Tag Archives: short story

ILAA : THE DAUGHTER OF MANU

Close to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton farmers, her family was well to do, but not among the richest in their area. It was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks, carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time. Work was at its peak!

But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn’t working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.

“I am sick of this!” she grunted loudly.

“Still thinking of your dream?” Tara calmly inquired, her gaze fixed on flowing Godavari.

“Why can’t I shake this off – it comes back again and again!”

“Come on it’s just a nightmare”

“And what about all the trouble it brings after it?”

“What is there to worry so much about it? And anyway, I like you better when you call yourself Sudyumna; you act so peaceful and logical.”

“What about that I don’t remember a second what happened during it. Baba says I get possessed, because I go out at night with my hair untied.”

“Nonsense, why do we girls only need to follow all the rules?”

“Exactly, was goddess Kaali always possessed? She always had her hair untied.”

“You are no less fearsome than goddess Kaali, when you have the sword unsheathed.”

“And you still prefer me as Sudyumna?”

“I don’t want to lie, but the warrior Ilaa is much more useful at current situation”

“Now you are talking. So is our tonight’s plan final?”

“Yes we meet at midnight.”

 

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Thee midsummer sun is on its way towards the horizon. Manuraj Konde was hurrying back home, after a long day at his farm. The roads were mostly empty; the cowherd are yet to come back with their cattle. Manuraj takes the turn at the edge of the mango grove towards his house, and he hears the commotion. The village kids were most probably fighting for the mangoes. Manuraj was about to ignore the lot with a smile, when the sight made him stop in his track. It was not a usual fight between the boys. It was fight between two sari wearing girls fighting against six boys; some seemed even elder than the two. He recognized one as Tara, who was shielding the mango loot, pushing and biting whosoever tried coming near her. But she was hardly facing any trouble, as the boys were finding the other girl quite handful. The other girl, about five or six in age, with her untied mane flaying, was fighting the boys’ singlehandedly. With her sari tied in the traditional Marathi style, her legs were free to issue the deadly kicks; while holding one of the boys by his neck around her left arm, she was punching and slapping furiously at the rest. Soon the boys gave up; one of them lifted a pebble, planning to throw at the girls. Tara’s shout alerts the other girl, who stared back at the boy to dare him throw. The boy got the message and fled. With victory confirmed, the girl, deftly tied her hair into a bun and turned towards Tara. Manuraj was stunned to see her daughter Ilaa.

Manuraj, decided not to confront her rebellious daughter in front of the village, and took a detour to his home. Like every day, Sharadabai ensured that the water was ready for Manuraj to take a wash before he rested in the porch, leaning against the mud wall beside the main door to the hutment. He stopped after drinking half of his glassful of buttermilk and called his wife,

“Sharadabai, are you sure you gave birth to a girl?”

“What kind of question is this? We got Ilaa after so much prayer. I know, both of us wanted a boy, but by the blessing of Mitra, our sun-god, we had Ilaa. And after five years of her birth you are still unsure about her?”

“Well what I saw today gave me the doubt, if she is really what we think she is.”

“Now what did she do? I am tired of all the complaint I get from the neighbors,” Sharadabai could not suppress a touch of tiredness in her tone.

“Nothing serious, she just fought off five or six village boys singlehandedly, while her friend Tara defended their loot”

“I would say, those boys deserves thrashing, if they can’t handle two little girls,” responds Sharadabai, this time with a smile in her face and satisfaction in her tone.

“But Sharada, she is getting older now; soon we need to tell her not to roam so freely with the boys. Tell her to start helping you around the house.”

“Can’t we send her to Rahuji’s ashram?”

“Are you mad Sharada? Sending a girl to ashram? We will be ostracized by the entire village. Not a single girl from Sauviragram has ever gone to ashram.”

Sharadabai remained silent for a while, lost in her thought. When she saw Manuraj, keeping down the empty glass, she hurried to take it from her hand; looking down, she pleaded her husband –

“If you promise not to be angry, can I share something with you?”

