She was the mellow glow of dawn, He was the brooding moods of dusk. She was the sparge of summer rain, He was the cloak of the dark night. She was the fragrant rose in spring, He was the chill of the winter snow. Together they were day and …

The brooding blues of your days And the bleeding red’s of mine Hold us at bay, as sightless we Navigate these treacherous lanes Of our hearts, beating in tandem.   In this pantomime we call our life We waltz together, enshrouded By the deep shadows of our past Fearful that …

Your father rushes in with video recorder in hand, “Hey baby, hey sweetie...smile...smile for daddy. Yes, that’s right...oooh, yessss...like that.”

 This story was first published on Artoonsinn and was written to the following prompt. It was the most read entry for the event and secured my team the 1st place.  A modern day Robin Hood’s conscience comes to life (literally) and demands him/her to offload karma to the beneficiaries to …

He was the oldest man in the village. Hunched over on rheumatic bones, slightly deaf in an ear and leaning heavily on his wooden stick, he patrolled the village at nights. Most nights the village folk could hear the tap-tap of his cane as he ambled through.

In the early evening, we were still a distance from the Indian border when I felt the train jolt and grind to a halt. Cries of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’ rent the air and our bogie, second from the engine, was beset by a mob of men wielding knives, swords, and sickles. Cringing at the maniacal hatred I saw in their eyes, I looked at Biji. Her face had grown ashen. I saw a silent look pass between her and Bauji. Then she turned to me, kissed my forehead and indicated at the sachet. I consumed it immediately.

PC Buckroo took his duties very seriously. On most days he could be spotted waddling through the hilly streets wheezing like a freight train coming through a tunnel. Yes, his allergies were that bad. It was an idyllic life except for the village rascals. The scamps were the bane of his existence. They followed him around, marching a few discreet steps behind, huffing and chuffing and pompously imitating his gait. The scene caused the villagers much amusement.

The quiet of the morning was broken by a ‘thud’ that echoed in the tranquil valley air like a gun shot. Then all was quiet again. It was 3 am. No one heard anything. No one stirred. No one rushed to investigate. Come morning, they discovered her. She lay in a crumpled heap, blood congealed around her mangled body. There were no suspects. She had been a woman madly in love, just a tad unhinged. Her possessiveness had bordered on psychotic control or so everyone had been told. So, suicide it was then. Not a homicide.

Would you believe it? Not a single relative shed a tear at the funeral including my wife and kids. I tell you, I had half a mind to cancel plans for ascendance and haunt the nightmares out of them. But, I took the high road and resisted the temptation. Finally, I was laid to rest. As the first shovel full of soil hit my casket, I panicked.

We went out often after that for meals and even movies. We discovered that we had much in common. We talked endlessly and shared stories of our childhood. I told him about my family, he told me about his. He was an army brat who had been raised all over India. His older brother was a software engineer in America and had recently married an American girl. The specifics of our friendship gradually changed as we discovered more about each other. Something grew between us but was yet unspoken. It was Rohit who confessed it first on one of our outings.