Aug 12, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
PHOTO PROMPT – © Adam Ickes
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Long Walk
©August 12th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
I remember the clouds that day. The sky shone like my mother’s eyes, when she told us to be good, to always listen to Dad. She told us to stay inside the house. She told us to give Dad her letter. She reminded us to say our prayers. She said she loved us. Her eyes were wet.
Then, she walked away with her suitcase, her pretty dress fluttering in the breeze. At the other end of the boardwalk, a car waited. She got into it, and it drove off.
I will never leave you, I think, holding my girls close.
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It’s been horribly hot, but FF beckons, and I cannot resist the call. Thank you, Rochelle, for always urging us on with your gracious example, and your moving stories! This is a very evocative photo-prompt. Thank you, Adam Ickes, for the picture.
Tags: #Abandonment, #FridayFictioneers, #RealisticFiction, Original short story based on photo-prompt
Jan 1, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Forgiveness On A Coffee Date
©January 1st, 2016By Vijaya Sundaram
We looked at each other over that promised coffee. It was tepid. A lemony sun shone in the sludgy sky. Outside, a few timid flowers bloomed. The doorway glowed resplendently, its rising sun emitting caffeinated steam-clouds.
“Look, I am sorry.”
“I said stop! but you didn’t,” I snarled, face throbbing from having fallen on it, when I’d tried to avoid his arm on my shoulder, and stumbled.
Rummaging in his messenger bag, he found some Advil. “I’m ashamed. I was too familiar. I was wrong,” he said quietly, holding out his hand which held two pills.
I took his hand.
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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our Fairy Blog-Mother, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, where fiction writers from around the world congregate and share amazing stories! And thanks to Jean L. Hays for the great photograph-prompt!
Tags: #Forgiveness, Coffee date, Original short story based on photo-prompt
Nov 5, 2015 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
Wife-Earth-Mother
©November 5th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
I walked in her footsteps.
Grace had tended our arid acre of land, pouring her spirit into it. That which was infertile, she’d made fertile, and that which had died, she’d made live. For twenty years she grew corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, pumpkins, peppers – enough for our family of three. Her love fed and nourished us.
I had gone to work in the coal fields, and my lungs rattled and hissed.
My son had died in a war begun by evil politicians. Then, Grace died, heartbroken. With her gone, the land died. I was alone.
I picked up a shovel.
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(P.S. Thanks to Rochelle, our beloved Fairy Blog-Mother as I dubbed her, for hosting Friday Fictioneers each week. Thanks, also, to Connie Gayer …(Mrs. Russell) for her evocative and sombre photograph.)
(P.P.S I’m heading off to India tomorrow morning via Emirates, so I may not be able to read people’s posts today, unless I can find a few minutes (haven’t packed yet!). Please know that I will check out your stories, and respond to anyone who makes a comment at some point before next Wednesday!
Love to all, Vijaya)
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Tags: #Death, #Dirty Energy, #Life, #Loss, #Love, Climate Change, Original short story based on photo-prompt, Politics, War
Sep 10, 2015 Original Short Story, Writing 101
The Attic Window
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The day that Shelby laid eyes on the old house to which she had to move with her parents and brother, she hated everything about it — the peeling paint on the cedar siding, its old roof shingles, its crookedly leaning pine tree in the back yard and oak tree in the front, its straggly, overgrown front-yard, the brick path leading to the house, and the old bird bath that looked like it had survived a few centuries of weathering.
Tears filled her eyes, and she brushed them away surreptitiously. Her father put down their bags, his voice sounding false and hearty, “All this needs is a lick of paint, some work on the roof, some weeding and watering, and it’ll be great!”
The truth was that they could not afford much of anything. Her father had come into a small inheritance, and he used it to buy this place from a slick realtor, who seemed very eager to sell it at half the going rate for a house this historic (it had been built in 1875).
Her father added, “At least we will have a roof over our heads. Think about that! And we’ll plant a vegetable garden. You can have your own flower-garden, Shelbs! What say?”
“That sounds … lovely, Dad!” she replied, looking around, not seeing how anything beautiful could grow on that messy, weedy patch of front-yard.
Her brother, three years old, and curious about everything, ran about happily, chattering at top speed, excited to be in a new place. “Stop it!” Shelby said loudly, suddenly, and he stopped short, eyes round and puzzled; she wasn’t usually so brusque and bossy. Then, he shrugged it off, and went around the side of the house, to see what lurked there. Shelby’s father went after him.
