Friday Night Bites - A Flash Fiction

Photo by Valentin Salja on Unsplash

All of the blood is flowing thick and red in her veins, I can smell it. I can smell it in my room. It smells like a garnish. There is nothing more interesting than blood.

I wanted blood now. Right NOW!

I dive for my phone into my bag and turn it on. I need a distraction.

I get into my car, and I notice, Mrs Jane’s front door is left ajar as if she is inviting me to get close enough to see her.

To see her face freeze as the warm blood gushes into my mouth, like a hot spring.

Every single cell in my body is forcing me to put my teeth at the nape of her neck, to split her flesh, soak up her dress and staining things around.

I decided to have a closer look at my potential prey.

As I walked up to her, and get close enough to see her, I froze. Her eyes were wilder than a cheetah caught in a trap at night, shinning. There was nothing more beautiful about her.

Her feet were few inches off the ground, and blood trickled down her neck and staining her pretty laced dress. The liquid drizzled down her body like rain on a window.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

So.....I got published as a writer in Spillwords

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

It’s published.

My writing has been published.

I have only published in Medium publications, Pratilipi and my blog site so far.

This seems like the first logically step. I’m finally published in a publication site today on 10 April 2020, in Spillwords here. I’m trying not to freak out since yesterday, but honestly, it is hard, not clear your mind off something when it is something you have always wanted and it is a surreal feeling.

I woke up earlier than usual today. I was getting published at 11 am my time (IST). I could not ward off the thoughts in my head, or suppress the excitement and anxiety I was experiencing.

Dream. We all grow up dreaming – to become a teacher, an astronaut, a doctor. I secretly dreamt of being a writer for the longest time, one day, someday. It was hidden deep inside, no one had a whiff of it.

I always loved writing. For two decades I have written, in my journals and it has only been a year since I started submitting my writings to be read, to be heard and this feels like a step forward. The day has finally arrived, when the tag of being a writer, is etched deeper into my being.

I think of it as motivation, the recognition in the wider group of people, being read by more readers or the accomplishment of getting published with your name at the end of it. This only feels like the stepping stone, which was beyond reach a year ago.

I am in my twenties, and I have a long way to go, as a writer, and a person of who I am yet to become. I don’t know what life has in store for me. But I will always be a writer; it is imprinted into my soul; I feel that in my gut each time I pick up my pen. My arms involuntarily move my fingers, it pours out of me, as if my heart wishes to sing a melody day and night. It is such a chatterbox, this heart of mine and my writing, long-winded.

It dances in the form of words from the tip of the pen as if it were putting up a show, loving each tiny movement. It comes to me in a flow as a river, swiftly gliding making its way, not knowing where it is going. It means a lot to me, very divine, an inspiration on fire with everlasting flames I never want to put off. Or shall I say, it is how I see it when an artist who has embraced creativity, who truly is in love with the art of words and imagination, tiptoeing each emotion black and white, in pixelated ink?

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Waiting to be crowned - A Short Story

Photo by Pro Church Media on Unsplash

“Anything you need from the store sweetie”

Christine looked up as she was reading her favourite book by Raymond Carver.

Did he really ask this question? He did have no clue? Did he know nothing?

She couldn’t help being blunt and annoyed.

What happened to her being a queen.

“Queen of the day”

That was how they’d always done it.

Done it for years! Twenty-five long years, a quarter of a century.

And on his birthday he was king of the day.

He would always make her breakfast in bed with a pink rose in her favourite crystal bowl, an English breakfast just the way she liked it always!

All these years he’d done the same.

“I’ll be back in an hour”, he said.

Christine didn’t bother replying this time.

“Did you hear sweetie?”

She looked, his face was kind of strange.

It was as if was shying away from smiling, leaving a hint.

This was no time for jokes she thought to herself.

It was her day, she ought to be treated like a queen, not be the butt of a joke.

“Okay,” she muttered as he went out through the back door.

She could have sworn she saw his lips part swiftly with a grin, through the window as he walked towards his car.

He acted like he was 25 again.

