Mar 13, 2019 Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story
Just wrote this. This story came to me entirely. There’s been no editing.
Painted Ladies
©March 13th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
The butterflies arose in a cloud of gold and black from fields of cheeseweed and hollyhock, and startled the air into flickering light.
The rain, which had fallen the night before, dripped off leaves and grass in pearlescent drops, and chilled the skin of the lone child, who stood there.
She had run away from a place where she’d been kept with other children, and she had been hurt in secret places. All she knew was that she had to run. And so, when the back of the scary guards were turned, she had inched away from the cages, crawling whenever she could, putting a finger to her lips, so that the other children inside the cages made no sound, but watched her curiously.
And she somehow got out into the twilight away from the hellhole. She had run and run, stifling her sobs, swift as a hunted hare, not sure where she was going. Then, she slowed down and stopped, for she was out of breath.
She didn’t know where to go. She saw a parked pickup truck on the side of the highway, and quickly hauled herself up, clinging to the sacks of potatoes that were in it. The driver, who had been off peeing behind a bush, returned, and pulled out of the emergency lane. He drove through the night, occasionally stopping at a rest stop. Once, he stopped to poo on the roadside, and she quickly hopped down from the back, and climbed into the passenger’s seat, desperately hunting around for something. She found some packets of chips, an old apple, and some peanuts, and a bottle of water. Stuffing these insdie her shirt, she hopped out again, shut the door quietly, and climbed back into the back of the truck. She lay back among the sacks, looking up at the stars, eating chips, drinking a little water, keeping the peanuts and apple for later. She had no plan but one: Not to be detected.
Then, the tires began to grind, and truck stopped abruptly. They were on a highway, and it was deep night. The man cursed, and jumped out. He ran into the bushes, and stayed there a while, grunting. He must have eaten something that disagreed with him.
She heard him finishing up, and walking towards the truck. She heard his footsteps come around the side. And she cowered down behind some of the sacks, making herself still.
He was checking something. What it was, she couldn’t tell, but she stayed motionless. He returned to the front of the truck.
That was when she knew she couldn’t be there any more. He would most certainly see her if she stayed.
So, quietly, very quietly, grabbing an empty sack, she slid off the back of the truck, and raced, bare-footed and frantic, into the bushes. Once she was clear of the truck, she looked. He was looking at a flat tire, back turned to her, and he was holding some sort of implement, clearly intending to fix it.
Her heart beat loudly in her little chest. She couldn’t feel the cold, not with the terror within her which made her burn.
She waited and waited. Finally, he was done fixing his flat. And he pulled away, with a horrible screech of tires.
Now, she relaxed, and sobbed dry, heaving sobs. She called aloud for her mother, and for her elder sister. Her father had died in the desert when they’d come over, and they’d had to leave his body to the coyotes. She’d been separated from her mother and sister, and taken by the scary men in uniforms. Her mother had cried out, as had she and her sister, but they they were beaten into silence by the scary men whose cold, pale blue eyes, pig-skin, and horrible leering faces had frightened her. And she never saw her mother and sister again.
Suddenly, she noticed that her feet were hands were bleeding – she must have cut herself getting off the truck. She barely felt it. It wasn’t life and death, anyway. She began to walk on the side of the road, the city-lights on the horizon making the night seem less terrifying. There was no one on the road, but she didn’t want to take any more chances. She went back into the tangled bushes on the side of the road, and soon found herself under a tree. She laid her stolen sack on the ground, intending to lie on it, but suddenly, with no warning, there was a flash of lightning, then thunder, then a huge downpour. Quickly, she covered herself with the sack, instead, and huddled under the tree, shaking with fear and cold.
She wept while the rain fell. And then, before she knew it, it stopped. She looked fearfully around, but saw nothing and no one. Exhaustion overcame her. Her eyes closed in spite of themselves. In no time, she was asleep.
When she woke up, the sun was up, and the sky was beautiful, bright blue, and shot through with gold. She almost felt joy, then.
Realizing that she didn’t know what she was going to do next, she sat back down, while the sun warmed her bones and skin, and her thin shirt began to dry, too. The skirt she was wearing was wet, though, so she took it off, and hung it on a bush, along with the sack.
So, here she was, alone, at age nine, with two packets of chips, an apple, and a packet of peanuts, and a bottle of water. She could make it last for a couple of days, she thought. What would she do after that?
But here she was, inexplicably in a field filled with flowers, and the butterflies arose in a cloud of gold and black all around her. She had always loved butterflies. Seeing something like this, she might have been delighted a year ago, back in her country, with her parents and sister close by, but now, she stood there blankly, gazing around her.
