Jun 27, 2014 Original Short Stories
This is my short story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word Count: 100 words
Silence is a Tree
©By Vijaya Sundaram
June 28th, 2014
Sathya was exhausted. Yesterday, at work, she’d been reprimanded. Nobody had asked questions, or listened.
Every day, since the diagnosis of cancer two weeks ago, left her drained. She’d told nobody. She’d already hated her job. Now, she wanted to leave.
“I want to know things, like trees and birds,” she wept to her husband, who listened, aching within.
Today, they went to the woods with a book: Trees of North America. Birds sang in the shimmering air near a huge oak waiting for her.
“I’m home,” she said to her husband, face aglow.
He wept. The tree stood, silent.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, Flash Fiction, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Silence, Tree
Jun 11, 2014 Original Short Stories
PHOTO PROMPT Copyright-Ted Strutz
This prompt proved to be difficult for me, in terms of what kind of story to write — in the end, I settled for realism and tried to mix in a little humor and menace– and tried to do it all inside 100 words. Hope you like the story! Thanks, as always, to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to Ted Strutz for his evocative photograph-prompt!
(NOTE: I published this originally as “(S)Trapped (Down)!” — but I ended up editing it, tinkering with it, and incorporating some of the dock-and-sea imagery into my story. I also gave it a different concluding line.
Sea of Troubles
©June 11th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Dr. Drinkwater was drunk. He was old. His breath stank.
Get me out of here! I thought, panic rising in my throat.
I was trapped. Strange instruments held my mouth open (I hadn’t dared to peek, when I’d arrived).
Fool! I thought. You came here of your own accord. Now deal with it!
Mrs. Armstruther, Receptionist, tapped away at her computer. Outside, docked boats undulated greyly.
He advanced.
I whimpered.
Smirking, he said, “It’ll be all right.”
I gibbered.
Eyes narrowing, he snapped “Novocain!”
I fainted.
Awakening, I found myself far from shore, alone, afloat at sea.
I screamed.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, Dentist's Room, Flash Fiction, Novocain drama, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Shakespeare reference "sea of troubles", Strapped, Ted Strutz, Trapped
Jun 5, 2014 Original Short Stories
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
I couldn’t resist another story! Thank you to Friday Fictioneers pioneer, Rochelle-Wisoff-Fields, for hosting, and to Douglas M. MacIlroy for today’s prompt!
Euphemism
(My second 100-Word Response to this week’s prompt)
©June 5th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Sleep doesn’t come, despite his silent screams. A feverish disease consumes his bones. He dreams of cool, snow-covered mountains, an icy river, a boat. The darkness floods in from outside, swirling around his prone form.
Raju’s end is near. He is angry, afraid, and impatient.
Beside him, a woman sits, cigarette dangling from her lips, feet on table, three lit candles courting the darkness. She’s tapping a syringe.
There’s a spoon on the table, some jars fading into the mist that’s closing in, and a shell. Faint music wafts from it.
He croaks, “Give it to me.”
Shrugging, she does.
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Tags: #Death, #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, Euphemisms, Euthanasia, Flash Fiction, Pain
Jun 4, 2014 Original Short Stories
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and thanks to Douglas M. MacIlroy for this week’s photo prompt. Below is my 100-word story based on the prompt above.
Charon
©June 4th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Heartbroken, I stumbled down a snow-smothered mountain. Hope and love were dead. It was time to end it.
Below, the turbulent river drew me like a lover. On its desolate shore, a boat waited to take me into a land from which I could never return. The seated boatman’s keen blue gaze sliced the air.
Mutely, I sloped river-wards, impelled by fate, impaled on grief.
Somewhere, above my consciousness, three candles flickered beside a spoon, some furry-slippered feet, a conch-shell, and a jar of peanut butter.
Pausing, I said, “Let me be.”
***
Hmm … thought my writer. Should he die?
