Oct 8, 2015 Friday Fictioneers
Genre: A Swiftian Tale
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
The Tiny Carnival and The Captive
©October 8th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Emerging from the tunnel, sore from being squeezed by its crushing metal, Aliya stood, brushed off her dress, smoothed her hair, and stared.
A tiny carnival exploded in color. Minute people whirled through the air, and little shrieks of delight swirled around them. A miniscule booth announced “Tickets” in pink icing. A blue-and-yellow fence protected the grinding metal machine that whirled the people in their airborne seats.
Aliya screamed. Everything froze. People turned, and stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she squeaked.
Not answering, they just advanced.
The ticket-collector rubbed her hands gleefully that night. Another for my carnival, she cackled.
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Thanks, always, to our beloved Fairy Blog-Mother and Muse, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, our weekly favorite writing soirees, and thanks to Ted Strutz for his inspiring photo-prompt!
Tags: a new fairy tale, captive, carnival, Jonathan Swift, Lilliputian, Transformations
Aug 21, 2015 Original Short Story, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Red Pill, Blue Pill.
Choose! (A Short Story)
©August 21st, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
On Tuesday morning last week, I awoke with a hammering heart. I had waited for this day all my life. After showering, I buttoned my white, poet’s blouse with shaking fingers, pulled on a pair of stylish, deep red slacks, tied a dark blue ribbon in my long braid that swung down my back, and pulled on silk stockings. I stepped into my red pumps, and shouldered my long-strapped dark-blue mailman’s bag.
I surveyed myself in the mirror. Sea-blue eyes stared back at me, shining brown hair caught the sunshine of a bright June day. I applied lipstick lovingly, lavishly, then, smacking my lips, I stepped back, and admired myself. Not bad, I mouthed to my reflection. Perhaps, my eyes needed a touch of shadow? Liner? No, I don’t do well with those — I tend to rub the corners of my eyes (lack of sleep), and they would get smeared if I did. I looked closer at my reflection, and frowned — there was a shadow above my lip. Damn! Well, Sally Hansen could take care of that … and she did.
I took care to feed my cat, Jazzy, who looked a little startled. Usually, I look like me, not a stylishly dressed lady. Now be good, I telepathed to her, and she stared back haughtily. What do you think I am, a dog?
I soothed her hurt feelings, assured her that I’d be back for supper, and left, clattering unevenly down the stairs. I’m unused to pumps, you see.
I took the Number 77 bus all the way into Cambridge, switched to another bus, and made my way to a dingy building somewhere in Boston. I won’t reveal it, for fear of causing trouble, so don’t bother to find out where it is, all right?
I pushed open the door to No. ____, and went in. The place was enshrouded in darkness. Nervousness returned.
“Anybody there?” I said in a false, higher-pitched voice, the better for … him to hear me.
A light came on. I saw a dingy couch, a threadbare Oriental carpet, some tattered armchairs, and pictures on the walls of beautiful women posing in various alluring attitudes.
A man in a long, purple cloak (A cloak? Where in the world was I?) emerged from another room, whose doorway had resembled a bookshelf.
He surveyed me with distaste, and said in a deep, low voice which dripped with disdain, “Yes? May I help you?”
“I … er… answered the advertisement — it said something about switching, um …” I trailed off, feeling awkward and flat-footed in my high-heels.
“Oh,” he said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“I thought it would be, like, a clinic, with a surgeon, and all …” I finished, lamely. Internally, I was slapping my forehead. Why did I answer this advertisement? It was a hoax, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t, said a voice in my head.
I looked up. Another cloaked man had joined this one, and obviously had more authority over him. His cloak was a royal purple, edged with blue-gold and red-gold threads.
And yes, it was I who spoke, he added in an amused tone.
“So, what should I do? Do I need to be examined? How long will it take?” By now, my heart was hammering in a strange blend of excitement and fear. What if everything went horribly wrong?
“Come into the other room with me,” he said, now speaking aloud. The other man curled his lip, and went back into the recesses of the room beyond, and the one in authority went in behind him.
I followed.
The room beyond was clinically bare, except for two pictures on the wall — one of a man, looking quite handsome, and one of … his twin, a woman, looking stunning.
Below the man’s picture was a blue pill. Below the woman’s was a red one.
“The order in which you choose will determine the outcome,” said the man in the blue-and-red-gold-threaded purple cloak.
He asked me a few questions. I answered them. He wrote them all down, created a copy, asked me to sign both, gave me the copy, and told me to choose.
Panic suddenly flooded me. What if I didn’t like what I got? But it was too late to back out now.
I chose.
An hour later, when I stepped out into the street, the door which I’d shut behind me vanished. There was nothing there.
I, however, was changed. The panic was gone, replaced by calm joy.
I was All-Woman.
I was free to be me.
I hoped Jazzy the cat wouldn’t mind.
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Tags: Gender-reassignment, Magic, Transformations
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Alice and the Strange Situation
By Vijaya Sundaram January 24, 2012
The food seared Alice’s tongue, and she gasped, trying to politely hold it in, but not quite succeeding. She grabbed a napkin and spat it out, turning away.
“Such bad manners,” huffed the fussy old lady at the head of the table. Her least favored granddaughter, the one who was the product of a marriage between the rich old lady’s daughter and her erstwhile chauffeur (now working for someone else), glared around at everyone.
“Sorry! I had no idea that you would serve boiling hot food for your grandchildren!” she said forthrightly and rather rudely. Her grandmother glared back at her.
Into the stunned silence which fell in the dining room, the other grandchildren tried not to giggle or smirk. They, after all, had an advantage. Their mothers, who were Alice’s mother’s two sisters, had made good marriages, following the old lady’s wishes every step of the way, and were now living in grand mansions. They got American Girl Dolls for their birthdays, and plenty of pretty dresses, toys and frilly things whenever the holidays came. Their baskets were always full of candy and stuffed bunnies during Easter visits, and their birthdays always took place on Grandmama’s large, sloping lawns, with catered food and marvelous games, pony rides and clowns.
Alice’s mother got up and, ignoring her mother pointedly, poured her daughter a glass of lemonade.
“Drink this, and we’ll go home right away, darling,” she said, glancing coldly around the room. Her husband had quietly declined the invitation to the old lady’s 70th birthday dinner.
Alice drank, got up, looked around the room, dropped a stiff curtsey to her grandmother, in her frilly dress (her cousins’ cast-off clothes), and said, “Good bye! Thanks for having us. Happy Birthday!”
They left.
Everyone looked at their plates. The chicken on the plates had started to move. Before their disbelieving eyes, the chicken bits assembled together, sprouted feathers, beaks, feet, and other appurtenances, and started to cluck plaintively.
There was a massive commotion and screams of consternation.
Meanwhile, Alice and her mother drove away in the car they had summoned – Alice’s father was driving it. The car rose smoothly into the air, and into the clouds, turned into a UFO and disappeared in the depths of the darkening evening.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: alien allusions, snobbery, Surreal story, Transformations