She sat on a smooth rock near her tree. Maybe I can make a shelter here, under this tree, she thought. There are flowers here, maybe a little pool of water, a tree, no one close by. I could catch a rabbit, and eat birds’ eggs. Maybe, I could live here. And suddenly, she began to laugh hysterically.
One of the butterflies settled on her hand. She calmed down, and thought.
I will go down this road, keeping to these fields and meadows. I will find someone. I will ask for help. I will keep away from men. I will find the women. Maybe, they will know my language. Yes, I will do this. I will grow up, I will remember, I will live.
The day was still new. Her skirt was still drying. The butterflies ruffled the air. She ate her apple, and some peanuts. She poured a little water down her throat, and a little bit over her cut feet and hands. She washed her face, and turned it skywards.
The butterflies appeared to rise up forever.
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Mar 7, 2019 Original Flash Fiction
Siren (In a Shell-Wall)
©March 7th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Once, there was a girl who lived in a shell made of silence.
Once, there was a girl who lived in a shell made of silence, but her head was full of sound, and her heart beat a loud drum in her ear.
Her hair was like seaweed, and her eyes like the ocean deeps that held secrets that even she didn’t know she knew, and her lips were like the petals of an undiscovered sea-flower. She didn’t know this, because she didn’t know what she was.
She only knew this: That, from the day she discovered herself in her shell, she was on her way to death.
And this thought comforted her, though she was alone, and though she was lonely. Her shell was of her making, and it was delicate, yet strong, and it sheltered her, and kept her whole.
Outside the shell, titanic events unfolded. Whole continents toppled into the seas, and the skies burned blue, then red, then yellow, then black.
She placed her fingers against the walls of the shell, and heard the faraway whoosh of waves against the outside, while her shell rolled around, on and on, in the unfathomable ocean.
An occasionally tendril would poke at her from the outside – perhaps a curious octopus, or tentacled monster, but she crouched deeper into the shell, and would not venture forth.
Sometimes, her shell would scrape against the bottom, and tumble into trenches, and float slowly into purpled blackness.
She sang long songs to chase away the dark, and keep her fright at bay.
Sometimes, a radiant light would move slowly past her shell, and where it was thinnest, she’d press her face close, and gaze in wonder as the light moved past. She almost left the shell, then. But the light went away, and the dark pressed up close to the outer walls of her shell.
She sang song after song, and the songs were long and loud, but the silence was loudest and longest of all.
For, how long can you sing?
Her heartbeat thudded away, though, and she tapped on her shell just to do something else.
She tapped and tapped, and aeons passed.
One day, she slid out of the shell, a wisp of self, and drifted down into the midnight deeps, but the shell continued to roll and roll.
The continents rose, and the green of the land resurfaced, and the beaches stretched out before a glorious sky, when, one day, the shell was thrown up out of the sea, and landed, deep-pink and perfect, onto a rock.
A youth who had been collecting stones and seaglass walked up, saw the shell, and laughed in delight. He had never seen a shell like this. He picked it up.
He held it to his ear, and became still.
Then, silent and transformed, he walked into the waves.
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Feb 6, 2019 Original Flash Fiction
Jackknife
©February 6th, 2019
A Short, Short Story by Vijaya Sundaram
The rain came down like silk knives.
The rain came down like silk knives, and sliced the air into thin strips that dripped in the darkness. The car that drove through it contained one occupant, who gazed at the rain, as she drove on.
The rain came down like silk knives, and the car that drove through it, whose occupant gazed ahead, cut through the knives of silk like a blunt scimitar, parting the silk roughly and carelessly.
The occupant of the car which drove through the rain which came down like silk knives had a Swiss Army Knife in her hand, and was trimming her nails, humming a tune, keeping her eyes on the road, and looking down periodically between intervals of silk-knife-strips on her windshield whose wipers went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and whose rhythm accompanied her humming. She felt aloof and disinterested. She had no sense of where she was going, and didn’t really care. It had been a hard year, and she shielded herself from pain with distraction after distraction.
The lights turned red, then green, then red again. The occupant in the car stayed put at the intersection, and hummed on, intent on cutting her nails, and filing them carefully.
No one was behind her. It was nine-thirty at night, and the road was blank, like a washed sheet. She had all the time in the world. Then, the lights turned green again, and she unpressed the brake pedal, still looking up, then down, humming. She began to cut her last nail, and drove ahead.
The truck-driver at the intersection on her right didn’t look up from his GPS at the exact moment that she didn’t look up from her last nail.
The rain didn’t stop.
Jackknife.