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, Charon, Flash Fiction, Styx
May 28, 2014 Original Short Stories
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright –Jennifer Pendergast
I must confess I was inspired to write another one. This prompt by Jennifer Pendergast is to blame. (Thanks, Jennifer! And thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting your wonderful 100-word, Fiction-Writing challenge for the Friday Fictioneers community every Wednesday! I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds in attempting another story. If I have, I’m so sorry! If not, please let me know if you liked this one!
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Cogito, Err-go Sum, OR: De-Programming Perfection
©May 28th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
I remember that arch.
I’d seen it from a distance, knew the sacrifice it entailed.
I came from a world where only bleakness and machines existed. I had been one of them, perfect. I never made mistakes. I was programmed not to.
Someone had worked on me and given me form, flesh, a soul, a past and a passport.
“Now you may go. You can learn about our world,” she said.
I tried on gratitude. My voice was hoarse. “Thank you,” I said.
And I entered that other world through that arch.
I was human.
I erred.
Then, I cried.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, #Perfection, cogito ergo sum, errors, From machine to man, programming and de-programming, to err is human
May 28, 2014 Original Short Stories, Teaching and Learning
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright –Jennifer Pendergast
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for creating Friday Fictioneers and posting a photo-prompt every Wednesday! I LOVE these prompts, and have only recently been contributing to this site. I love this site, because the Friday Fictioneers community is so supportive! I look forward to Wednesdays with an eagerness these days that I didn’t used to have — Wednesday used to be the doldrums of my week in general. Now, it’s the high point. Thanks, also to this week photographer, Jennier Pendergast for this lovely picture!
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I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
(From Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
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My story begins below:
The Arch Beckons
©May 28th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
I gave it the old college try. Pored over tomes. Huddled in dark corners of libraries. Studied for days in artificial light, while outside, the world darkened, and then glowed bright again.
One day, it dawned on me. I had to leave.
Leaving is hard.
Armed with an F in Literature, Latin and in Comparative Linguistics, I packed my bags, called home, left my stepfather a terse message, “Am leaving. Am done. Don’t look for me. Thanks for nothing.”
The scars from him were nothing to what I’d acquired in the Sanctum of Learning.
The Sirens called. I heeded them.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, Alfred, Arches, Dropout, Flash Fiction, Lord Tennyson, Sirens, The Old College Try, Ulysses
May 21, 2014 Original Short Stories
Welcome to my 100-word story contribution to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers! This is an online community of writers who post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle’s blog. This week’s photo is courtesy of Erin Leary
PHOTO PROMPT Copyright – Erin Leary
Defenseless
©May 21st, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
It was a fence. I didn’t like it.
We had moved to the country. I didn’t worry about school and the monsters anymore.
I had a huge field of my own, a puppy, and fresh air.
But here was also a fence. I started moaning and butting my head against it.
The fog lifted. I continued butting.
Some sheep wandered over to watch.
Awakening in a white room, I saw a white-coated man.
“Is the fence gone?” I asked my mother, who held my hand.
She nodded. Her eyes were wet. I wondered why.
I closed mine. I felt happy.
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P.S. Question for my Friday Fictioneers colleagues: How do I get the InLinkz icon to show up below my story, like some of you have done? Do I need to subscribe to InLinkz?
I put the url here, in any case:
http://new.inlinkz.com/luwpview.php?id=401321
Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, autistic child, Fences
May 20, 2014 Original Short Stories
Regret
Or: Slam the Door Quietly
(A Short, Short, Short Story)
©May 20th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
What Shankar remembered from his day was this: The Goddess had been with him for a while.
Shankar lost his temper in a meeting that afternoon.
That was not nice.
He had been in a happy mood all day, and was in a pleasant frame of mind entering the meeting, but it took a turn, where he was pointedly (if cluelessly) ignored, while the “in-group” faced each other, each bolstering the other’s ego. He tried to insert his voice into the general discussion, because, in fact, they were trying to reach a decision about a tedious, if important matter, and all of their voices were to be heard, or so it was expected. So, he tried — and failed.
