The sentinel

 Beyond the bethel,

mundane humdrum existence. 

People going about their routines,

rushing with their chores and errands.

Everyone, hurrying for everything.

And the bethel stands there,

watching it all unfold in its lap. 

The hamlet waking up at cockcrow, 

running helter-skelter from dawn to dark,

and finally, 

yawning and slumbering at witching hours. 

At times, the faithful visit the precincts,

gravitating herewards to find peace

in its sacred confines. 

But that's not often too.

And yet the bethel stands sentinel, 

watching our comings and goings. 

Dutifully, the bells toll,

the tradition remains. 

A subtle pause midst all the hustling.

Linking owith Friday Fictioneers

Welfare unto all 

Rab rakha 

Spin

Linking with Sammi Cox : Weekend Writing Prompt #107

Reflections

Linking with Crimson's Creative Challenge #25

Vulnerable

Linking with Sammi Cox : Weekend Writing Prompt #103 - Vulnerable

Valentine's in September

Some fine evening of September.
A hazelnut latte for me.
And a strawberry frappe for you.
You made a face at my choice.
I, at yours.
Such were we.
Dissimilar. Different. Divergent.
But our laughter
rang the loudest
in that busy cafeteria.
So, such were we.
Absorbed. Oblivious. Fulfilled.
And then,
our eyes latched
and our souls stirred.
And then suddenly,
out of the blue,
You raised our glasses, “Cheers”
 and swapped them.
“Let’s celebrate our valentine’s”
I sipped the frappe from your glass.
“Valentine’s in September”.
Such were we.
Atypical. Dissenters. Way-outs.
Listening to silences.
Speaking to souls.

Linking with Carrot Ranch Literary Community : Feb 14, 2019 Prompt 

Perspective

Eventide.
The waves crashing at shores.
The roar of hungry ocean,
consuming the remains of the day greedily.
The ferries anchored,
owners back to their nests.
Just like the sea-gulls
huddling in colonies.
The air-balloon descending,
hysteria lowering each minute.
You pull me close and hug me tight.
Melancholically.
Cockcrow.
The ocean exhales energy.
Cold waves wash everything afresh,
dissolving the litter of yesterday.
Sea-gulls squawk in distance
readying for the flight.
Ferries rock gently,
setting momentum for the day.
A hot air-balloon rises,
hysteria growing each minute.
You hug me tight
as you leave for work.
A buoyant hug.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : wash

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers - 183rd

Monsoon mayhem

"It will keep drizzling as long as you keep snuggling".
"Let's wreck havoc then!", she said as she cozied against him.
Outside, the drizzle turned to torrents.

Caprine jam

Gaddis are on move,
for food and fodder and life.
Large flocks of sheep
and some goats,
the wherewithal of this nomadic cult,
block the highway oftentimes,
that treacherous mountain road
with its serpentine circuits,
steep falloffs and dizzying heights.
The slow but sure-footed bleating caprines
making their way through hairpin turns and narrow hilly lanes.
A sight to behold in itself.
There is a beautiful melancholy in their move,
a harmony, a congruence of elements,
a comfort in this roadblock.
A couple of blind lefts and rights,
and I will be home.
Home, that I carry in my heart.

Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Not a flower girl

Here I am,
in the waiting lounge
and instead of sipping on iced tea,
this time
I hold a little flower box in my hand.
Fresh flowers, a loud red,
look delicate but feel heavy.

A little chaos rages within me,
a steam unfurling in depths of heart,
a reflection of clamour outside.
I want to wave it off
as nausea of impending journey
But I know its not that
or maybe it is.

But flowers just don't do it for me.

If only the bus would start,
perhaps the rhythm of wheels
will overcome this sinking feeling.

Flowers! Seriously!

Linking with Friday Fictioneers
Linking with 100 Word Challenge: Thin Spiral Notebook

Such pretty dolls

I and Yashika enthusiastically embarked on doll pilgrimage. What better way to spend International Doll's Day.

Two initiates in doll-cult enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Dolls dating back to 1700s. Dolls gifted by royalty. Dolls depicting traditions and trends. Dolls intricate and dolls, crude and rudimentary. Dolls with broken parts and dolls finished to perfection. Antiques to modern. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage. Though with their disheveled looks, blackened eye sockets, grim looks and soiled rags, they looked horrifying. Like they had been taken out of some horror movie. Looking at them made us uncomfortable so we hurriedly moved to next display.

For a fleeting instance, I felt the focus of those ghostlike dolls shift. Following my movement. I disregarded the feeling.

There were prettier dolls to look at and I started concentrating on the collection again. But those black eyes never left me. I felt they were watching my steps and marking my moves.

By the time I was ready to move on to next display, the other visitors had left. The hall was soundless. No rushing feet, no clamor of kids, no excited shrieks.

Where was Yashika? Where was everybody?

I rushed through the aisles, searching for both Yashika and exit door. The mobile network ditched me. A frightened mind commits many mistakes. Instead of moving towards exit, I had somehow traced my steps back to that miscellaneous section with those scary dolls.

No!

I moved away from them.

But ghostly scary dolls stared from every aisle, every section.

I was alone in a large lonely hall with scary dolls all around me.

Then a doll from some aisle laughed. Loud. Raucous.

More laughter followed. All dolls joined in.

Then the one seemingly from The Child's Play started moving towards me.

The others followed.

In a practiced beat.

I backed.

They marched.

I backed further.

Further and further until I stumbled.

Then I was dead and dolls were gone.

Wait.

I was not dead but the dolls were gone.

Or

Maybe I was dead but dolls were still there.

Muddled. Messed up.

Then I heard my mobile ringing.

