Oct 1, 2014 Original Short Stories
Copyright-Kent Bonham
Genre: Dark Mystery
Word Count: 100 words
I Remembered the Sun
©October 1st, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
“Let’s visit that haunted cabin in the woods,” said Ry.
We were playing near the creek bordering our trailer-park. We never crossed it. Once, we had. We’d raced home when we glimpsed a man who aimed a gun straight at us. We’d been five. My mother had slapped me saying, “NEVER go beyond that creek!” I’d stumbled over to Ry’s trailer, crying.
Now, we were big boys, eight years old.
“Okay,” I said, surprising myself.
“Wanna lollipop?” he asked.
“Thanks!” I said, taking it.
We crossed the creek, and entered the woods. The sun was beautiful. I remembered that later.
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Thanks, Rochelle, for hosting Friday Fictioneers! For those who are curious, this is an online community which responds with 100-word stories to a weekly story challenge based on a photo-prompt.
Thanks, also, to Kent Bonham, for the strange, creepy photograph which inspired my story.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story by Vijaya Sundaram, Missing, mystery, suspense
Apr 14, 2013 Teaching and Learning
Banjara Bound
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 14th, 2013
The women walk, with soft sway of hip-bones
Copper and silver, bone and glass adding
Allure and weight to their step, mystery
On mystery, burden folded on burden.
And sometimes, they wear pots on their hips, and
Sometimes, they wear pots on their heads,
And sometimes, they wear babies on their hips,
And sometimes, they wear baubles on their necks.
And sometimes, they are beaten by husbands
And sometimes, they are abused by landlords
And sometimes, they play with babes in the dust
And sometimes, they ask you to share their food.
Sometimes they walk by, unaware of all
Intent on their destination, which they
Alone know, and where you may never go.
For where they come from is a land that’s theirs.
Not for the faint of heart, not for the weak,
Their lives are traced like lines of wind in dunes
Of sand — beautiful, but subject to the
Whims and fancies of an indifferent fate.
And they move like sighs of wind on the sand
Their sorrows not to be unpacked by those
Who might try, but never will understand —
How does one analyze those tangled threads?
Love is, of course, love; so is forgiveness,
Loss and despair are also understood.
But the moving and the endless walking
The pull of wandering, the lust for home
These tug and push, these discontent-makers,
These lure and beckon, these will-‘o-the-wisps,
Just one more sand-dune, just one more dust-storm
And then, we’ll come to rest, and we’ll be home.
Home is just another word, a starting,
A still-point, before the turning of the
Axis, the revolving around a sun
That’s brighter than any gold they could buy.
And so they move, these beautiful women
Subject to no calendar, answering
To no greater power, except for the
Slow, hypnotic sway of an earth that turns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Desert, #NaPoWriMo, #Women, Banjara women, Beauty, gypsies, Home, lure, mystery, wander-lust, Wandering
Feb 21, 2013 Original Short Stories
Patience is a House –A Short, Short, Short Story©By Vijaya Sundaram
(With a Tip of the Hat to Walter De La Mare)
February 19th, 2013
The house stood still.
There was someone about — someone who did not belong, someone who posed a threat.
The house leaned in, closer, the better to listen and absorb.
It heard the foodfalls, softer than feathers floating down. It heard the held breath, the pulse in abeyance, the mind that fenced itself in against the night.
The house shuddered. It felt grim. It had to do what it had to do.
The footfalls entered the bedroom where the dead had lain for a century. Now, there was nothing but dust and the vague shape of a human outlined in moonlight.
The footfalls paused, and breath whistled out in a cloud of shock. The footfalls seemed to consider what to do.
The house tensed itself, ready to protect and serve the dead, to prevent the world from knowing what lay within it, and why it was there.
The footfalls turned around, went to the window. The pulse in abeyance was now hammering loudly, and the house could hear it. The footfalls pressed down. The moonlight streamed in, and the forest all around the house moved like a glacier, indistinguishable from the passing shadows under the moon.
The house started to close in. And then, it paused.
There was a spring, a whoosh of air, and a dull thud. The footfalls gathered themselves up, and clattered over the bone-white, bleached cobblestones, putting distance between themselves and the house. The forest pressed back, afraid. The echoes that remained seemed forlorn. The footfalls died away into the distance.
The house sighed. So close, so close. Now, it had to wait again. Another hundred years would pass. It didn’t matter. The house was patient.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, ghost story, mystery