He began to fume. At one point, one of the chief offenders, Julia Dascoli, made a “Hold! Stay!” gesture to him, as if putting him on hold, while she went on, holding forth, just as he was trying to clarify an issue they were discussing. As if in passing, she said, “I’m sorry,” and turned to her yay-sayers.
His ears became hot.
Don’t get mad, he said to himself. They’re clueless, they don’t know what they’re doing, in the same way that the privileged rich in the dominant group does not really know it operates from a place of privilege. You know that, surely. Stay cool. Hold on.
He’d done this before, because it was TOO much effort to let them know that they were wrong in doing this. Besides, not one of them forgave easily, especially the chief offender. It cost too much to go against them, so he had gone along, saying nothing much.
Today was different, though.
He had been ignored, talked over, snubbed and condescended to by his power-mad peers once too often, and too openly, for him to take it any more.
He finally had enough. Getting up pointedly, he walked to the door. Julia, a power-broker if there ever was one, said, “I said I’m sorry!” Yes, she had, at one point, after she’d waved away his question, but she had NOT said it as an apology. She had been dismissive, and had turned away, after the so-called, putative “apology.”
That was what made Shankar snap. He said in his coldest, hottest, hardest, most grating voice, “DO NOT EVER SNUB ME EVER AGAIN!” His eyes blazed like a demon’s; he certainly felt demoniac. His ears felt hot, and he sparked mad anger in the direction of Julia and her minions, all united in their condescension.
They started to sputter, like a bunch of flustered tea-kettles on the boil.
Shankar was past mollifying and “making nice.” It took a lot to push him to that place in his head.
Flashing pure rage at all of them, all still spluttering, he grated harshly, “STOP!” They stopped and stared, stunned.
The Goddess was with him.
Then, he walked out, and slammed the door. The sound echoed in his ears.
That was the “not-nice” part. The Goddess shook her head, sadly.
Now, sighing, he knew he had to think it over and go back and “regret slamming the door – but can we talk?”
He felt obstinate, adamantine. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to tell them all a few home truths about themselves.
Would that help? Of course not!
But it would feel good, if only for a brief moment. What had he to lose? They didn’t like him, so?! Ah, but they wouldn’t get it, anyway, and wasn’t that what he wanted? For them to “get it,” apologize, or, at least, start over? Yet, he knew, from having worked with them for so long, that they would never get it. Not even if it happened to them.
That last thought stopped him. Why bother, he thought. He went back to work, shuffling papers blindly.
The only thing that consoled him was that within decades, all of them, including him, would all be dead, relegated to the dust of history.
Hurrah, he thought darkly. He didn’t feel jubilant, though.
Next time, he thought, next time, I won’t slam the door.
He picked up his briefcase, looked out the window, saw the sun streaming in, and said aloud to the empty room, ‘Time for a cappuccino.”
The Goddess waited in a corner of the room, willing the universe into a more stable state around her beloved Shankar.
Things sometimes get in a flux and that’s we need a calm hand upon the waters.
Shankar left work, and took care not to slam the door.
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Tags: #Original Short Story, #Stubbornness, angry outburst, clash of personalities, door-slam, exclusive behavior, pride
May 18, 2014 Original Short Stories
Dark Matters (A Short, Short, Sort-of Science-Fiction Story)
©May 18th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Calling it a storm would not be enough, DaMaGenie1! thought. It would have to be called “The Storm of the Multiplex Universe.”
DaMaGenie1! had been brewing it expertly for billennia. After all, she had nothing else to do.
She had been born from herself in the depths of a new universe, formed from hydrogen and helium, and, of course, with the usual smattering of oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, silicon, magnesium, neon, iron, sulphur and so on (see chart, courtesy of nasa.gov ).
