Category Archives: 100 Words

whatsapp story: the unfinished chat

Hey, you there?

Yes, what’s up? Two blue ticks.

This place is kind of creepy.

Wow! Do you have antique furniture and doors that squeak? Two blue ticks.

Dude, be serious. I can hear strange noises from the basement.

I think there’s a ghost. Have you checked? Two blue ticks.

Very funny.

Rofl. Imagine you’ll have a movie script by morning. Two blue ticks.

Go man. I am going down to get something to eat.

Knock knock! Two grey ticks.

Stop being angry now. Two grey ticks

Okay I am sorry. Two grey ticks

Hey, you there? Two grey ticks

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umbrella with a wooden handle

Every kid in the colony wanted a raincoat, especially the ones with cartoon characters on them. But she wanted an umbrella – the large, nondescript, black umbrella with a wooden stick for a handle. Her parents tried convincing her but she couldn’t care less. The only thing she was concerned about was that it had to be large. Large enough.

For these adults would never understand but she knew that a raincoat can only protect one person from the rains. An umbrella can protect two. That and Ajay, who stayed in between her school and her home could afford neither.

Ever experienced a walk in the rain when one of your shoulders gets wet in the rain while the other brushes against the person sharing the umbrella with you!

the unsaid love

Unless you‘ve read him, you wouldn’t believe that he can write romance. Most days he stayed in his house, coming out only to pass the garbage to the sweeper. In fact, I’d have considered it mundane, had I not noticed that every-day the sweeper also passed him something back.

Curious, one day, I asked him,

“What do you get from the sweeper every-day?”

“Well, I’ve asked him to separate torn pieces of paper from the community garbage and give it to me.”

“And, what do you do with them?”

“I put them back together. In them I find my stories.”

There is more romance in hand-written torn pieces of paper than all the literature in the world put together 🙂

 

adult(ery) chat

Kunal’s phone beeped.

PrettyGirl: Long time. No see. What’s up?

Kunal confirmed Priya was in the bedroom and then reached for his phone.

CoolHunk86: In the Amazon rain forests. Studying the reptile eco system. You?

PrettyGirl: Paris. Home. In the bath tub. My clothes are far away. I wish someone fetched them for me. *wink*

CoolHunk86: I would never let you wear them. Send me a pic. *wink*

PrettyGirl: Haha. Some other day. Got to go now. Bye.

Priya called for dinner. Kunal quickly typed before throwing the phone away.

CoolHunk86: Me too. Bye.

Priya’s phone in the bedroom beeped.

And you thought virtual is the opposite of real. Well, they co-exist!

the kingmaker

Once it was official that the king was dead, everyone looked at him with expectation. He was the obvious choice. However, he sat in his room brooding. In front of him was a chess-board with a game he had started with the king. It was yet to end.

“So what do you think?” The Prime Minister asked.

“I think I should play the pawn now.”

“I am not talking about the game. I am talking about the throne.”

“So am I. What do you think of the prince?”

“He is too young. He will fail.”

“I know. That’s the plan.”

 The king rules over the kingdom. The kingmaker on the king!

abused – epilogue

Here are the prequel to this piece:
https://reflectionsinsilence.wordpress.com/2012/12/01/abused/
https://reflectionsinsilence.wordpress.com/2013/02/08/abused-2/

“When was the last time you met Karen?”

“The day she told me she was marrying Tim.”

“What did you do after that?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did you kill Karen?”

“Gosh! No. I loved her.”

“Do you remember who your roommate was?”

“Yes. Tim.”

“Did you kill Tim?”

“No. Why?”

“Where did you last meet Karen?”

“Pigeon Square.”

The last thing I remember was going out to meet Karen. I have no idea why I am here. The old lady is scribbling something. I think it says:

Case: Chronic alcohol abuse.
Details: Served prison time for double murder. Appears harmless.

Sometimes when reality is too harsh, it is much easier to live in a story.

stories from paris #1

The subway was filled with all kinds of us – the business suit types, the torn jeans types, the elegant dress types, the hot pants types, the black rimmed thick lens types, the aviator glasses types. Yet, I chose her. She stood in a corner, critically evaluating her reflection on the ceramic plates.

“Can you tell me the way to Moulin Rouge?”

She smiled strangely and asked, “What are you looking for in Moulin Rouge?”

“Stories.”

“There were a few in the past. There’s none now.”

“And why not?”

“Because Moulin Rouge, then, was art. Today it’s just plain business.”