Just how old he was the year they met no more than that!

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved

Stay, one way or another - A Short Story

Photo by Ilona Panych on Unsplash

Nylah is seriously beginning to have edgy moments around her husband. He was unfaithful to her. Piling reproach after reproach upon himself, he added aggressiveness to his adultery. She knew this was the beginning of the end.

She was more than upset: he began to grow silent, unresponsive, grim as the dark starless night as if he did not hear her cry each night when they slept at the end of the bed they still shared. He was unfaithful to her: and oh, in such a trivial way. Oh, and also he was gradually turning into a narcissist, isolating himself from responsibility, she failed to see deeply hidden beneath his charming aura in their 8 years of marriage. Such shame, such shame! She pitied herself. But he only smiled wickedly now, which he so carelessly denied to hide and asked her what she wanted.

She said, “ A Divorce”

He quickly said — “Sure”, without giving it a second thought, or without thinking about their daughter, who still did not know what was happening between her parents.

It pained Nylah, to think now that her daughter will be soon feel abandoned, and alone.

As she thought of her husband’s betrayal, her lips curled and nostrils flared. Her head a great deal of throbbing with the blood gushing into the veins. Her once sunny and loving happy family memory, now felt tarred and disfigured. She kept her gaze off him because she did not want to make eye contact with him, she was still so heartbroken by his behaviour, his betrayal, wondering how he could walk out of his family, with a blink of an eye.

She bitterly stifled and made herself comfortable on the doormat spread across the floor after he left slamming the door, right across the room, with an unsympathetic shrug. They say a bad parent was a traumatized child, maybe Dev was caught in the fires of his suffering, thoughts more like a hurricane than poetry. I guess!

Deep down, she believed that there exists a road to forgive, a way to see the bigger picture and move on without having to break this family, without abandoning their daughter, head held high. When we identify it, we can learn to heal, learn to work on the relationship, learn to love anew and approve of each other in a way that is deep and calm. Then they could become good parents and start a new cycle that is loving and healthy, plant a good seed in the rotten wood and watch the new spring grow without drifting apart.

Nylah had lived without her mother, lonely, starved of warmth, little Nylah often stared into the blank wall as she grew up as she did now, looking for answers. She was drowning in the sorrow of her childhood and how her marriage slipping right through her fingers, yet a spark of strength within let her stay strong for a few moments, for her daughter. Then a stream of tears emerged from her eyes along with bitter sobs and screams. What had she done to deserve this dejection? Outcast by her family and frightened by society, all alone she had nowhere to call home if Dev left her. Even though no words came back from the stillness and emptiness in the house, she could hear the sounds of nature, tickling the tip of her ear, keeping her company, giving her strength, to attempt to give her daughter Lily, a normal childhood she deserves.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

On Writing — Stories that escape from your heart

“My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.” —Ernest Hemingway

Photo by Calum MacAulay on Unsplash

Always write from your heart, anytime you feel strongly, write down what you feel, scribble it anywhere tissues, piece of paper or go straight to your phone at tap into it. Pour your heart out when you are crying at 1 am, or you are feeling overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions clouding your head whenever your emotions are heightened.

Writing comes out best when it is pure and raw, genuine coming straight from the heart, helping you connect with the reader. Don’t filter or skip what you write, write everything, everything you feel, everything you want to share, just let your soul flow, like an endless river, a waterfall, onto the page.

At first, there is nothing.

Then, all at once, there is everything in front of you, the flow of words making sense.

Thoughts erupting from the feelings, in the line of thinking each one better than the last. Disorganized thoughts cloud your head, filling minds with crazy and amazing thoughts. This is a true inspiration. It feels being alive, each time you make your intangible thoughts tangible by writing. It makes you awake. More awake than ever before.

Your writing waits to speak their words with their reader, the ink on the paper or the screen will always stay. Your writing is an invitation to readers, making conversation with your thoughts, often unspoken.

In a way, it is a legacy of the writer’s thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be as fleeting as the chirping of a bird, connecting with the reader in their deep subconsciousness, making a lasting connection.