“Now what is in your mind?”

“I took the liberty to show Ilaa’s birth chart to Guruma, in the Ashram. You know unlike rest of the females at Sauvira, she is not only literate, but more learned than many males. She has deep knowledge of astrology, and do you know what she predicated for Ilaa?”

Manuraj was already stunned. Though villagers do talk about Guruma Durga being literate, her being an expert proponent of astronomy was beyond his imagination. Awestruck Manuraj managed to ask his wife for the details, and Sharada started-

“Guru-ma predicted that our Ilaa has stars’ support to change the history of Maharashtra and Marathas. With the blessing of Vishnu, she will guide the nation against the oppression. That’s why I was wondering if we can somehow help her with knowledge.”

“Even if you manage to coax Guru-ma, how do you plan to convince Rahuji Somnath? He is lord Shiva incarnate. Have you not heard tales of his temper? By the grace of Lord Parshuram, he is like his lord, a Brahmin whom even the kings fear to face in battle.”

“That’s also why I want Ilaa to attend ashram. While working there, I have seen guruji has special class for his favourite disciples. He not only teaches Veda and Vedanta, but also how to wield a staff and swords.”

“I know, but don’t talk around about it. It’s on special request of Shivaji maharaj. But that still doesn’t answer my question – how do you convince guruji to take Ilaa as his disciple?”

“We won’t tell him. I will take him dressed as boy. There is anyway very less difference between a boy and our Ilaa, which you have seen today. But of course I will tell Guruma. And I think she will be happy to see her prediction coming to life in front of her eyes.”

“Are you sure Sharada that this would work? She is our only child. She hardly keeps her hair tied, and you want her to hide it under a headgear, pretending to be a boy?”

“Just tell her once that she could beat a boy, and she will be ready to do anything you tell her.”

“She really hates boys that much?”

“It’s not boys, neither is it hatred. She is just tired of being a girl tied down by our society; she want to break free.”

“May be this is what Vidhata has written for her,” conceded Manuraj. Though fear of risking the life of his only child, putting her against all societal norms, sent a chill down his spine.

 

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Dashahara was around the corner. Sitting under a peepal tree beside his land, Manuraj surveyed the tilling of his farm. Soon it will be time to sow the cotton. Ilaa has been studying in ashram for almost six years now. Guruma was already seeing her prophecy coming to life.

Last year the Nizams of Ahmednagar lost Khidki to Mughals. They say, Mughal prince has decided to make the town his southern head-quarter. He even changed the name of Khidki. Fateh Khan named the growing town on his name – Fatehnagar. Now the Mughal prince announced it to be on his own name – Aurangabad. If even half of what is rumoured is true, then it’s bad for all. Both Malik Amber and Fateh Khan were fierce warriors, but they cared for the commoners. Mughal’s have only aim; to fill their coffer. They have already started plundering all towns and villages one by one. They not only have eye for the cottons we reap but the girls we protect.

Manuraj’s chains of thoughts are disturbed by some unfamiliar nose. The relative calm of the land is pierced by some faint noise coming from the direction of Sauvira. Manuraj got up and turned his eyes towards his village. Soon a thick cloud of smoke started rising; the shrieks and cries of women grew louder. And then their worst fear was confirmed by the loud war cries of Mughal force. Their Sauviragram was being ravaged. Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran with their life. Manuraj was praying hard while he ran. They must have come to know about the troop that Guru Rahuji Somnath is training. But Sharada and Ilaa are also there. And everyone knows what a plundering army does to the females.

By the time Manuraj reached the ashram, it was already blazing. The thick smoke-filled with the stench of blood and burning flesh made it hard to see of move forward. Manuraj wrapped his turban around his face and moved ahead. He stumbled on something and nearly fell on his face. Dead-bodies were strewn around in heaps. Involuntarily he raised his hand to his forehead as a mark of respect. The one on which he stumbled was not hard to recognize; the flowing white beard confirmed the fierce guru of the ashram has left this earth. But where is Ilaa? Did Sharadabai manage to escape?

