Feb 12, 2014 Original Short Stories
Guitar
(See story prompt below my story)
©2014 Vijaya Sundaram
February 7th, 2014
Being a single mom isn’t bad, thought Swapna, riffling through the shirt-pile. I get to choose anything I want for Santosh. Luke can’t stop me. Luke, who had controlled her every move, and whom she missed, despite her relief when he had left her and their son.
Don’t remember!
She moved on to a Spiderman-themed sleeping bag. Santosh will be thrilled with this!
She approached the man at the garage door.
“This is great – your son must be too old for it now, huh? I don’t see a tag. How much is this?”
“Five,” he answered, turning to arrange something.
Inexplicably hurt, Swapna shook herself.
“Could I leave it here? I’m still looking,” she said.
“Sure,” he replied.
She moved around, found a red, unscratched Schwinn bicycle. Fifteen dollars! She wheeled it next to the sleeping bag.
The man was watching her. Watch away! she thought.
Then, she spotted the guitar, leaning against the garage door.
“You’re selling that Gibson?” she asked, incredulously.
“No, I changed my mind. That belonged … Are you done?” he asked.
Curious now, she turned to open her purse.
Movement near the window drew her attention. Someone had sat down near a photograph of a teenaged boy holding the Gibson.
Silently, Swapna handed over twenty dollars, wheeled the bicycle with sleeping bag on it, and stashed both in her trunk.
As she pulled away, she looked at the man. He had picked up the guitar, and was holding it tight.
Her throat closed.
(250 words of text, including my name, but nothing else.)
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Story Prompt for the final session with Michael Downing:
There are two principal characters: A buyer and a seller. The location is a yard, the property of the seller, where that person is having a yard sale, a garage sale, some sort of home sale. How the buyer found out is … not really important.
This is the story of a completed transaction. Among whatever else the seller has on offer at this sale, you must name three items: a bicycle of some kind (something that has wheels), a musical instrument or music-playing device, and a sleeping bag.
What you know about the seller is that recently, within the last year, a child of the seller’s died. This stuff the seller is selling belonged to the child.
The buyer and seller have never met, and know nothing of each other. Neither the seller nor anyone at the sale mentions the child, the death or the cause of death.
By the end of the story, your goal is that the readers understand the loss of the seller brings us to this moment.
Limitations:
Past tense
No more than 250 words.
Third person limited to the buyer. (the only omniscience belongs to the buyer – third person, however).
Tags: #Loss, #Original Short Story, Buying and Selling, Father and son, Garage Sale, Guitar, mother and son, Story Prompt by Michael Downing
Feb 12, 2014 Original Short Stories
Thanksgiving
(See story-prompt at the end of my story)
©2014 Vijaya Sundaram
January 31st, 2014
Rob and I are driving to Maynard, racing to get there in time for Thanksgiving supper with his folks, something I always dread, because I’m vegetarian and they’re not, and I’m complaining to him about this charade that happens every year, when I see that I’m driving straight at a man who is standing on the road, swaying, covered in blood, but I don’t know how to stop, when I hear a horrible thump, and someone flies into my windshield, his face in front of me, eyes wide open, mouth open, blood pouring from his head, and a scream is filling my car, but I don’t know whether it’s his, mine or Rob’s, for Rob is telling me to drive on, and I do so, screaming hysterically.
Three hours later, at the police station, after I’ve answered all the questions, confirmed the date on which I have to appear in court, being assured that I probably won’t be charged for a hit-and-run, I’m drinking a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee kindly offered to me by someone, and my heart is returning to its normal rate, even though I know it’ll never ever be the same again, because I just killed a man, for God’s sake, when Rob says in what he thinks is his joking voice, “Mother will be upset, you know. We’re always late, and now we’ll never be able to make it up to her.”
I think of the dead man and burst into tears.
_____________________________(250 words, including my name)____________________________
Here are the details of the prompt for this technical exercise:
TECHNICAL EXERCISE 2
The challenge is to write a two-part story.
Scenario:
Part I.
There are two people, a driver and a passenger, in a car moving along a dark road. It is very late at night or very early in the morning. The two people know each other rather well. They might be friends, blood relatives, romantic partners, or work colleagues.
The car hits something, and both people realize that the car hit a human being—and that person is dead.
The driver slows or stops the car.
The passenger persuades the driver not to get out of the car and to drive away from the scene of the accident.
Part II.