Dead people don't have mobiles. So I was not dead. I had not fallen.

Happy Doll's Day, doll. Wanna visit the doll museum? Yashika raved.

Some nightmare!

I was totally distracted. Yet Yashika rambled on. Until she convinced me to meet her. To celebrate international doll's day. At doll museum.

Despite my misgivings, we embarked on our tour enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage.

Such pretty dolls, I vouched before Yashika could comment anything and dragged her on to next section.

But in that fleeting instant, I swear those dolls winked.

TRUST ME !

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #12

When the thorn bush turns white

When the thorn bush turns white, he thinks.
His hands worked in the farm with all sincerity, aware of the field supervisor's eyes that missed nothing. Tired, spiritless souls picking and stacking their hard labour for selling in bigger markets, waiting earnestly for 10th of each month when their effort would be rewarded with crisp currency.
It was for survival that he had first moved out of his hilly hamlet. Back in his home town, the winters were long and harsh. A burning hearth needed earning hands. So he came here and labored his days in the orchards of this valley which bustled all time with clamor of touring feet.
Out here, life itself seemed long and harsh; a frenzied subsistence.
He yearned for dreary winters and cozy quilts; ached for mother's lap; yenned for father's embrace and longed to hear tinkling laughter of his folks. He even pined for insular niches ringing with folktales. Every single mention of his village sent goosebumps through his skin. Every picture of his hometown coming to life before his eyes.
But he knows that survival of his ménage depends on his daily struggles. So, he burns in this leave. Endures the pain. Earns the money and sends a decent share back to his people. Hoping the monied message will translate into his love and affection.
Perhaps someday, he thinks, when the thorn bush turns white, he might be able to go home.

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #11

Struts in beauty

A vision to hold,
A fleeting summer romance,
Struts like a peacock.


This week's photo prompt is provided by, Sonya, with the blog, Only 100 Words. Thank you Sonya!

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Antiques from her wall

Rusting sentiments from the wall,

Souvenirs from their many escapades,

Vintage car in which he brought her home,

Even her potted glories,

All dusted and buffed for garage sale,

Possessions of their love claimed by some strangers,

But pieces of her heart would go nowhere else.

This week's photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com (free to use photos).

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Peeping past

The sidewalks littered
With innocent footsteps
Outrunning each other
To find the best hiding place.
The IT counting till hundred
Occasionally peeping across
And seeing the silhouettes
Sliding behind the cobwebbed niches.
The pretence of
Making the search
Calling out,
Winning, loosing,
Playing and replaying
The childhood laughing
And celebrating
The festival of life,
Thoroughly.
The spectres of
Good old days
Peeping now and then
Only to find
The ruckus of tiddlers
Silenced
By shadows of youth
Wandering through this labyrinth
Confounded,
Blinded by dimes and dollars.
Fractured bodies
Supplanted by
Fractured souls.
Life left behind
In
Unfrequented dusty alleys.

Image by Bill Brandt, 1934

Linking with Light and Shade Challenge

Recess by Beas

Our hands brushed,

Accidentally, of course,

By the banks of Beas,

Plastering

The walls of our castle

With soggy silver sparkles.

My clumsy patches

Smoothened

With your finesse.

Day-by-day,

Our tiny hands

Moulding our dreams,

Aiming

Higher, loftier, stronger,

Occasionally ornate, too.

And then the chase

To the classroom

Where we would

Sit alongside

And learn

The impressive

Array of facts.

We would return,

Each day,

Only to find

Our caresses, corroded

And

Our footprints, ironed

By the eventide.

But that didn't deter us.

Ever.

Sometimes,

I wonder if you remember

Those recesses by Beas,

Or is it just me.

This week's photo prompt is provided by Sonya with the blog, Only 100 Words. 

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Musings from farms

Farmhands moved away,

Lured by the glitz of cities,

hopes of better work.

Mother earth left deserted,

Coffee and jobs both erased.

Wild weeds aplenty,

Travails lost to empty nests.

The bosom, untilled,

Several genus trampled.

Empty percolators stare.

Reminiscent farmlands abound.

Unleashed

Born to conquer the wilds,
Their free spirits
Tamed by human needs.
Locked in doghouses,
Kennelled and inhibited,
The nascent canines
Adapting and adjusting
To our ways and wills.
One day we unlatched
The outbuildings
Relieving the whimpering gangs
Of invisible pain.

The Blue Moon

They were breathless by the time they reached the hilltop. A humid 31st night of July was definitely not an ideal time to run and hike. But it was "the Blue Moon" night. The legend held that the couples who watched the Blue moon's light bath the tombstones with love were blessed with a "happy everafter" for seven lifetimes. Barely in kindergarten, they did not know how long a lifetime was. What excited them was the prospect of a very long time together. So, they waited while the moon left the tombstones awash with the promise of an endless love. Sempiternal love resting in background, he sealed his date with a little peck on her cheek and whispers of 31st January, 2018 in her ears. She giggled her yes. Hand in hand, they retraced their steps on grassy mound while the Blue moon smiled at them.

This week's photo prompt is provided by Louise with “The Storyteller's Abode.” 

Linking with Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

The prophesier

Slender fingers,
Held my tea-cup.
Purple voice
Poured prophecies.
Something would hit me.
I kept thinking car.
But Cupid's Arrow!
Cagey, Christine.
You didn't tell me that.
Or perhaps you did.
But the voice died in jangle
Of bangles on your wrist.

Wintery musings

We fall, like snow flakes.
Crystal wishes blanketing.
Melting and blending,
The firelight keeping us warm.
Winter leaves a blazing trail.

Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers

Linking with Friday Fictioneers