The authoritative voice of Guruma pulled Manuraj to left of the ashram. Blocking the entrance of a hut, she was trying to stop the Mughal general.

“They are only female kids; they can’t hurt you. Please leave them alone. You already have what you came for.”

A soldier shouted back, Ï have seen a slimy Marathi woman take his boy inside; they must be hiding other boys too.”

Guruma was clearly taken aback. Then it stuck Manuraj, they must be talking about Ilaa and his wife. Before he could think of anything, the general signaled and the thatched roof of the hut was on fire. The collective cries of girls inside wrenched Manuraj’s heart out. He was about to dash out to save them, when a hand stopped him from behind. Others behind him pointed the shrubs at the back of the hut. They crouched and started making way to back. A young one not able to bear the heat dashed out, with her mother behind her. Before the mother could reach the girl, a spear impaled the hapless girl. Moments later the mother was scooped up by a soldier mounted on his horse. The men were already at the back of the hut with their farming tools, frantically trying to dig a tunnel.

Manuraj was among the first to enter the hut. Sharada was already on fire, with wailing Ilaa trying to put out the fire on her mother clothes. Manuraj held Ilaa’s hand and dragged her away. One look at Sharada, and he saw her dying eyes recognized him. He gave a peaceful smile before she finally passed away. Ilaa was desperately trying to break free to save her mother. Manuraj dragged her away.

Sound of a hundred footsteps, muffled screams in the dark tunnel. Clutching her father’s hand with all her might, she turns her head, eyes frantically searching for a face.

“Dad, she is still there inside, we must go back!”

“Come-on child, you want to live? Or die like rest of the lot?”

Father’s sweaty hand was slowly slipping out of her clutch as they emerged from the tunnel.

 

******************************************************************************

 

‘I am sick of this!’ she grunted loudly.

‘Still thinking of your dream?’ Tara calmly inquired, her gaze fixed on flowing Godavari.

It’s the dream of that fateful night that kept chasing Ilaa for last four years. And every-time she dreams of it, she wakes up to be a different person. Ilaa dreams and Sudyumna wakes up; Sudyumna of Rahuji Somnath’s ashram dreams and Ilaa comes back.

Tara was not complaining. Sudyumna had the best of plans, he was not only articulate to the last detail, but could cough of examples and reasons to support their cause, from every Purana and Upanishads you can name. And Ilaa was Chandika incarnate. When she moved with her sword, no one dared to come close. They both were an asset to the guerrilla group they formed to save the common Marathi’s’ from the rampaging Mughal army.

“So we are meeting at midnight?” Ilaa wanted to confirm.

“Yes of course; there will be only a small contingent with the Mughal tax collectors,” confirmed Tara. “But before you leave I have some news for you.”

“What is it now?”

“My dad is coming tomorrow.”

“Hansaji Mohite? Chief General of Shivaji, coming? Is everything all right?”

“Shivaji is coming with him too.”

“What? What is going here? What are you hiding from me?”

“I have to go – he is coming to take me to Raigad. I am to wed Prince Rajaram Bhosale in fifteen days.”

“Oh my god, you are going to be a queen? But what will happen to our troop?”

“I am leaving it under you. Train them well. I hope Sudyumna also teaches them well. When the time comes, I will call for you. We have to fulfil Guruma’s prophecy. You and me together, we will make sure Maharashtra rises.”

With her eyes fixed on the flowing water of Godavari, Tara said, “Men say, we need to be protected, as the first thing any invader does is to attack the land’s women. We are Shakti. If they believed in us, we could not only protect ourselves, but them, and our motherland.”

Tara saw two unfamiliar beads of tears swelling up from her friend’s eyes. Ilaa picks up a scoop of Godavari’s water in her right hand, and places it on top of Tara’s right hand. Together they vowed to fight together when time calls, to rewrite India’s and Maharashtra’s history.

