Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

The Wait, or, The Tame Elopement

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

The Wait, or The Tame Elopement
©May 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

We waited with drumming hearts.  We were breaking a rule.

“Next!” came a voice from the office.  We entered with our friends, Ajit and Randy.

“Sign here,” said the magistrate.  We signed.  I didn’t remember much else in that bureaucratic blur.

“Have sweets,” he ordered us.  The dingy room burst into applause as we exchanged pedhas.

Later, after a wonderful thali lunch, followed by a happy party at W’s house, I went home.

That was precisely one day short of twenty-eight years ago.

Six months later, we were “officially” married in a Hindu ceremony.

And we began our married life.

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With thanks, as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother of the whole Flash Fiction universe (listen, all you other flash fiction writers out there!), and to J. Hardy Carroll for that photograph that makes us all think of waiting spaces.

This is a true story.  Obviously, I’ve left out a LOT of details.  It was a whole lot more confusing and crazy and exhilarating than I could say in a hundred words.

And our 28th Wedding Anniversary is tomorrow!  What a wonderful ride it’s been!

Escape

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAYRPHOTO PROMPT © CEAYR

Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Somewhat-Grim Realistic Fiction

Escape
©May 13th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

When they came, I was asleep in my sleeping bag in the wooded park far from home, where my step-father had contributed to a life of mute terror. 

The woods bordered a lake, across which blue-gold city-lights glowed.  Along the trail, I’d salvaged chicken sandwiches thrown away by careless picnickers.  That night, I slept contentedly.

I awoke suddenly to a bright blue light, and quiet noises.  Creeping over to where I’d heard the sound, I saw policemen with dogs and flashlights.  Without waiting, I ran for the lake, and plunged in. 

What did it matter that I could not swim?

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I must be addicted to flash fiction! Not content with writing an inter-galactic romance in 100 words yesterday, I decided to go the route of grim fiction today in another 100 words.

With thanks to Fairy Blog-Mother and brilliant story-teller, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and to the master of micro-fiction CEAYR, for the mesmerizing photograph.

Ad Astra

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAYR

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAYR

Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Inter-galactic romantic fiction

Ad Astra
©May 12th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Waves of light trembled brokenly on the water.  The buildings lit up like jewels.

Turning to face him, I saw his anguished look. 


“It’s time to go,” he whispered, embracing me.


“Why can’t I come?” I asked, held-back tears draining into my throat.


“They’ll kill you.  You have to stay.  I have to leave.”


He aligned himself with the light.  His eyes not leaving mine, he glowed brightly for a second, then vanished as if he had never been.


Now weeping openly, I looked at what he’d left me:  A ring, glowing blue. 


I wear it still.  And I wait.

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I decided on romance for this week’s FF.  This is unusual for me, because, as those who follow my blog know, I’m a hard-hitting realistic type with a no-nonsense attitude to such silliness as romance.  Bah, humbug to romance, I say!  Too cheesy, I say.  Still, all you need is love, as The Beatles declared.  Hope you don’t mind.  🙂
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother of the Known Universe, for hosting FF every week, and to the wonderfully terse C.E. Ayr for that lovely photograph. 

Dave

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Whimsical Bird-Fiction

Dave
©May 4th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

“Where’s Dave?”

“Oh, you know Dave!”

“He’s late, dammit!  This concert will be a disaster without our bass player.”

“We could do “Flight of the Bumble Bee.” 

“Nah, that’s too overdone.”

“What about “The Lark Ascending?”

“Only you know it!  The rest of us aren’t that familiar with old Vaughn.”

The evening grew cloudier, darker.  They shifted around.  The audience began filtering in.

Suddenly, Dave arrived, amidst a flutter of whispers.  Taking up position, he bowed, and started a bass line in five-four.

The others joined in, one by one.

Thus began “Conference of the Birds.”

Peace descended.

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Genii

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman
Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:
  Semi-realistic fantasy-fiction

Genii
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

My husband had died.  My son had taken the house.  My relations were scattered. 

All I was left with now was the shop.   No one wanted it.  By law, it was mine (an old will left by my husband before things soured).

I sat there, my heart in pieces, selling a small thing here or there, just enough to buy food, and pay for my heat.

“How much for that lamp?” asked a bell-clear voice.

I looked up.

A beautiful gray-haired woman stood there.  Her eyes were mist-gray.  “I’m Jeanie,” she said, “I need that lamp.”

I fell in love.

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This is my third attempt.  Bear with me, please!  Something about this photograph calls out to me.

Once again, many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother of FF, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, where we get to read the work of some of the best story-tellers in the blogging world.  Thanks, too, to Mary Shipman for that lovely photo-prompt!

 

 

Shopping Trap

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman
Word Count: 
100 words of text, exactly
Genre:
 
Fairy tale? Demon-Tale! (Alas, I seem to not have much realistic fiction left in me – I’ll give it another try!)


