Jim, as he watched her writing more words on the board, for them to copy and practise for their spelling test.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wished hard, then opened his eyes again. Nothing happened. His teacher wrote on, oblivious. The other students stirred restlessly, glancing at each other, hands fiddling with objects on their tables – a ruler, a pencil, a paper airplane that someone had surreptitiously made. Their feet tapped, their eyes dreamed on, minds elsewhere.
The hum of the electricity coursing through the lights in the room made his ears hurt. He gazed out the window, and saw a man throw a stick to his dog in the distance. A train rumbled by, and he watched that.
His teacher turned around, and caught him dreaming.
“Jim!” she snapped. “Focus on your work. Stop wasting time! There are all these big words to learn. Copy them down. Are you listening?”
He looked back at her, with his face wiped of any expression. Turn into a horse, he begged in his mind. Come on! Turn into a horse. You can do it.
“Well?” said his teacher, looking at him.
Then, the class gasped. There, before them, a transformation was taking place.
Jim felt all eyes on him, and stiffened in terror. He felt taller. Strange sensations coursed through him. He looked down, and instead of shoes, he saw hooves. Four legs had sprouted out. He felt an irrepressible urge to eat hay, or an apple. He flicked his ears back, swished something, and whinnied.
The teacher fainted. The students cheered.
Then, he trotted to the door, looked back once, and cantered out. A smile hovered mysteriously in the air where he had left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TheEnd~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, children, horse, Mysterious Transformations, school
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Dreams from Snow – A Short Story
© By Vijaya Sundaram
Dec. 19th, 2008
The snow drifted down like a dream about to dissolve.
Kevin wandered out of his apartment in the tenement building, in search of his friend. He knocked on the door, and heard shouts inside, shouts and a smack, as of a hand connecting with a face.
He knocked again, louder. The door opened a crack, and a scared face peeped out. It was his friend, Drew. “They’re fighting again, Kev,” he said, his eyes big and scared, “I’m scared.”
“Come out with me. It’s snowing. Come on!” whispered the little boy.
“Okay. Wait. I’ll be out – I’m not telling them,” said Drew, and withdrew, shutting the door. The voices within continued shouting.
In a few minutes, when the door opened quietly again, Drew was dressed in his outer layers, his snow jacket and boots, hand-me-downs, clearly, but still warm enough. There were tears in his eyes. There was a red mark on his cheek, as if a hand had landed there. He had a bruise on his forehead. There were still shouts and noises inside, and the sound of flung objects.
“You okay? What’s goin’ on?” asked Kev.
“The same. I don’t want to be at home,” said Drew.
Kev put his arms around Drew. “I’m your friend,” he said, and together they walked into the snow.
They played in the snow, making snowmen in the front of their apartment building, while a few older kids wandered about throwing snowballs at each other, shrieking with laughter.
The snow drifted down all afternoon, and the dream deepened, didn’t dissolve. They built snow-forts, and made believe that they were polar-bear warriors in the land of snow and ice.
Evening fell. They were cold and hungry now.
Drew’s eyes grew round and scared again. “I don’t want to go back,” he said, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t go. I’ll ask my mom if you can stay with us,” said Kev.
They went to Kev’s house, where his mother took in everything at a glance, and didn’t ask too many questions. She’d seen enough in her life to know what she saw, and while she was gentle, she was also tough. She made them hot cocoa, and fixed them a large cheese-grilled sandwich each. They sat companionably together on pillows on the floor, eating their sandwiches, drinking their hot cocoa, watching Sesame Street on the little television in the living room. Kev’s mother sat, her ample frame taking up a lot of the couch, book in hand, occasionally looking over at the boys, her large brown eyes filled with worry and tenderness.
Suddenly, there was a loud knock at their door, and a voice, shouted, “Open up!”
Kev’s mother opened the door a crack, and looked out.
“Drew’s in there, isn’t he? Send him out, or I’m calling the police,” came the angry voice of Drew’s mother.
“I’m not coming with you! I don’t want to go home,” cried Drew, holding on to his friend’s hand. “I want to stay here forever! I hate you and I hate my father!”
Drew’s mother pushed the door open, walked right in and grabbed hold of her trembling son. “You’d better come home right now, or else,” she yelled. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was a tangled mess. Her dress was stained as if food might have been flung at her.