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The Other Birthday!

A-rainy-evening

I checked my watch as I scrambled out of my cabin. I am late, the kids are back at home, hungry. Given the option I would have loved to stay back at home. But to raise two kids, the second income is a necessity. And obviously, I don’t want to go back into the vortex of self-pity driven depression, by sitting idle at home.

Rushing towards the exit, I noticed the rain outside. Cursing my luck, I rummaged my tote bag for the umbrella, as I stepped out in the rain. I knew it’s not there. The morning never gave any hint of rain. I ran across the road to the other side, hoping to catch an auto quickly. But as usual they all vanished the moment the raindrops hit the ground. I stood at the entrance of the café, the rain splattered eyeglasses making it even more difficult to spot any vacant incoming auto.

Looking at the dark clouds overhead, I cursed them, I hate rain – I hate dark clouds. Or do I? They used to be my closest ally – when did I start hating them? In a flash, I went back eight years and saw a female in a hospital bed. It was me, trying to get back to life after the futile suicide attempt. And I remembered him, the rain-maker! He came into my life, just to show me the life I had.

All I saw in him was a desperate guy, head over heels in love with a middle-aged married woman; surely it was hunger. But I also felt the desperation, was slipping out of marriage. So I did what was best for both. And just like he came, he was gone; in a flash! It was me who drove him out.

I trail of though was abruptly broken as I felt the raindrops stopped falling on me. Someone has opened an umbrella for me. Startled, I looked back to find his eagle eyes looking back; still the same, piercing look that sees through your soul.

“You? Here? When did you come to town?”

“I came here to wish you ‘Happy Birthday’!”

“My birthday is 3 months later.”

“No, the second birthday you had. I come every year, sitting here, in this café to wish you on this day.”

Before I could reply, he signaled a vacant auto, and led me to it. I scampered in and told the driver the destination. While I settled down in the seat, alone, the enormity of what just happened hit me. It was today, eight years back, I was in the hospital bed, fighting for a new life. Did he really come to the city on this day for all these years?

I poke my head out to find him. He was walking down the footpath, hands in pocket, umbrella tucked in his backpack, soaking in the rain, looking at my receding auto, a hint of smile hanging at the corner of his lips. That’s when I knew for sure, he, my rain-maker really loved me.

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Wrote for an online competition after ages – since it didn’t get any response – thought of publishing it here and see what my regular readers say about it !

 

Storyteller : Friday Fictioneers 31 July 2015

PHOTO PROMPT © G.L. MacMillan.

PHOTO PROMPT © G.L. MacMillan.

“So tell me sir, as an author, where do you get such dramatic characters?”
“Real life is always more dramatic than any drama.”
“You mean these colorful characters are real? But they all eventually die.”
“They can tell me a story only after it’s complete.”
“You mean, you somehow managed to meet and talk to dead people? Where? How?”
“You know, it’s scary even for the souls to live in the open. They feel secure in my bottles, giving the transparent glass bottles color of their characters. And they feel good to be able to talk to someone. This is where I sit and talk to them, one bottle at a time.”

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Written for Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle – rest of the fictions are the froggy link below:

Six Scoop Cone : Friday Fictioneers 24 July 2015

PHOTO PROMPT © Dee Lovering PHOTO PROMPT © Dee Lovering

“Joe the Snow”-s ice cream cart bell woke me up.
Just 11 AM.
I slept late last-night at 7.
I could do with a six scoop cone.
But that involves getting out of bed, the jacket, a hike of 20 yards across the park and lots of snow!
How I wish Joe could come to my window to take my order.
The only stuff within reach is the bed-side table, with a clock, match-box, candle, and a glass of water.

Ten minutes and six tries later, people in the park were dowsing the fire on the window curtain. There they are, Bob – the balloon man, two park rangers, a beggar, and “Joe”.

I can beat Garfield hands down any day.