We write to make things right, that is what writers do!

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart”

― William Wordsworth

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in a Few Words

The Turning Point - A Short Story

Photo by Soroush Karimi on Unsplash

In the twilight, her skin shines like honey. Veins run like connected tributaries beneath her skin. She holds the colour of the bark of a tree, dry like a parched field of land. She has flaky abrasions anyone could not help but notice, causing irritable itchiness, redness, and then breaks out into a bump on her honeydew skin with her almost brown eyes.

She believes she has a disagreeable pigment and skin, looking at all the models and advertisements on all the billboards around her city, making her insecure and lower self-esteem. As she approaches with a polite gaze to people surrounding her, she reads not quite right, off the balance, awkward stares, and wants to hide by the hem of her cotton dress and never be visible to the world.

She tries all the remedies to get rid of the pimples and the scars they leave behind as they fade away, with different creams, lotions, fruit peels, flour, everything she could get her hands on, which promised to give clearer skin off the blemishes. Finally, makeup, her pet peeve, was what she turned towards since nothing seemed to work. She was exhausted trying. She started to spend hours in front of the mirror to apply the desired make up, which helped her look her best, in her eyes.

When she looks in the mirror she sees the new confident, appealing and attractive person, boosting up her confidence. When other people look at her all they see is her, her reflection. But that’s because they don’t see her true self, as she hides it from the world, under layers of concealer and creams, afraid of what they would think of her. She did this painful exercise, for years, and started resenting.

One day, something changed. She woke up feeling different. She looked at herself in the mirror, she had sensed self-respect knocking at her door, a long time coming her way. Perhaps she was waiting for the world to grant it to her, to be respected for who she is, so she could mirror it back.

A realization struck her like a lightning, the respect she gained from others is settled at the superficial level, at the cost of coping with society, where she was sending across the message to a great many people — I am just flesh and bones instead of a person with a mind, emotions, and soul to meet.

For without full trust, how can we accept the love of others, when we fail to love ourselves?

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in The Weekly Knob

Anniversary! - A Short Story

Photo by Hutomo Abrianto on Unsplash

Forever, it has been a count of firsts! The first kiss, first hugs, first gifts, first purchases, first frosty winters, first unseen & unending fight — a quarter-century.

Finally, as they took a walk down the memory lane, marking their first glorious anniversary discussing how life went past grappling.

Here & now, it was time for another year of firsts — first night in unshared bedspreads, the first vacation without each other, first celebration alone, the first anniversary by themselves.

It was a glorious first anniversary, which was cut out of their marriage as a sign of separation as they did not feel belonged.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Days of Future Past - A Short Story

Photo by Marin Barisic on Unsplash

It was a normal day and I was bored beyond belief. I was waiting for the package of spray paint to come in since I love experimenting with different colours and medium. Finally, I heard the doorbell go off and I sprinted to the door. When I opened the door, the package was delivered by the agent. I shrug and take it inside. As I open the packed carton box, I realize it is not the right set of spray cans I was waiting for. Irked, I put it on the carpet spread across the hall and sat on the couch, pondering what to do.

I was annoyed with the spray cans muddle. They weren’t even what I ordered! In discontent, I sat across the room thinking. I thought to myself, why not go around the city, to study street art, to get some inspiration, before I get to explore my creative side, this time with jumbled up paint can spray art.

Street art has been a whining baby, crying for attention every time I set my eyes on it, not seeking for a passing change, but for a permanent shift in the heart of our culture and belief system. It was time, I dive in deeper into this notion I have about street art.

I lock the house and set myself for a long walk. I go walking down to the inner city. It grew out of the cracked sidewalk like the jagged gap-toothed grin of an old junkie. The only splash of colour amidst the grime streets was coming from the lurid graffiti, alongside the littered sidewalks. The images I see, bleed right from the canister, emotions too vivid for words, too harsh to hear and too cruel to accept. These graphics imprinted on the walls of the streets, remind me of the book — History of American Grafitti, by Caleb Neelon and Roger Gastman, which spills out a definitive story behind the most influential art form of from the last century. It traces the evolution of this medium from its early freight-train days to its city boom on the streets and the modernization.