Her mother, tired from all the packing and moving, but seeing her daughter’s distress, said, “Shelby, come! Let me show you where your room is. You’ll be thrilled.”
Shelby picked up her two large duffel bags, and followed her mother through the door. She looked around, and was intrigued, in spite of herself. There was a large fireplace with a white mantel over it, and a bay window that looked out into the small stretch of woods on the left of the house. At the back was a sunny kitchen, and next to it, the ornate dining room. Shelby wondered cynically how they would furnish all these old rooms, when they had nothing more than a small kitchen table, four rickety kitchen chairs, an old, squashy sofa for the living room, plus their beds, small dressers and night-tables for the bedrooms. They did have a huge red rug, though, so that might cheer things up a bit in the living room, she mused, and the thought cheered her up.
Her mother pointed up their staircase. “Your room is above ours. Why don’t you go on up, and check it out?”
Shelby shrugged, and dragged her duffel bags up the staircase. On the next floor were two rooms and a large W.C. Above that, she presumed, was her room, so, after a quick glance around (it didn’t seem so bad here, after all), she went to the next floor.
Her bags fell to the floor with a soft thud, raising a sudden swirl of dust.
This was her room — it was meant for her. There was pretty wallpaper with roses and green leaves repeating themselves, and a little door that probably led to the eaves-storage space. There was a large clothes-closet with its own door. There was a built-in shelf, where she could put her books. And a tiny bathroom of her own!
But best of all was the window.
It stood there, at the end of the dormer, throwing light onto the floor, flooding the room with a golden glow.
Shelby was hypnotized by it. She found herself being drawn to it, drawn to its spare outline, as if it were some sort of window in a dream.
But as she walked towards it, a voice said Don’t do that! That’s my window! What are you doing in my room?”
She whirled around.
There was no one there.
I must be imagining it, she thought.
Still, it wouldn’t do to annoy whoever it was who’d spoken, real or not, so she said, to no one in particular, “It’s MY room, and I have a right to be here. And I will!”
An exclamation at the door made her turn around. Her mother, who was standing in the doorway, looked nonplussed, and said, “Of course, it is your room. And of course you have a right to be here.”
“Mom! Did you hear that voice?”
“There’s no voice, silly! How do you like your room?”
“I loved it, until I heard the voice. Mom, I don’t like it here. It’s … spooky.”
“Don’t be silly, Shelby! Look, why don’t you put some of your things from your duffel into your closet, and follow me to the kitchen. I need some help downstairs.” And, with that, her mother tap-tapped down the stairs.
Shelby looked around slowly. A strange palm print had appeared on the wall. The voice said, “I told you — this is my room. No one uses my room, and lives to tell the tale.”
Shelby could not even scream. She turned, and hurtled down the stairs, tripping and falling as she did so. Her voice could be heard, high and trembling, as she told her mother that she would never, ever, ever live in that house, and if they forced her to live there, she was going to run away to her grandparents’ home in Milton now, and nothing would change her mind, ever.
Upstairs, a swirl of dust shaped like a young girl smiled to itself, and held one of Shelby’s shoes which had fallen off when she’d hurtled out of the room.
Another one bites the dust, the dust-girl susurrated to herself, and looked out the window. A hysterically crying Shelby was walking out of the house, followed by her mother, and her father, who was holding her little brother’s hand.
Why did you do that, idiot? said another swirl of dust, as it materialized beside her, and watched the family leave. She’s just a young girl.
Shut up, Tom! You’re just my baby brother! said the dust-girl, and she slapped at him. He sank back into the floor, frowning.
The dust-swirl-girl went back to the window, and looked down. The hateful car that had driven up was now driving off.
Good!
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#writing101
Jun 18, 2014 Original Short Stories
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright -Mary Shipman
Below is my 100-word short story for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting, and to Mary Shipman for the photo prompt.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100
Quake
©June 18th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Earthquakes don’t announce themselves.
Sujata was putting the baby to sleep. Sudhir would be home soon. She’d made fresh chappatis, dal and sabji for him, humming quietly. Although they were poor, and living in tenement housing, she felt fortunate — loved, at peace.
She’d had been brutalized at seventeen. Now twenty-four, married to a loving man, she’d learned to deal with her demons.
Such things don’t disappear. She’d been broken. Self-reconstruction was difficult.
A glimpse from her window made her freeze. Looking back at her from a window opposite was him. Their eyes met. He smiled.
Then, the earthquake struck.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, Flash Fiction, Original short story based on photo-prompt