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There were 2 plots fighting in my head – one inspired by Rochelle’s weather story the other Garfield. I guess even untiring Rochelle is no match for Garfield. He won and so this is this week’s FF.

For cue of Friday Fictioneers hop on to Rochelle’s den. The rest of the fictions are at the blue froggy link below. 

Banquet of Burgundy : Friday Fictioneers July 17, 2015

PHOTO PROMPT- © Sandra Crook

PHOTO PROMPT- © Sandra Crook

The cooks in Duke of Burgundy’s kitchen were cleaning up after a successful banquet.

“The discussions in the banquet today were quite heated”
“Yes! King Phillip was furious.”
“I guess Edward’s sheltering that scheming Robert was the last straw.”
“But our duke did good selection of menu; and they cleaned up our entire stock”
“You mean the whole 70 gallon?”
“Every ounce of it!”
“Am sure that much mustard is surely going to burn them for years”
“It’s England who should worry – we will be fighting them with fire in our belly.”
“And they will remember the Dijon Mustard for centuries to come.”

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Odo IV, Duke of Burgundy held a Banquet at Dijon hosting then King of France, Philip VI in 1336. Phillip on the same year had a bitter disconnect with the king of England, Edward III. The worsening relationship through of a series of events in 1336, saw the beginning of the 100 years’ war from 1337. Its recorded that the said banquet consumed 70 Gallons of Dijon mustard – the highest ever consumed in a single sitting. This is an attempt to connect the dots in a lighter note!

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Reverent Rochelle. Rest of the fictions at the froggy link below-

Switch : Friday Fictioneers 10 July 2015

PHOTO PROMPT © Stephen Baum

PHOTO PROMPT © Stephen Baum

Lucy took a deep breath and closed her eyes, slipping into a trance.

Soon it was that familiar feeling, sound of a hundred footsteps, muffled screams in the dark tunnel. Clutching her father’s hand with all her might, she turns her head, eyes frantically searching for a face.

“Dad, she is lost, we must go back!”

“Come-on child, you wanna live, or die like your weakling mother?”

Father’s sweaty hand was slowly slipping out of her clutch as they emerged from the tunnel.

Watching the gradually falling BP, from the corner of his eyes Dr. Pummel noticed the ‘switch’.

“What’s your name?”

“Lucas, of course”

In his concluding report doctor wrote ‘severe DID’.

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With all the tours and work pressure, I was in pain, not being able to write my FF or read any other’s. So made sure I wrote this week. DID  or Dissociative Identity Disorder is one of the most controversial psychiatric disorders. Two very famous cases can be found here. Currently working on a character for my next fiction based on a Hindu mythological personality that can be a classical example of DID.

Written for Friday Fictioneers – where our gracious fellow fictioneer gives us a reason to feel good by expressing ourselves. Rest of the fictions at the link below:

New Kitchen Garden : Friday Fictioneers 12 June 2015

PHOTO PROMPT -© Raina Ng PHOTO PROMPT -© Raina Ng

Half asleep, I picked up the ringing phone; the international number told me it was brother.

“Good evening brother”
“Guess it’s good morning for you; so how do you like the new place.”
“Problem is food –vegetables are alien here; the one I know are difficult to get!”
“Have a kitchen garden – plant them”
“What about spices?”
“Plant them too”
“And then grind-n-mix?”
“Or genetically modify – make then give powdered and mixed spices”
“It’s difficult to get meat too!”
“You can always invent a Meat-Plant”
“With chicken fruit and mincemeat pods?”
“Yeah! And remember to have a pond”
“To water the plants?”
“No silly – for the Fish-Plants”
“Guess you are too sleepy bro – go to sleep”

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For a guy who loves to cook – there a too many memories linked to kitchens; some very fond, some even outright romantic! Looking at the prompt, I was sure to write a romantic story – or pick one of my old poems. It took a couple of hours to shake it off and go to a totally different genre!

Written for Friday Fictioneers managed by our gracious host Rochelle!