As I continue to make my way into the grime shady streets walking, I savvy, the graffiti is talking to every level of the brain, inviting deeper thoughts and realizations, shouting in the truest language of mankind. I see the light, there is a soul in the graffiti art, the pictures depicting troubles and hope, anguish the people living in this world are enduring. It was just depressing and melancholy.

I continued with my incessant walking and observe the spray paint dim in the setting sun, it occurred to me, graffiti didn’t have to be cynical, anti, dismissive, corrosive or detrimental, it could be creative too, by giving it an artistic angle or promote ideas, on social issues and concerns. If only the people could get a real artist to use spray cans, to do something like that on the street walls then maybe the vandals and the protesters would leave the walls alone, respect it even. I think it was worth a try. Certainly, better than supplying another clean canvas for the rebels, racists and the communists to spread terror.

That aerosol filled with spray paint, invented by a paint salesman from northern Illinois could neither control nor predict the impact of his innovations. Who knew would be with a blow-back, used in a manner, which rebels and protesters use to express themselves on the street art?

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in The Weekly Knob

Benefits Beyond the Mat — Power of Yoga

Yoga is a mirror to look at ourselves from within

Photo by Carl Barcelo on Unsplash

I am certain you have heard of yoga some time or other in your lifetime! Let me tell you a few interesting facts about yoga and its inception.

Yoga is over 5000 years old practice of ancient India which is a combination of holding postures, breathing, relaxing and meditating. India’s ancient religious texts, in the language of Vedas, Sanskrit, gave birth to both the literature and the technique of yoga. The idea of doing yoga is not losing weight and increasing heart rate. In the older times, it was not a part of a fitness goal, it was more to do with expanding your inner awareness, increase focus and mental stability and ultimately expand one’s spiritual energy.

Yoga is a light, which once lit will never dim. The better your practice, the brighter your flame.― B.K.S Iyengar

It was widely practised by the sages of ancient India, who believed the yoga is a kind of magnificent tapestry woven together by the inner spirit and the universe. The word yoga is derived from the word “yuj” which means bind and is often a method of discipline one follows. Yoga helps to gain balance, inner peace, coordination as well as physical and overall well being.

Yoga is gaining popularity in today's chaotic and busy lifestyle like never before. The goal and benefit revolves around the central fact of “awareness”

There are a top 5 benefits of practising yoga regularly.

1. Feel the energy flowing inside you, soothes tension and anxiety in the mind and body
2. Yoga helps to calm disturbed and stressed mind, letting you enjoy inner peace
3. Yoga detoxifies the body and improves immunity
4. Yoga and pranayama (mindful breathing) help create awareness and bring the mind back to the present and focused instead of swinging from the past to the future.
5. With the regular practice of yoga, you feel more content and relaxed and at peace with yourself and others. You will notice, you do not get agitated with small things around you and are more patient with your loved ones, improving your relationships.

Begin your journey to a better life with Peace, Love, and Happiness!

Start practising yoga and see the difference it makes in life. I have been practising yoga since 2016 and I have experienced my body becoming more flexible and developed a great sense of self-discipline and self-awareness. It has improved my well-being and given me mental clarity and peace.

Start yoga today, even it is it for 15–20 minutes, sit down and relax your mind and body. Your mind and body will thank you for that.

Namaste!

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
Originally published on a Few Words. 

Downhill

Photo by Tyler Mullins on Unsplash

I sat there in silence, dwelling on my thoughts, zoned out, staring into the black tunnel, willing to see the lights blinking at me, growing closer, declaring I am on my way closer. The quiet chills me, suddenly adrenaline flows through, hushing me, crashing my courage, as I go downhill. 

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published on The Friday Fix.

Homecoming Reunion

A place where I once belonged

Photo by Mike Scheid on Unsplash

Returning home I feel like a tortoise retracting into her secure shell. I drive down the road leading towards my home, where I lived for most of my life and my heart both sinks and rises all at once. I sink because I used to know every rise and dip on the trail, yet no longer. To anyone else, this is a house like all the others beside it, but to me, it was where I once belonged.