Part II begins at least a week after the accident, but as much time as a year may have passed since that night. Let the reader know how much time has passed.
The two people are together. Maybe they are still in a relationship, or maybe they are not. You have to establish where they are and why they are there.
Something happens—this might be as apparently insignificant as a gesture, a sound, or a spoken phrase, or it might be a more dramatic event—that reminds both of them of the accident.
Write the story. Assume your readers know nothing about the characters or their situation when you begin.
Limits
- No more than 250 words. Yes, that includes both parts I and II.
- Part I must be at least 125-words long. (Along with your name, please include the word counts for both parts I and II on your story.)
- Use first-person narration. Both parts of the story must be told by the same character, either the driver or the passenger.
- The narrator must use the present tense to tell both parts of the story.
- One more limit: Part I must be a single, perfect sentence—that is, the sentence must adhere to the conventions of standard grammar and syntax. And forget about semi-colons; they are not needed.
Tags: #Original Short Story, 250 word short story, Creative Writing Exercise, Flash Fiction, Michael Downing, Micro-Fiction, Thanksgiving
Oct 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Straightening Up — A Short Love Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
October 22nd, 2013
The day had been bad. A butterfly fluttered in her breast feebly, the last throes of love.
She stumbled up to her apartment, fumbling with the keys, turning the lock, opening the door, shutting it, falling to the floor.
How much feeling is too much?
Her breathing shallow, she took a few steps into her kitchen.
All around her, the evening hummed. Street noises floated up. Somewhere, the elevator groaned and shuddered to a halt. Somewhere, far below, a truck snorted and lurched, tires skidding. Somewhere, ocean waves crashed against escarpments. An acrid smell pierced the air, heavy with smoke and sunset.
She leaned over the sink, her vision blurred and moist. Reaching into her cupboard, she picked the china mug which she had bought many moons ago in the company of the person she had just left. It had pretty patterns all around it — and it reminded her of being a young girl who went for pretty, inconsequential things, simply because they pleased her. She turned on the tap, and filled the mug, then sat down at her little kitchen table and stared through the tall glass kitchen window down at the street below.
The clock steadily ticked one eternity after another. It echoed in her head and made her neck stiffen, and made her grit her teeth.
Everything in her life spelled futility and despair. With two brothers and a sister firmly ensconced in upper-middle-class mobility and self-assuredness, she knew she was doomed. No one seemed to understand that she saw through all of the illusions around her.
Wherever she went, she saw hollow bodies filled with dreams that had turned sour, and where they weren’t, because they were children, she saw what might come.
Because they all pointed to death.
Yes, yes, true, there might be meaning, and there might be hope, and there might be love and laughter and light and all the rest of it, but that’s not what she saw. She didn’t see the face of it all. She saw the back of it all.
And then, she saw it all topple into an endless black hole, into the spinning space inside the event horizon.
Her head was a hollow place. She longed to forget. What did the poet write in his over-dramatic hysterical piece about a bird that had wandered into his home? Ah, yes, respite, respite and nepenthe. That was what she craved.
She downed the water, and walked into her bedroom. Ah, the familiar mess — clothes on the bed, clothes piled high on the armchair, clothes in danger of creating life forms on the floor. Despite herself, she smiled grimly. Despair and futility was all very well, but there was one unassailable fact that was always true in her life — laundry that awaited her.
It doesn’t do to be untidy. Being in despair and being in a mess shouldn’t be synonymous, she thought.
She set about folding the clean clothes and putting them away in neat stacks in her dresser. She piled the dirty clothes into the laundry hamper. She picked up books (in stacks under the clothes) and placed them lovingly and attentively back on the shelf. She picked up a bowl of congealed oatmeal which she’d left in a hurry in her bedroom that morning before setting off to her editorial desk at work. She made a face at the cold mess of oatmeal, ate it anyway, then rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher. She rinsed the stacks of dirty dishes in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. Adding the dish-washing liquid, she started the dishwasher. The hum of it soothed her and straightened her back a little. Humming tunelessly along with it, she walked around, picking up things, cleaning surfaces, running the vacuum lightly over everything. She went into the bathroom, and scrubbed the sink and wiped the floor with a mop. She picked up bits of hair and put them in the dustbin. She straightened up all her bits and pieces of toiletry. She cleaned the toilet till it sparkled. She scrubbed the tub till it gleamed like a newly whitened tooth.