Rest of the fictions are at the froggy link –

Uncle Fantastic Flanagan : Friday Fictioneers 5June 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © C. Hase PHOTO PROMPT – © C. Hase

There were very few things impossible for Uncle Flanagan.

Seeing the anchor chain on the beach Jimmy drew Uncle Flanagan’s attention–

“This must be your match, care to pull?”

“Not interested. Pulled one in 1944 – emptied a whole lake!”

“Ahem – a whole lake?”

“Two submarines sunk my ship, followed them swimming to this lake inside a pacific island, with just a harpoon and 2 grenades.

A tap on lake-surface – the echo told me lake was deeper than the channel they used; had a rock as stopper; used the chained harpoon to yank off the stopper. The lake emptied.

2 Grenades in 2 empty torpedo silos did the rest.”

Uncle took the gum from bewildered Jimmy and walked off.

That was our Uncle Fantastic Flanagan.

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A bit overboard this week with the number of words – but I really had to for this one!

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle! Rest of the fictions are at the froggy link.

Wait : Firday Fictioneers May 29, 2015

PHOTO PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

PHOTO PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

“Honey I am ready”
“Well I am not”
“We are gonna be late for the family dinner”
“Well I am not instant noodle that I will be ready in 2 minutes. We females have a lot to do just to ensure that your dignity is maintained”
“My dignity maintained? And hows is that?”
“Just be being seen with a pretty lady like me”
“Aaaahh!”

So Mr. Cuttlefish waited by the main gate for Mrs. Cuttlefish to be ready and come out. He waited and waited and…

Guess the wait was a bit longer than what he expected.

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A bit under workload – so about 5 hours behind when I planned to put the entry up. However this is the story which got stuck in my head as soon as I saw the prompt!

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by ever graceful Rochelle !

Rest of the fictions at the froggy link –

Dew Drop : Friday Fictioneers 22 may 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Santoshwriter

PHOTO PROMPT – © Santoshwriter

As she sipped her coffee, he carefully combed and braided her silken strands.
“No-one ever pampered me like this, physically or emotionally; not even my husband of ten years.”
“You call this pampering? For me it’s just love, and this is the only way I know to love.”
“I envy the person who gets to marry you.”
“Who stops you from being that person?”

It’s been eight years since. Just like a morning dew drop he appeared in her life, moistened the sun burned path, taught her how to live and love and vanished like the dew drop vanishes with the rising day light.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by ever smiling Rochelle. This week mush overcame my mind !

Rest of the fictions are at the froggy link:

Alien Stub : Friday Fictioneers 15 May 2015

PROMPT -© Marie Gail Stratford

PROMPT -© Marie Gail Stratford

The news anchor explained, “Eyewitnesses reported seeing the object getting impregnated in the ground. And it has substantially heated up the ground around it.”

“The neighborhood is advised extreme caution; the heat may burn houses,” declared fire department.

“It’s an alien missile silo; blast it before it blasts us” – was Sheriff’s version.

The mayor was hopeful, – “I’ve consulted the high priest, it’s a grain depot gifted by God.”

The entire town was out in the field in fear and awe looking across the city fences at the alien structure.

 

I stubbed the end of my cigarette in the ground and stood up watching the morning unfurl. Just before leaving I noticed commotion in the nearby anthill.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

Rest of the fictions are at the froggy link:

Ancient Chemistry : Friday Fictioneers 8May 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods

PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods

Iron – copper – gold – brass, all in order. Weights of individual elements triple checked. The mixture in the vessel carefully prepared under full moon light. Ramon prays silently and turns the faucet.

After three centuries, his ancestor’s secret is about to come to life.

The next few seconds felt like hours. And then the first drop came out. Drops after drops slowly started filling up the tub kept below; the shining, glowing liquid slowly gelling into a golden solid.

Hidden from his view, the liquid punctured the tub and dripped on the earth below, eating it, creating an ever-increasing void.