I haven’t forgotten, it is the path that has changed over the course of time, due to footfalls and weathering. I rise to experience what awaits me at the end, a place of love, happiness, warmth and endless chatter, then I’ve had these countless days that have gone by like a zapping bullet train.

Come home, little flower, I hear my mother whispering. Come home and talk while we sip the tea of love, and laugh over our own silliness and talk heart to heart, and I will make the dishes like the way you relish it.

Why did we ever sweat the small stuff? Why didn’t we let go and enjoy the ride all along? Maybe it took time, to realize those were the best days we shared and there is no turning back. The joy still exists, but with a twist, we meet a couple of days a year now, once every few months, we look forward to, so be with me now. Stay. Pack your bags and come visit me and belong, or perhaps I will do the same as time passes by.

Photo by Calum Lewis on Unsplash

Come we’ll paint new memories of togetherness, and do things the way you like it. So come along as you are here I am happy, I am content. We all are here!

Now, everyone is out of their kilter, it is hard to believe, I’m no longer a part of the natural flow of their lives (my parents and my sister), and there is a deep longing and unsaid things, which leaves rustic memories lingering, like a scent of a sweet apple pie.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in I Challenge You. 

Reflection and Reminiscence

I smell the distinct awakened memories, echoes of the long-gone days, the pictures of which are worn out, faded and damp, or perhaps some even crumbled. I mistook them as just memories, but these are what made me, me.

They might not be the fantastic ones or the worst ones, etching their impermeable marks on me. My reminiscing of these gently scented memories are beyond just the stills captured by the celluloid, unless I visit them time to time, to see how we all lived in the earlier years of our life, where there was so much of liveliness, attention, and connection deeper than just the hugs, storytelling or frivolous fights. It was in quieter moments of joy in kinship, saw the underlying true nature of my parents. I saw a childlike spirit in my mother and assiduous nature in my father, evolving each time. I want these, rather I need these memories to stay with me, to soothe me when bad ones threaten to erase the traces of the good ones. They are evidence of lively souls that belong together even when they faltered. They are extraordinary people with kindness and the best intentions I have known in my life. And who am I to judge? Life puts each one of us through enough stress, to change the best of us, even me, and even you!

Photo by sarandy westfall on Unsplash

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

The Other Woman

Photo by ian dooley on Unsplash

“Careful honey, the revolver is loaded,” he said as he made a drink for himself in a hotel suite.

“Is this for your wife?”

“No! I think I will hire someone to do that, do you know any hit-man we can trust?”

“Me?”

He smirked as he sat next to her caressing her back and taking a sip from his drink.

“I wonder who hires a lady hit man?”

“Your loving wife!”

She shot him dead on the spot.

“Oh yes, a lady hit man indeed can!"

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Blinding Monotony

Photo by Nik MacMillan on Unsplash

Encased by the white tiles all around her, in an enormous room with so many washers, makes her weary. She shows up, each day, every single day of the year, at the same time and leaves at half-past five. She loads the insatiable machines, begrudging every minute lost. Sodden dresses, mismatched booties, soiled pajamas, red leotards, mud-stained soccer shorts, soccer-socks, pinafores, stained uniforms, skirts, jeans, sweaters, trousers.

Eventually, she dwindls her efforts, washing only max of two loads on a given day, and cudgels her brains speculating why her days are painfully long now!

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, explore my other poems/flash fiction stories.

Out of Ordinary - A Flash Fiction

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

At half-past 2 a.m, Jen woke up and stumbled into her own bed. Normally Bruce came crawling into her bed at dawn, falling asleep beside her for a few hours. But this morning her bed was empty. She thought of food, before looking for Bruce. A remainder, her body worked hard, as she slept through the night. She heard a distant sound of his voice, a sound of cry broke out. Jen raced towards the garden where she was startled, to see Bruce had hurt his tiny fingers, trying to plant new saplings like her dad did, while he had visited them.