She straightened her bedroom, and turned on the lights one by one. She lit a delicately scented candle (not overwhelming, just a hint of lemongrass and perhaps, lavender), and turned to the big picture window.
She saluted the world ironically.
Then, she went back to her bathroom, drew a hot bath, and stepped into it, luxuriating in the warmth. At least I can wallow in despair while I wallow in comfort and warmth, she thought emptily.
She toweled herself dry, while listening to the strangled gurgling of the bath-water as it swirled down into the underworld. Musical, though unfocused, thought her critical mind. She rinsed and wiped down the tub, washed her hands, sprayed some rose-water around her in a mist, dried her hair, and put on a robe of pale yellow silk.
The whole time, her mind stayed empty. She tried not to think of anyone, least of all, a certain person whom she had resolutely not thought about the whole day.
Then, after putting on a CD of Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny titled “Beyond the Missouri Sky,” she made her bed with clean and fresh sheets. She piled the contents of the laundry hamper into the washer, added detergent and turned it on. While she waited for the clothes to wash, she made some phone calls, canceling services. She went over her bills carefully, and made online payments on all of them. She checked her bank-account, and transferred all of her money to her mother’s account.
The washer stopped. Good. She took her clothes, put them into the dryer, and set it for one hour.
Then, she rummaged in her work-bag, and checked to make sure that she had a certain letter she had typed earlier in the day in her presentation folder. She had it. She looked it over for errors. Damn! There was one. She took a blue pencil and circled it, and wrote one word over it – Sorry. She placed the letter in an envelope, and sealed it neatly, propping it between the salt and pepper shakers.
She took out a book by her favorite author and started to read. An hour in, she heard the horrendous squawk of the dryer signaling the end of the cycle. She sighed, put the book down and went to get the clothes. She folded the last of them and put them away neatly.
Her mind was completely empty. Somewhere, a butterfly fluttered within her, but she felt quite distant from it.
She went to the bathroom, found some pills that she had set aside, and washed them down with water.
Then, she went and lay down in her bed, covering herself to stay warm. She craved warmth. It was all that remained in her now-diminished list of needs. There was one more.
She hesitated. Came to a decision. Made one last phone call.
A voice answered, somewhat cranky and tired. She said, “Hello? Goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.” Then, she hung up, and laid her head on the pillow. She was comfortable. She had eaten and drunk. She had put away her stuff, and had cancelled her services. She had taken care of any debts. She was done.
She closed her eyes and waited for tears to come. None came. Good, she thought, no regrets.
How much feeling is too much?
A butterfly fluttered into the stars and burst into a million points of light.
Darkness spread its wings and flapped hard, and covered everything, but the points smashed their heads against it, as they struggled to break through, finally streaking out like lines of escape, carrying with it the smothered scream of a butterfly trying to breathe.
And so, her love struggled, frail and brittle, against the huge, crashing wave of doubt and despair, as everything drowned in its wake.
Some of the dust from the disaster floated around her, supernovae of sadness.
“I loved you,” whispered the dust.
The darkness answered, “But not enough.”
Suddenly, the telephone rang. It rang and rang and rang. A little while later, a door opened.
There was a fluttering in the room. The candle still burned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Life, #Love and Death, #Original Short Story, despair and hope, love and life
Feb 27, 2013 Original Short Stories
Metamorphosis – A Short Magical Tale
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Feb. 26th, 2013
The mists descended, and the shadows prowled across my back yard. I had been looking out the window. It was, as usual, 3:00 a.m., and my head was buzzing with unceasing chatter. I had worked all day, and had been unable to get a certain image out of my head, or should I say, a certain imago out of my head.
I had wandered into my yard that morning, before heading off to work, and attended to sundry matters — pruning a bush here, watering some rose bushes there, ruthlessly yanking up some weeds, smoothing over the soil, looking admiringly at my butterfly bush that bloomed exquisite and purple, like smoky twilight, while butterflies obligingly admired it.
As if impelled by a magical impulse, I drew near the bush, almost swooning with delight from the delicately overpowering scent of the blossoms. That was the moment when things froze into a tableau in my head. I saw a thing that did not seem to be real.
I can still picture the scene: The sun’s rays pouring down on the bush, the splash of color of the butterflies and the flowers, and … a certain large thing that hung from a leaf. Larva? Pupa? Imago!