Kev’s mother said in a steady voice, “Calm yourself, Miz Wright! Take a breath. Do you see your son’s bruises? I should report you! Take a breath. Why bother to come for him? Do you really want him home?”
Mercy Wright took a deep, shuddering breath, and suddenly looked defeated. “I have no one. He’s mine.”
“Then take care of him!” said Kev’s mother. She folded her arms across her chest. Her voice was stern, but her eyes were kind.
Mercy Wright looked at Drew, let go of his hand, and said simply, “Do you want to come home now? I’m sorry. I won’t let your Dad hit you. I won’t let him come near us. We can go away, if you like. I promise.”
Drew said, timidly, “Will we really go away? Why do you want me, momma?”
She burst into tears. “You’re my son.”
Drew understood. He went up to her, and put his little arms around her tired, worn-out frame. “I love you, Momma,” he said. He took her hand, suddenly grown-up, all of six years of age.
He turned to Kev and Kev’s mother, who said, “Will you be okay? We’re always here, if you need us.
Drew nodded and said, “Yes, thank you for everything, Mrs. Armstrong. Thanks, Kev.”
Kev gave Drew a hug. Patti Armstrong pulled him into a warm embrace, her eyes bright.
Drew left, with his hand still in his mother’s hand. Outside, the snow drifted down still, like a dream about to dissolve.
Kevin looked out the window and watched his friend and Mrs. Armstrong make their way through the snowy path. He hoped his friend would stay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Hope, #Original Short Story, Friendship, parental neglect and abuse, reconciliation, Snow
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Alice and the Strange Situation
By Vijaya Sundaram January 24, 2012
The food seared Alice’s tongue, and she gasped, trying to politely hold it in, but not quite succeeding. She grabbed a napkin and spat it out, turning away.
“Such bad manners,” huffed the fussy old lady at the head of the table. Her least favored granddaughter, the one who was the product of a marriage between the rich old lady’s daughter and her erstwhile chauffeur (now working for someone else), glared around at everyone.
“Sorry! I had no idea that you would serve boiling hot food for your grandchildren!” she said forthrightly and rather rudely. Her grandmother glared back at her.
Into the stunned silence which fell in the dining room, the other grandchildren tried not to giggle or smirk. They, after all, had an advantage. Their mothers, who were Alice’s mother’s two sisters, had made good marriages, following the old lady’s wishes every step of the way, and were now living in grand mansions. They got American Girl Dolls for their birthdays, and plenty of pretty dresses, toys and frilly things whenever the holidays came. Their baskets were always full of candy and stuffed bunnies during Easter visits, and their birthdays always took place on Grandmama’s large, sloping lawns, with catered food and marvelous games, pony rides and clowns.
Alice’s mother got up and, ignoring her mother pointedly, poured her daughter a glass of lemonade.
“Drink this, and we’ll go home right away, darling,” she said, glancing coldly around the room. Her husband had quietly declined the invitation to the old lady’s 70th birthday dinner.
Alice drank, got up, looked around the room, dropped a stiff curtsey to her grandmother, in her frilly dress (her cousins’ cast-off clothes), and said, “Good bye! Thanks for having us. Happy Birthday!”
They left.
Everyone looked at their plates. The chicken on the plates had started to move. Before their disbelieving eyes, the chicken bits assembled together, sprouted feathers, beaks, feet, and other appurtenances, and started to cluck plaintively.
There was a massive commotion and screams of consternation.
Meanwhile, Alice and her mother drove away in the car they had summoned – Alice’s father was driving it. The car rose smoothly into the air, and into the clouds, turned into a UFO and disappeared in the depths of the darkening evening.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: alien allusions, snobbery, Surreal story, Transformations
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Not Crying (A very short story)
© ByVijaya Sundaram
Dec. 11th, 2009
“Why didn’t you do your homework on time?” screamed the teacher at the girl, who stood before her, fighting back her tears, and staring woodenly at the teacher.
“Well? Why don’t you answer me? Why are you standing around, not telling me anything?” yelled the teacher.
The girl refused to speak, for fear that she might cry. She stared at the ground, swallowing her tears.
The teacher, livid with rage, said, “That’s it. Insubordination! You will spend an hour in detention with me!”
The girl went back to her place. The other students tried to look at their books, trying not to embarrass her with their sympathy.
The teacher went home that day. She kicked the dog, yelled at the cat, burned the roast beef for dinner, and made her husband sleep on the couch.