Shopping Trap
©April 28th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

It was a curious shop.  Rolling pins, lamps and chemises hung down.  At the far end, wearing a long, dirty nightgown, sat a man, with wispy white hair on his head.  His teeth were yellow-stained, his fingernails dirty.

As far as Nina knew, he’d never sold anything.  Day after day, she passed his shop; the same things hung down, or sat on the shelf.

Passing one day, she looked straight into his eyes.

His returned gaze rattled her.  Despite herself, she entered.

In seconds, the shop, the man, and Nina vanished, before the mournful words, “Another one gone” echoed everywhere.

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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother Extraordinaire for hosting Friday Fictioneers, where we get to meet and mingle with some of the finest story-tellers in the blogging world.  Thanks, as well, to Mary Shipman for that photo-prompt!

Out of the Muck

PHOTO PROMPT - © Ted Strutz

PHOTO PROMPT – © Ted Strutz

Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Philosophical Realism / Science-Fiction at the end

Out of the Muck
©March 23rd, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

We cannot live without hope.

Throw us in the dirt – we’ll rise.  Throw us in the ocean – we’ll swim.  Feed us rats – we’ll survive.  Toss us down a cliff.  We will cling to every rock, every branch, until we climb back up.

It’s coded into our DNA.  You don’t believe us?  Come, walk through this yard in the heart of the slums.  See that toilet?  What’s in it?  Flowers?

THAT’s who we are.

So, please leave our planet alone.  Go to another one.  We are human.  We WILL triumph.  We WILL prevail.  We are the Masters and Servants of Life.

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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, whom I have dubbed our Fairy Blog-Mother for her unwavering commitment to hosting Friday Fictioneers, an online pow-wow for those of us addicted to writing flash fiction – and for her thoughtful feedback to everyone who posts stories on the photo-prompt de la semaine.  This week’s photo-prompt is by the redoubtable Ted Strutz, an amazing storyteller and thoughtful commentator on others’s posts.

Muddy Waters

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Pseudo-historical Romance

Muddy Waters

A muddy, foam-flecked, turbulent river divides me from the world.  Mirroring my anguish, it keeps me from the one I love.

I am imprisoned here, with my inkwell, my Venetian blown-glass vase, my antique clock, and my beautiful brass sailing ship.  I’m allowed to write, and look out the window.  Food is brought to me twice daily – olives, plain bread, a small square of cheese, and water.

My crime?

I fell in love with the Prince from our neighboring country.

When we were caught kissing, it caused an uproar.

The Princess, my intended bride is heartbroken.  He is her brother.

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Once again, thank you to our dear Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and for patiently posting beautiful photo-prompts every week,  while inspiring us with her historical fiction at the same time.

Paper Revenge

Paper Revenge – Fantasy Flash Fiction
©March 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

It was time to enter the world of the three-dimensional.

Stepping out into traffic, Papyra stood, her arms above her head.

The traffic screeched to a halt, but one car sailed through her.
Papyra walked on, naked and calm, to the other side.

On the street lay a pile of clothes, and a cardboard cutout of a woman.

The man who’d hit her jumped out of his car, while others, who had stopped as well, followed suit.

“What the hell was that?” asked a man, his face as white as a sheet.

“Dunno.  Whatever it is, it’s GOT to be some kind of joke!” said another. 

When two of them picked up the cardboard cutout, a curious change came over them, and they fell over, flat and colorless.  A wind eddied up under them, and blew them into the clouds.

Another wind swirled up Papyra’s clothes, and brought them to her, as she watched from the shoulder of the road.  Impassively, she shrugged them on, and, without a backward glance, walked into the woods nearby.

Cell-phone cameras clicked as she went, even as the people who took the pictures backed away from the scene of the hit-but-not-run.

When they looked at the pictures they’d taken, all they saw was a pile of drifting paper floating away.

The woman went into the woods, and embraced a tree, her tears like somebody shredding away at an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven.  The tree shed some leaves, and she nodded. 

Then, she went back into the street.

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Regret and Reach

My second response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Misstep

Regret and Reach
©March 12th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Somewhere, in the course of her days, she made a blunder.  She misheard.  She misunderstood.    She misspoke.  She mistook. 

She missed a step.  It might have been the thirteenth one.  Empty space loomed between it and the fourteenth step. 

She took a deep breath, and reached for it.

The twelfth step below her receded.  The thirteenth vanished.  The fourteenth loomed.

One more day, one more year, many more years.

She spent a year in the space where the missed step was, cocooned in a state of regret.  She space-walked through time.  Then, she reached that fourteenth step.

Now, when she looks back, she cannot remember any of the details.  All she knows is she chases after the shining truth, and turns her back to deceit.  She hacks her way through to the heart of goodness, and sees right into the heart of evil.  She will not be fazed by it.

And she walks with a step that will not falter.

But there are days, when she mishears, and misunderstands, and quails.  She avoids that misstep, that thirteenth step, and flies upwards towards that fourteenth one with the ease and grace of a trapeze artist.

And catches the hand that reaches down to her before they both flip upwards, and fly through the air.

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