Fascinated, and slightly repulsed (no entomologist, I), I stared at the thing, and it bulged. I made out the faint shape of something completely perplexing. It didn’t look like an insect to me. The butterflies were making much of it, though, and they seemed to think it needed their loving attention. They fluttered around the beautiful blossoms, drank nectar to their heart’s content, and then hovered over this object. A ray of light caught it, and I drew in my breath in amazement. A long, thin, straw glowed liquidly, and something was coursing down it, into the imago!
I must be losing my mind, or I really am ignorant about how things work in nature, I thought, and mentally shrugging my shoulders, and detaching my gaze from the strange, pulsing, bulging thing, I turned away.
All day, the thing haunted me.
Working at my desk at the Daily Trumpet, scanning my email, trying to marshal my thoughts into coherent words to produce for my column, I found my mind returning to that, that, well, imago hanging from under that butterfly-bush leaf. My back ached abominably.
“What the hell are you doing, just staring at that screen?” asked my editor crossly. He was definitely not one to be crossed. Deadlines were to be met, and if they weren’t, we had to deal with his unleashed wrath, which had the force of a hurricane.
“Sorry!” I muttered. “I was just reviewing my facts. I’ll get to it. I mean, I’m on it, okay?”
“If you aren’t, I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks, so hustle!” he said, rudely and stalked off.
Pam, on my left, smiled sympathetically. “One would think we were a major newspaper, instead of a dinky little town rag! He has delusions of grandeur, that one! Don’t worry! He needs us as much as we need him!”
I smiled uneasily at her, and reached over my shoulder to rub my back. Pam had a way of sounding sympathetic, but I never knew where I stood with her. She might just as easily go and tell him what I said, if I said anything. So, I kept my mouth shut. One cannot overstate such a thing enough: When you have nothing to say, don’t say it! When you have something to say, say it with enough witnesses around. Better still, don’t say anything. Just put it into your first novel.
I turned back to my work. Somehow, I managed to write my column. I have no memory of what it was, or whether I was even remotely interested in it. The day seemed to have been covered in a sort of thin shell, or a mist. I felt nascent. My back really hurt.
Later, I had a sandwich with Pam and Jake at the local deli a block away. They talked of this and that, mostly complaining about Jason, our editor. I nodded, said a number of “ums,” and found my head throbbing, as if a band of silver had been tightened across it. The light hurt my eyes. I put my hands to my forehead, and a few beads of sweat dropped into my plate.
Pam looked worried, and I knew this was real concern. “You okay?” she asked. “You look ill. Do you want me to tell Jason you’re ill and had to leave? You really need to go home, you know.”
I felt grateful and strangely disconnected. I pulled out a few bucks, put it down on the table for my sandwich and coffee and said, “Yes, I think I really must. Would you tell him? Thanks so much!”
Jake offered to drive me home, but I said I’d get a taxi.
And so, I came home, and bathed my temples in cool water. Felt better, marginally so. I took an aspirin, and went up to bed.
The image wouldn’t leave me. My back was throbbing unceasingly. I stirred restlessly, got up, turned on the idiot box, watched some mindless soap, turned it off, slept uneasily for a couple of hours, ate a microwaved dinner, drank a glass of wine, prowled around my house, called my sister in Seattle, my mother in Florida, my father in Toronto and my ex-husband in Washington, D.C. (but he was busy with a brief and brushed me off).
The sun had just dropped out of sight, but its glow was still there, blending into the purple of twilight when I decided to go back out into my garden.
I didn’t want to stare at the butterfly bush. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Would I?
No. So, I watered the plants, pulled up more weeds, lingered on the tulip patch, where the lobbed off stalks stood forlornly, tended to my basil. thyme and mint, inhaling their heady fragrance, which seemed to dissipate my strange feeling of malaise. Then, seeming to do it almost by accident, not by design, I went to my butterfly bush.
The butterflies were still busy (Strange! They should have gone by now). The imago was still bulging and pulsing. I was very unsettled by that. It made me faintly queasy. A dim light seemed to glow from within it. An unearthly hum seemed to envelop it.
I turned away, went back in. I couldn’t bear it now. It worried me. The rest of the night passed in a blur. I had some soup, showered, read a book, went to bed … and didn’t sleep. My back hurt too much, and my sides ached as well.
Thus it came to be that I was standing at the window at 3:00 a.m., staring down into my backyard at the butterfly bush. The mist was swaddling the dark, and I felt wrapped up in my own blanket of strangeness and weirdness. Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded the place in a pale wash of purple-white. Something seemed to be moving around the imago. The butterflies! They were STILL there!