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Jan 17, 2018 Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story
The Shadow Who Wouldn’t Be King
(Edited with some additions and subtractions, and corrections – because I wasn’t satisfied)
(Edited with some additions and subtractions, and corrections – because I wasn’t satisfied)
(A Story Response to Laura Packer’s Prompt on Facebook)
©January 17th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
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(Laura‘s prompt: #storyseeds: The king considers her advisor. “But sir—” says the Minister of Pebbles. The king waves him to silence and watches the shadows skitter across the floor.)
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My response:
The shadows have come, unbidden, into her kingdom, and followed the sounds of people’s heartbeats until they’ve found the main one, and are drawn to the royal heart, whose artery reached all its subjects, and pulsed evenly and calmly through the flurry of daily activity.
The Minister of Pebbles is incensed. *His* heart beats more rapidly these days than usual, and visions of love from before have given way to visions of power which have held him in their thrall more than once in his sleeping and waking hours. He has seen the king, a stately man to whom he had sworn allegiance, go from being a man to a woman, and the transformation is shameful to him, for somewhere there is a large knot of love crushed by shame. He still insists on calling her, “Sir,” and the King doesn’t object. Nor does she object to being called the King.
At the moment, she is spellbound by the shadows.
“Look at this one,” she says, laughing, and points.
The Shadow skitter-dancing across the floor stops and looks at her, then turns, and looks at the Minister of Pebbles.
A cold hand steals across his heart, when he sees the face of the Shadow.
“Stop it from looking at me!” he exclaims.
The King, a sudden knowledge growing inside her, says, “Stop looking at him, Shadow.”
The Shadow looks away, and resumes skitter-dancing across the floor, but it seems to be larger, a little less harmless, a little more imposing.
The Minister of Pebbles says, “Sir, I have misgivings about these Shadows. We know not whence they’ve come, and we know not their purpose. If you have the power to bid them begone, please exercise it. The Pebbles await me. If you will excuse me.” And he backs away from the royal presence.
The King watches him thoughtfully, as he strides off after the correct amount of backing away from her royal presence.
The King calls the main Shadow to her, and it approaches.
“Follow the Minister,” she whispers.
The Shadow nods, and calls the others. They skitter away in the direction of the Minister’s departure.
The Minister has gone to the seashore, and is collecting pebbles, as well as ordering others to collect pebbles, because that is his job which the new she-King has bestowed upon him like a dubious honor.
If he collects enough pebbles, he is to be promoted to Minister of Stones, and after that to Minister of Boulders.
The King had had to create this job to keep him busy. Their land lies lower the the rising seas, and she has told him that he has to ensure the safety of their people by building levees all along the seashore. He’s assembled a task force of thousands. He enjoys lording it over them.
The King has known what he’s been planning ever since she ascended the throne, and, using all of her cleverness, she has distracted him from his fell purpose, which is to ascend the throne.
Now, as he collects pebbles, and shouts to his minions to keep up the hard work, he thinks to himself, “All I have to do is to make these men loyal to me. Then, I shall take over the throne.”
The Shadow comes up to him just as he thinks this.
“Drop that thought,” says the Shadow in his mind.
“Who speaks? Get away from me!” shouts the Minister, spinning away wildly from it, his face contorted in dread.
The men around him pause in their work, and stare, horror-struck.
“I cannot. You know I cannot,” whispers the Shadow, “You brought me and the others into existence.”
“I didn’t intend for you to come alive! I just thought of you – how did you emerge into the daylight? Can’t a man have his thoughts?” said the Minister.
“Yes, you did, but in the process, and we do not know how, you created us, and brought us before the King. We have seen the King’s heart, and it is pure. We have seen yours, and it is not. Yes, we are from you, but you have to be wiped out, for you do not toil for your people – you do everything with another motive. We are ashamed to be of your essence. We need to die, and you need to die with us.”
The Minister, drowning in terror, lashes out at the Shadows. He flails at them, yelling incomprehensible words. His workers look at him, thunder-struck. All they can see is a man shouting at Shadows, but they cannot hear anything except the shouts of the Minister of Pebbles.
The shadows shoot out ropes of light, and hold him tight, and march him down the street into the presence of the King.
Seeing them approach, the King says, “Ah, yes! It is as I thought, is it not?”
“Yes,” says the wretched man, hanging his head.
“You intended to assassinate me, and ascend the throne?” she asks coldly, quietly.
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asks. There is no anger in her expression. For she is, above all, curious about men and their motives.
“Because, because …” he splutters, and the King’s Courtiers sit still, waiting.
“Because you changed!”
“Because I went from being a man to a woman?” she asks.
Her heart is heavy. He lowers his head, shakes it, mute.
The King approaches the man. The Shadows, which have been holding him, release him.