And then, since she’d been feeling queasy ever since, she collapsed, scattering her elements around her. Wailing, she withdrew into a shell, and drew a circle around herself, forbidding all contact.
Other stars near her found themselves deeply attracted, and paid her homage. She did NOT want them. They flowed towards her, and were never heard from again. She had absorbed them all.
And they died in ecstasy, sinking and sinking in an irregular orbit forever in a howl of light around her, but the rest of the universe could not see them. She laughed, pouring forth darker and darker matter, chewing noisily on the remains of her shining self.
DaMaGenie1! was lonely, that’s what was the matter. She knew it, but she didn’t care.
She created her minions, Dream and Nightmare – and she called upon them, and they came before her, humbly.
Give birth to life! she commanded them harshly. They nodded, mute and resentful at her tone, and went away.
It took them a long time. They hated each other, you see, even though they were twins. And yet, because there was no one else, they came to each other, seething with hatred and burning with unexpressed rage. There was no edict forbidding them their coupling, since there was no one else.
Billennia continued to pass. DaMaGenie1! burned within, with a cold, unrelenting passion, colder than the coldest imaginable thing, still crying in grief and loneliness. The Universe spun around on its axis, getting bigger and bigger, and growing more and more of her siblings, who seemed not to notice that she’d ever been there.
DaMaGenie1! watched, unwinking, coiled, ready to strike. Then, she realized that she could do something. She needed to brew something.
And while she brewed it, she watched stars and planets form. Finally, she noted something on an obscure little planet, which was revolving around an insignificant sun (she disdained it, for she recognized that, despite its strangely quiescent glow which seemed submissive, it was like a bantam rooster, crowing loudly in its little corner, and mounting the darkness. Dream and Nightmare stood aside. They had done their work. It pleased them to see what was coming from it. For a moment, they were unified in a truce).
DaMaGenie1! saw Life. It smelled good. She leaned over and took a deep whiff. Flowers and fruit, dirt and leaves and grass, and babies and young animals, and trees and water and rain. She was pleased.
And then, she saw Death. This made her cry out again. Her rage re-erupted. She recognized it. It was a piece of her that had broken off and made its way into Nightmare, and thence, into this new-formed thing that smelled of leaf-rot and wood-rot, of flesh-rot and grief.
DaMaGenie1! had left off brewing for a while. It was hard being herself, and she had been tricked by her own desire.
Now, she renewed her work. Her brewing became frenzied. She was going to make the “The Storm of the Multiplex Universe,” and it would be of epic, epochal, cosmic proportions.
It was ready now.
DaMaGenie1! opened her mouth wide, and took a big swallow.
The Universe went quiet.
Then, it vanished. And so did she.
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[NOTE: I was inspired by Arthur C. Clarke’s short story titled “siseneG” and an Isaac Asimov short story titled, “The Last Question,” although, of course, my story is different!]
Tags: #Original Short Story, #Ouroboros, #Science Fiction Short Story, dark matter, self-reflexive story, vanishings
May 14, 2014 Original Short Stories
Sheep and Nipples
©May 14, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Welcome to my 100-word story contribution to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers! This is an online community of writers who post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle’s blog. This week’s photo is courtesy of Sandra Crook. 
I lay in bed, counting sheep.
A car appeared amidst the sheep. Its rear bumpers were visible. I tried to hail it. Nothing happened. The sheep pressed forward, urgent and militant, in my direction.
I reminded myself that I was trying to get to sleep.
The sheep came closer, backing me into a corner of the image.
I tapped at the edges of my mental image, but it remained resolutely two-dimensional.
Sleep never came. Sheep poured in, though.
Beside me, the baby stirred and made sucking noises. I awoke. Sigh.
I shall never use lanolin on sore nipples again, ever.
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Tags: #Friday Fictioneers, #Original Short Story, #Sheep, 100-word short story based on photo prompt, lanolin, nursing story, sore nipples