That’s it! I thought. No more of this nonsense! I am going to get rid of that thing.
I turned on the backyard lights, donned my dressing gown, slipped into my slippers, and armed with, of all things, an umbrella, headed out into the backyard, striding determinedly towards my imago.
The night seemed to press in on me like a shell, and I thought I’d burst from the pressure of it. I needed to break this strange spell. It was not pleasant. I made me fearful and wretched. I would break the spell. I pulled up short in front of the imago — and stared.
The shell was cracking. A leg came out, then two, then two hands parted the sticky, slimy thing, and a small face peered out. The butterflies fluttered onto leaves, and became quite still, as if completely frozen in sleep.
The thing that was inside, emerged sinuously from its shell, and two beautiful, iridescent wings unfolded. There was a sudden, imperceptible sound of a body dropping to the ground, and the being was now on the soil, looking up at me. She (or he, or it) was absolutely beautiful. A glow seemed to light it from within. Deep golden eyes looked at me. I fancied I saw the sunlight playing in them. A halo of hair curled about its head, and it had beautifully formed human features. Only its wings were like those of a butterfly.
It looked up at me, and smiled. A beautiful voice, softer than a sigh spoke in my mind.
Its words bloomed and formed within my head: Mother? Is that you?
The night loosened its hold on me. My silver band of headache broke. The mist that had been blanketing me, released itself into tendrils that floated away. The moon shone down, bright and relentless. I felt my back bursting with something that resembled pain. I bent over, and straightened up. Nothing surprised me anymore.
My wings unfurled. They had always been there, tight under my skin on my back. I had never known. And I wasn’t afraid.
I smiled back at the being.
Yes, my darling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, fairies, fairy tale, imago, Magical story, metamorphosis
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Ebb Tide – A Short Story ©By Vijaya Sundaram Nov. 4th, 2009
They looked at him in the darkness – he could see their dim shapes by the faraway streetlights. A truck rumbled by, and he could hear his heart beating.
“Well? Are you coming with us, or are you going to rat on us?” asked the one with the ski-mask.
Jack looked at them…and his mind went into a tailspin. He had worked hard to be a part of this group of boys, only because his friend, whom he had always looked up to, had joined it. Jack did not like what they stood for, nor what his friend appeared to have become, and yet …
Somewhere in the corner of his vision, he was aware that the moon shone, a slim sliver of a crescent, shedding more darkness than light onto the group.
He could feel their eyes boring into him. His mother would be working at the hospital all night – she was a nurse. His father was sleeping off a drunken stupor, but before that, Jack had been the target of his father’s inchoate rage. He could feel bruises swelling and turning purple under his shirt.
Nobody would miss him. He had been hoping for acceptance all his life. Here was his chance. Should he take it?
“Yes,” he mumbled, looking down at his sneakers.
“Let’s go, then!” said the leader of the group, and they moved with determination towards the abandoned building, spray cans in hand. Jack’s friend gave him a friendly shove. He didn’t respond.
And then, the wild rumpus began.
They sprayed the walls with graffiti, drew obscene images, and gang slogans that he didn’t even know about. Occasionally they sprayed each other’s jackets, and laughed in uproarious glee at their foolishness. Innocently criminal behavior, that’s all it was. Just a bunch of graffiti artists, he said to himself.
They didn’t notice the police car pull up behind them. They didn’t see the cop get out, didn’t see the other detective step out from the passenger seat.
It was only when the lights went on, that they turned in fright. Spinning blue and red lights, whirling like dancers in a dream, flashed rhythmically on the walls they had just sprayed.
Jack froze. So did the others. Then, chaos erupted. The boys ran in different directions. A shot rang out.
Jack felt his consciousness recede, waves ebbing away from the shore. Hold on, he thought, hold on. The waves pulled him farther out. Mom, he thought. I never told Mom that I was going out …
Then, the darkness closed in, and silence welcomed him into her arms forever.
And into that silence, the moon continued to shine dimly, shedding more darkness than light.
Ebb tide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, acceptance, bad choices, Juvenile delinquent, parental neglect, tragedy
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Horse With No Shame – A Transformation Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 24, 2012
I’m going to turn my teacher into a horse! thought Jim, as he watched her writing more words on the board, for them to copy and practise for their spelling test.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wished hard, then opened his eyes again. Nothing happened. His teacher wrote on, oblivious. The other students stirred restlessly, glancing at each other, hands fiddling with objects on their tables – a ruler, a pencil, a paper airplane that someone had surreptitiously made. Their feet tapped, their eyes dreamed on, minds elsewhere.