She realized, how helpful it was to have her dad around. Bruce spent time with her dad outdoors, playing in the garden and splashing water from the bucket, or searching for worms underneath as her dad dug up soil for planting. With someone to keep Bruce engaged until dusk, let her a lot of time to be alone. The me-time she longed since she had Bruce and with her husband traveling most of the time it was a far fetched dream.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

A Phone Call - A Flash Fiction

Photo by Can Ahtam on Unsplash

The phone rang piercing through the stillness of the first flush of morning. Justin arises from the bed with a sudden pounding in his heart as his phone rings.

He knew it was his father before answering the call; there was no one else who would have called him before nine. He has not spoken to his father in several weeks. He was visiting his parents, his paternal grandparents back in Eswatini.

As he answered the phone, it left him scandalized and the phone hanging by the cord. He did not expect his dad to break such a piece of news to him. Justin’s thoughts take him down the memory lane to his mother’s loving memories. The wish for her to be here fills him with such rage and bitterness that his brain could explode. His dad called to tell him, he has a stepmother and a stepbrother who was about ten, fourteen years younger to him.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Magic. I'm aboard - A unique perspective on creativity

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

Let me talk about magic in this creative world of writing, I have devoted almost my entire lifetime.

To begin with, the idea established itself in my head while I was occupied re-reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Each time I read that book, I find some new thought transcending, a divine feeling towards creativity and commitment it calls for. Surreal energy making me write and motive me to continue on this path. Ideas too, have an energy and a will, to manifest, so they travel. They travel and pay visits to humans, who could manifest them as actual.

According to Ruth Stone — 
“Ideas are entering and exiting the human consciousness at whim”

I experienced an idea knocking at my door, waiting to be manifested, and left empty-handed!

Allow me to explain.

As I was scanning through Medium on a gloomy Wednesday morning, I stumbled upon a published article, an idea, which had knocked on my door about 8–9 months ago. Maybe as Liz says in the book, the idea waits only for a certain time, and if you don’t welcome it, it will find someone else to come alive.
I have believed in magic and ideas inspiring the writers or others who have set out their creative journey. But this has been the closest encounter of Magic for me!

An article, by Shaunta Grimes, also states, how important it is to stay available, letting your creative juices flowing, welcoming the ideas which need to be brought to life!

Ergo, stay put, make yourself available for ideas to come your way, build your ideas before it jumps out of your window into a new home.


©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in a Few Words.

Enchanted

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

John my uncle was getting more impatient, my aunt Lucy more peculiar, and me in love each day. 

What shall we all be at this rate at the end of the coming year!

Upon enchanted by creative imagination, the new year embarked on her experience in the creative writing world. 

©Shweta, 2020
Originally published in The Friday Fix

Wee Hours - A Short Story

Photo by Matthew Hamilton on Unsplash

A dead silence ensued in the wee hours when a boy & the girl kept running. Their legs are hurting, their lungs are screaming saying, “We give up”, but they had to find their way!

Walking past them, a person covered in a grey coat and a hoodie. The boy asked if they were heading right, the lady confirmed the route they set out on. As they ran through the city at the wee hours in the morning, with limited people and vehicles, they felt lost!

After running and gasping for breath for about 15 minutes, they got a gut feeling, they were heading in the wrong direction. With the passing turn, they followed the track backward, delighted to see a guard standing at the subway. Upon consulting him, he directed them in the right direction. They continued running with the clock was ticking, their destination was nowhere to be seen. As they passed a few random people, the girl asked for directions, and the person said — “Hurry, run before 7 o’clock”! The boy & girl ran faster, up until they finally arrived at the London Bus station, and saw their bus they had to board!

©Shweta, 2020 All rights reserved!
Originally published in Written Tales 

Subway - Short Story

Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash

The man ran up the stairs gasping for his breath.

He could feel his heartbeat, his head throbbing.

There was the sudden thrust of air pushing from one direction, and he heard the horn go off.

Blinded by melancholy, as the subway came closer, the man jumped!

He was gone, head crushed on the wheels of the subway train.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.