“Do you see you couldn’t have done what you desired?” she asks, tenderly.
The Minister is still mute.
The King turns to the Shadows. The resume their skittering, their dancing. She raises her hands, and they stop. The main Shadow goes up to her, and bows. The others follow. Her face is impassive, carved from stone.
The Minister falls to the ground, weeping. Then, rising, he bows. The shadows turn, walk up to him, and lead him away to the shores of the sea. The people of the kingdom do not see him again. They assume he has died. No one grieves him. The King does not mention him again, but her heart is sore.
The years roll by, and she rules over her people with a calm assurance, and they accept her whole-heartedly. No one gives the Minister of Pebbles another thought, because of his treachery.
Sometimes, though, if the night-clouds are just right, and the shadows lengthen when the full moon’s light strikes the land, and if you happen to stand silently between two silver shafts of moonlight, you will see him there, still, collecting pebbles. He pauses in his labours, and falls to the ground in a paroxysm of sorrow and regret. A single Shadow lifts him up, and commands him to keep working.
And behind a large boulder, you will see the King standing still, tears glittering in her eyes.
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Jan 16, 2018 Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story
Fifteen-minute short story by Yours Truly
(With thanks to my story-teller friend Laura Packer for the prompt):
The Spirit Who Grew A Heart For A Boy
©January 16th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
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Laura’s prompt:
#storyseeds There was once a boy whose heart was made of glass. In his pocket he found twine, a pebble with no sides, and seven seeds. He knew the time had come.)
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My response:
His glass heart was hard, but fragile, and somehow it keep him alive, because what animated him was Spirit. So, one day, when an accidental harsh remark flew straight at his chest, and cracked his heart, his Spirit flew out, collected the twine, the Pebble With No Sides and seven seeds, and went looking for a way to make him a new heart, while he lay there outside his hut, his glass heart bleeding sand into the dust, his eyes filming over.
His Spirit roamed the world, and found itself on the shores of an Ancient Sea, which was lined with strangely shaped pebbles. The Ancient Sea was troubled and restless, and it threatened to swallow the shore. The Boy’s Spirit laid the Pebble With No Sides down amongst the rest, said a word, and went away. The Sea grew calm and still.
Time flowed quietly, while the Spirit of the boy with the glass heart wandered the world, a sense of urgency growing inside its smoky self. On a cliff overlooking a vast emptiness, it saw a dog clinging to a plant right off the edge. The Spirit made a lasso with the twine, flung it over the dog’s body, secured it, and pulled the dog to safety. The dog gazed at It, wagged its tail, and ran away.
The Spirit smiled, and moved on.
Time flew by.
The Spirit came to a forest where all the trees had been burned by a man-made fire.
Dread clutched at It.
It looked at the seven seeds it carried, and knelt down. Clearing the burnt brush and trees, the Spirit planted the seven seeds in the shape of the Big Dipper.
The forest exhaled a sigh of thanks. Small saplings began to spring up. Overhead, the stars of the Big Dipper glowed brighter. A bear awoke from her hibernation, and emerged into the new forest.
The Spirit returned to the Boy, who was nearly dead. He saw his Spirit, and his eyes widened. He held out his hands. The Spirit slipped back into him, and slowly, where once had been a glass heart, there was now a living, breathing, beating heart.
The Boy’s healing had begun.
Dec 2, 2016 Original Flash Fiction
Post-Diluvian
©December 2nd, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
She was paralyzed. Every movement was a struggle. Why was this? She did not know, nor cared to find out. She was hypnotized, bound, helpless, tossed this way and that.
Then the endless rain stopped.
The boat heaved itself onto dry land. A white bird arrowed into view.
A leaf fluttered into her open hands.
She inhaled its sweet scent, while rain trickled down her cheeks.
And she found herself stepping forward, breathing in a newly born world.
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Tags: #flexingsomewritingmuscles, #fragment, #notastory, #randomvignette
Sep 14, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Grindstones and Gold
©September 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
The dowry covered the basics: A grindstone for godumai mavu, another for makkacholam, and a stone idli mavu-grinder, plus the usual assortment of stainless steel kitchen necessities. Kavita also brought a gold necklace, pearl-and-coral earrings gold bangles, and silver anklets.
The groom’s family pronounced themselves satisfied.
What did it matter that the groom was dull-witted?
What did it matter that Kavita was pregnant with her low-caste lover’s child?
Did it matter that on her wedding night, she wept?
And did it matter that the next morning she was dead?
At least, they had the grindstones and the gold.
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Thanks to our dear Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, a wild and creative assortment of story-tellers from around the world! Thanks to Shaktiki Sharma for the photograph!