The hum of the electricity coursing through the lights in the room made his ears hurt. He gazed out the window, and saw a man throw a stick to his dog in the distance. A train rumbled by, and he watched that.
His teacher turned around, and caught him dreaming.
“Jim!” she snapped. “Focus on your work. Stop wasting time! There are all these big words to learn. Copy them down. Are you listening?”
He looked back at her, with his face wiped of any expression. Turn into a horse, he begged in his mind. Come on! Turn into a horse. You can do it.
“Well?” said his teacher, looking at him.
Then, the class gasped. There, before them, a transformation was taking place.
Jim felt all eyes on him, and stiffened in terror. He felt taller. Strange sensations coursed through him. He looked down, and instead of shoes, he saw hooves. Four legs had sprouted out. He felt an irrepressible urge to eat hay, or an apple. He flicked his ears back, swished something, and whinnied.
The teacher fainted. The students cheered.
Then, he trotted to the door, looked back once, and cantered out. A smile hovered mysteriously in the air where he had left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TheEnd~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, children, horse, Mysterious Transformations, school
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Dreams from Snow – A Short Story
© By Vijaya Sundaram
Dec. 19th, 2008
The snow drifted down like a dream about to dissolve.
Kevin wandered out of his apartment in the tenement building, in search of his friend. He knocked on the door, and heard shouts inside, shouts and a smack, as of a hand connecting with a face.
He knocked again, louder. The door opened a crack, and a scared face peeped out. It was his friend, Drew. “They’re fighting again, Kev,” he said, his eyes big and scared, “I’m scared.”
“Come out with me. It’s snowing. Come on!” whispered the little boy.
“Okay. Wait. I’ll be out – I’m not telling them,” said Drew, and withdrew, shutting the door. The voices within continued shouting.
In a few minutes, when the door opened quietly again, Drew was dressed in his outer layers, his snow jacket and boots, hand-me-downs, clearly, but still warm enough. There were tears in his eyes. There was a red mark on his cheek, as if a hand had landed there. He had a bruise on his forehead. There were still shouts and noises inside, and the sound of flung objects.
“You okay? What’s goin’ on?” asked Kev.
“The same. I don’t want to be at home,” said Drew.
Kev put his arms around Drew. “I’m your friend,” he said, and together they walked into the snow.
They played in the snow, making snowmen in the front of their apartment building, while a few older kids wandered about throwing snowballs at each other, shrieking with laughter.
The snow drifted down all afternoon, and the dream deepened, didn’t dissolve. They built snow-forts, and made believe that they were polar-bear warriors in the land of snow and ice.
Evening fell. They were cold and hungry now.
Drew’s eyes grew round and scared again. “I don’t want to go back,” he said, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t go. I’ll ask my mom if you can stay with us,” said Kev.
They went to Kev’s house, where his mother took in everything at a glance, and didn’t ask too many questions. She’d seen enough in her life to know what she saw, and while she was gentle, she was also tough. She made them hot cocoa, and fixed them a large cheese-grilled sandwich each. They sat companionably together on pillows on the floor, eating their sandwiches, drinking their hot cocoa, watching Sesame Street on the little television in the living room. Kev’s mother sat, her ample frame taking up a lot of the couch, book in hand, occasionally looking over at the boys, her large brown eyes filled with worry and tenderness.
Suddenly, there was a loud knock at their door, and a voice, shouted, “Open up!”
Kev’s mother opened the door a crack, and looked out.
“Drew’s in there, isn’t he? Send him out, or I’m calling the police,” came the angry voice of Drew’s mother.
“I’m not coming with you! I don’t want to go home,” cried Drew, holding on to his friend’s hand. “I want to stay here forever! I hate you and I hate my father!”
Drew’s mother pushed the door open, walked right in and grabbed hold of her trembling son. “You’d better come home right now, or else,” she yelled. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was a tangled mess. Her dress was stained as if food might have been flung at her.
Kev’s mother said in a steady voice, “Calm yourself, Miz Wright! Take a breath. Do you see your son’s bruises? I should report you! Take a breath. Why bother to come for him? Do you really want him home?”
Mercy Wright took a deep, shuddering breath, and suddenly looked defeated. “I have no one. He’s mine.”