The girl went home, cleaned up the house, made dinner for her family, helped her little brother with his homework, fixed his food, tucked him into bed, and kissed him goodnight. Then, she tidied up the kitchen, and took a shower.
When her mother came home, after a long night’s work at the local bar, smelling of alcohol and cheap cigars, the girl reheated dinner for her mother, set the table, and sat quietly while her mother spoke, using foul language about every person who’d come to the bar.
She looked at her daughter. “What are you staring at me for? And why do you look so dull? You could smile! Why should I work so hard, just to come home and have you stare at me? Hanh?”
She took her first forkful of food. She spat it out in rage. “What do you call this mess? Looks like something the cat dragged in.” She threw the food on the floor, and hit the girl, who stood there, not crying.
Later, after her mother had dragged herself off to bed, the girl cleaned up the mess, wiped the floor, picked up the shards of china from the broken plate, and wiped the window, where some food had spattered.
Looking back at her in the glass of the window, she saw herself, a young girl, face wooden, not crying.
She went back, got out her book bag, and started her homework. Her assignment was, “Write about yourself.”
She picked up the pencil, and froze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: dysfunctional family, Short story, teachers and students, verbal abuse
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Pig Who Became a Hero — An Allegory
(with apologies to Eric Blair, otherwise known as George Orwell)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Jan. 24th, 2012
It was dusk. Purple twilight had gathered up the last of the sunlight and blown it gently away to the west, where it sank sighing into the hills. The farm was done for the day, and the farmer, an independent woman who had longed to own her own farm for years and had finally managed it in her middle age, had gone off to her rest.
A large pig snuffled through the trough, rooting for the tastiest bits. Apple cores, oat mush, old vegetables, pig meal specially prepared, all mashed and mixed together made for the best, most piggilicious dinner. The pig’s name was Herman, and he was an old, happy, well-cared-for pig. His owner was a vegetarian farmer, and had only wanted a pig because she liked his funny little eyes, and pugnacious manner.
Then, along came Herman’s friend, the barnyard horse, whose name was Milt. Milt leaned over the trough, and whinnied something. The pig shrugged. His mind was elsewhere — on the food, to be precise.
Milt the horse tried again. Herman the pig raised his snout, glared at Milt, grunted and said around the food in his mouth, “Shut up. Can’t you see I’m eating? This is my hour of deep meditation. Go bother someone else.”
Milt was upset, and put out his hoof, and kicked Herman, who barely budged, because he weighed seven hundred pounds, and was pretty much immovable.
Milt said, “If you do not listen, there is going to be trouble. Look up, and you’ll see why.”
Herman looked up irritatedly, and then felt a sudden jolt of fear like a bolt of lightning in his heart. Leaning over the fence were some rather rapacious-looking men, with slouchy shoulders, hats pulled over their heads, and ragged clothes. Pig thieves! was the phrase that went through Herman’s porcine mind.
“This one looks like he’ll make several good meals through the fall,” rasped one desperado, looking interestedly at Herman.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s grab him and shove him into the back of our van,” said the other, ropes and other mysterious objects ready at hand. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we grab this horse as well? Might as well!”
Herman uttered a high-pitched squeal, Milt neighed loudly, and the barnyard burst into noise, which woke up the dogs, and mayhem ensued.
The men burst into the yard, and tried to wrestle the pig into captivity, but Herman was quicker than they were. He ran at them, and tossed one over his shoulder. Milt kicked the other one, who fell down, clutching his leg. The dogs came bursting out of their kennels, and sank their teeth viciously into their legs. They yelled in fright and pain. The farmer came skidding out, in fluffy bunny slippers and dressing gown, her hair in a bun. She had a shotgun in her hand, and she showed no hesitation in pointing it at them, while calling the dogs away. The men writhed on the ground, groaning loudly.
Then, Herman spoke, and silence fell, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all creatures on the farm are created equal, that they are endowed by their Farmer with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of pig-stealers. So, let’s chase these thugs away!”
The other animals roared their approval, and the farmer stood, stunned, because Herman the pig had spoken in English. She leaned back against the barn, with her hand on her heart, and a smile on her face, the gun slipping soundlessly into the squishy mud.
And so, Herman and all the animals chased the two men away, and lived happily ever after with their beloved farmer, unharmed by other humans till the end of their lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, allegory, George Orwell, Talking animals