Tags: #dowrydeathstory, #FridayFictioneers, #Original 100-word Flash Fiction based on a photo-prompt, #RealisticFiction
Sep 8, 2016 Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story, Uncategorized
Dark-Side Priest
©September 8th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
It was the night of the lunar eclipse, and the earth had come to a stillness that boded no good. All living things had gone into their dens, or lairs, and nothing was abroad. The ocean struggled in vain with the wind, and all humans were within their little caves, sensing Change, but not knowing what it was.
As the eclipse began, a collective cry arose from the cave-dwellers, a cry of alarm and despair. What would they do without the moon?
Then, one man stood up, tall and heavy-browed, his club over his shoulder, and his animal skins hanging down his emaciated shoulder. He strode to the mouth of the large cave, where several of his family and tribe members sat huddled. As they watched him, a muttering arose.
He saw the shadow get larger, and guessed that it would cover the whole moon. Still, he reasoned, if it were a moving shadow, then it would move on, away from the moon. Of course, he had no real words for this, but his logic led him there.
And with that, came an idea.
He needed an animal.
He found one with his unerring spear. He dragged its thrashing body back to the cave. The muttering of his tribe became louder, but also appreciative.
He motioned them to stand back.
He needed a fire.
They had a small one going inside the cave. He strode in with an broken branch, strode out with a glowing stick, and fanned it into flame.
The others watched, pushing and shoving, wondering what he was going to do.
He stood over the fire, placed the carcass of the dead animal, turned it this way and that, and muttered unheard syllables, gazing up at the now-blacked out full moon in the sky.
Then, he paced around the fire, waving his arms one way, then repeating the motion the other way. His face took on an eerie glow, and his voice was harsh.
A delicious smell arose. The animal was cooking well. It smelled tantalizing. His family and others of his tribe felt their mouths watering. Some tried to approach him, but he waved them back with warning shrieks.
After taking some blackened bits of wood and making marks on his face, he began dancing around the fire.
His tribe watched, mouths agape. They were now both befuddled and afraid.
The man looked up, and saw that the shadow on the moon’s surface had been shifting steadily, and that some of the her silver glow was returning. His tribe members noticed this, as well, and their fear and bewilderment turned to awe.
The man stamped out the fire, and picked up the charred animal, and waved it at his people. They roared in approbation.
Then, he put it down, knelt, as if offering it to the moon. A gasp of admiration swept through his people. After this, he tore apart some of the deer’s flesh, and ceremoniously ate his first cooked venison.
Thus, the first Priest of the Tribe was born.
And he always got the best meat.
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Tags: #DailyPrompt, #Eclipse, #OriginalShortStory, #Postaday, #PrehistoricTale, #TheDailyPost
Sep 7, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story
Photograph©Sandra Crook
Word Press: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Fantasy / Fairy-Tale
Treadle and Thread
©September 7th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Lyra sat weaving at her loom. Behind her was a strange device.
Cursed to dwell there eternally, Lyra dreamt of freedom. Food was brought to her, and mead. Through the shuttered window of the stone castle, she glimpsed a silver river weaving through the woods.
How I wish I could be there! she yearned.
The sun played about her fingers, impelling her towards the machine behind her.
Placing her just-woven silver cloak on the strange device, Lyra worked the treadle, enspelled and ensnared.
A heartbeat later, something unravelled out the window, a cry spinning wood-ward.
Silver threads joined the river.
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Thanks to Fairy Blog-Mother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, as always, for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to the inimitable Sandra Crook for the photograph!
Tags: #Fantasy-FairyTale, #FridayFictioneers, #Loom, #Original 100-word Flash Fiction based on a photo-prompt, #Treadle
Aug 31, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Science-Fiction / Apocalyptic Fiction
Sub-Woofer
©August 31st, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Leena had had no inkling of doom that day. She’d gone to bed at 1:00 p.m., after reading for an hour, but was awoken by a noise that she’d never heard before.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, she pushed aside the curtains.
The sky was suffused with a blood-red luminosity. A sound coming from beyond the building across hers chilled her bone-marrow – a prolonged scream at sub-woof frequency, unlike anything she’d heard.
Then, one by one, buildings winked out of existence.
And she spun alone, in space, at the centre of a blood-red nothingness.
A sub-woof frequency scream emanated from her throat.
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Thanks to Rochelle, as always, for being our gracious Fairy Blog-Mother at Friday Fictioneers, and for choosing my photograph (gasp!) as a prompt. Very honored!
Tags: #ApocalypticFiction, #FridayFictioneers, #ScienceFictionShortStory, #Semi-Horror