“Then take care of him!” said Kev’s mother. She folded her arms across her chest. Her voice was stern, but her eyes were kind.
Mercy Wright looked at Drew, let go of his hand, and said simply, “Do you want to come home now? I’m sorry. I won’t let your Dad hit you. I won’t let him come near us. We can go away, if you like. I promise.”
Drew said, timidly, “Will we really go away? Why do you want me, momma?”
She burst into tears. “You’re my son.”
Drew understood. He went up to her, and put his little arms around her tired, worn-out frame. “I love you, Momma,” he said. He took her hand, suddenly grown-up, all of six years of age.
He turned to Kev and Kev’s mother, who said, “Will you be okay? We’re always here, if you need us.
Drew nodded and said, “Yes, thank you for everything, Mrs. Armstrong. Thanks, Kev.”
Kev gave Drew a hug. Patti Armstrong pulled him into a warm embrace, her eyes bright.
Drew left, with his hand still in his mother’s hand. Outside, the snow drifted down still, like a dream about to dissolve.
Kevin looked out the window and watched his friend and Mrs. Armstrong make their way through the snowy path. He hoped his friend would stay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Hope, #Original Short Story, Friendship, parental neglect and abuse, reconciliation, Snow
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Pig Who Became a Hero — An Allegory
(with apologies to Eric Blair, otherwise known as George Orwell)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Jan. 24th, 2012
It was dusk. Purple twilight had gathered up the last of the sunlight and blown it gently away to the west, where it sank sighing into the hills. The farm was done for the day, and the farmer, an independent woman who had longed to own her own farm for years and had finally managed it in her middle age, had gone off to her rest.
A large pig snuffled through the trough, rooting for the tastiest bits. Apple cores, oat mush, old vegetables, pig meal specially prepared, all mashed and mixed together made for the best, most piggilicious dinner. The pig’s name was Herman, and he was an old, happy, well-cared-for pig. His owner was a vegetarian farmer, and had only wanted a pig because she liked his funny little eyes, and pugnacious manner.
Then, along came Herman’s friend, the barnyard horse, whose name was Milt. Milt leaned over the trough, and whinnied something. The pig shrugged. His mind was elsewhere — on the food, to be precise.
Milt the horse tried again. Herman the pig raised his snout, glared at Milt, grunted and said around the food in his mouth, “Shut up. Can’t you see I’m eating? This is my hour of deep meditation. Go bother someone else.”
Milt was upset, and put out his hoof, and kicked Herman, who barely budged, because he weighed seven hundred pounds, and was pretty much immovable.
Milt said, “If you do not listen, there is going to be trouble. Look up, and you’ll see why.”
Herman looked up irritatedly, and then felt a sudden jolt of fear like a bolt of lightning in his heart. Leaning over the fence were some rather rapacious-looking men, with slouchy shoulders, hats pulled over their heads, and ragged clothes. Pig thieves! was the phrase that went through Herman’s porcine mind.
“This one looks like he’ll make several good meals through the fall,” rasped one desperado, looking interestedly at Herman.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s grab him and shove him into the back of our van,” said the other, ropes and other mysterious objects ready at hand. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we grab this horse as well? Might as well!”
Herman uttered a high-pitched squeal, Milt neighed loudly, and the barnyard burst into noise, which woke up the dogs, and mayhem ensued.
The men burst into the yard, and tried to wrestle the pig into captivity, but Herman was quicker than they were. He ran at them, and tossed one over his shoulder. Milt kicked the other one, who fell down, clutching his leg. The dogs came bursting out of their kennels, and sank their teeth viciously into their legs. They yelled in fright and pain. The farmer came skidding out, in fluffy bunny slippers and dressing gown, her hair in a bun. She had a shotgun in her hand, and she showed no hesitation in pointing it at them, while calling the dogs away. The men writhed on the ground, groaning loudly.
Then, Herman spoke, and silence fell, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all creatures on the farm are created equal, that they are endowed by their Farmer with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of pig-stealers. So, let’s chase these thugs away!”
The other animals roared their approval, and the farmer stood, stunned, because Herman the pig had spoken in English. She leaned back against the barn, with her hand on her heart, and a smile on her face, the gun slipping soundlessly into the squishy mud.
And so, Herman and all the animals chased the two men away, and lived happily ever after with their beloved farmer, unharmed by other humans till the end of their lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, allegory, George Orwell, Talking animals
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