The ancient alchemists must be smiling from heaven.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. This week the battle of genre for the story i won by fantasy, defeating humor and sci-fi !

Rest of the fictions are here:

Gold’s Guard : Friday Fictioneers 01 may, 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Dee Lovering PHOTO PROMPT – © Dee Lovering

Queen Maria surveyed the nearly finished Customs House, and looked at architect Pere Garcia.

“That’s quite beautiful Garcia; you have planned for almost everything except the gold we collect. That much gold is surely going to attract the raiders”

“We have planned for it my majesty.” fellow architect Sagner informed. “I have a Greek Trader bring in a special live cargo from India.” He presented a scroll with the Cargo details.

Queen Maria scanned the document and smiled.

Soon workers and visitors of Barcelona Customs House got used to the occasional screech and whiffs from the wings of four pairs of Gryphons protecting all the gold.

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The pic in the prompts said its from Barcelona. And what caught my eye was the memorial to Columbus and the Griffins / Gryphons on the top of the building at the left hand corner. I googled, and then took a tour of the area by Google Street View and found that the building is the old customs house build in 1895 by Sagner. And voila !

This is for Friday Fictioneers hosted by tireless host Rochelle and the rest of the fictions are at the froggy ink below:

Druks : Friday Fictioneers 24 April 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Douglas M. MacIlroy

PHOTO PROMPT – © Douglas M. MacIlroy

“Sire, Moriyan invaders have already breached southern border, we need the Druks fast”, pleaded the worried general.

King Gyalpo has his eyes fixed at the series of buildings standing in the snow covered valley. In his usual calm voice he asks, “How much longer Magister?”

“Not much O-Savior! We are waiting for the dawn” confirms his magister.

The red-golden rays of the spring new-moon day move swiftly across the snow and touch the buildings one by one. The domes crack, breaking down the egg shells the new generation of Druks spring to life.

Now the Moriyan invaders have to face the wrath of the Druk Yul’s thunder dragons.

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Bhutan – our neighbor is one of only a few countries which have been independent throughout their history, never conquered, occupied, or governed by an outside power. They are also known as Druk Yul  – “Land of Druk”, and in native language Dzongkha – Druk is “Thunder Dragon” their protectors.

– Rest of the FF’s hosted by Rochelle are at the froggy link below:

Liftoff – Friday Fictioneers 17 April 2015

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

“Dennis!! Have you been stealing sugar? – And baking soda? What are you up to? Don’t you dare enter my kitchen!”

“No Mom – I am in the attic playing rockets with Gina!”

“You gave me headache – where are my ice packs? Bought a whole bunch of it – and all go missing right when you need”

In the attic Dennis buckles up in his cockpit and signals Gina.

Looking at the lighter in her hands Gina looks up to Dennis, “Dennis – am not feeling good, are sure about it?”

“Get ready Gina – 5 -4 -3 – 2 -1 – 0 … ignition and lift-off!! Will look at you from space!”

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*  Just in case you have been wondering – “Homemade rocket with rocket fuel and engine”

Fuel of home-made rocket.
1. Ammonium nitrate (available inside ice-packs)
2. Baking soda
3. Water
4. Sugar

Written for “Friday Fictioneers” by “Rochelle” the great story-teller !

Rest of the stories are here –

The Czech Maestro : Friday Fictioneers 27 March 2015

PHOTO PROMPT ©David Stewart

PHOTO PROMPT ©David Stewart.

June 21, 1876 – Jabkenice

No eyes with questions here. Hated it when they moved their lips in Prague, but I couldn’t hear their words. Even Bettina didn’t seem to care at home.

They never believed I can do it anymore. As “Don Giovanni” played in my head – I wrote it note by note, and they matched it with the Mozart’s original. I had the last smile, as I left them stunned.
11 June, 1881 – Prague

They didn’t allow me to enter for the premier of my opera, Libuše. At the end they were forced by the audience to allow me on stage. The applause was deafening to my silent ears.

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Story of Bedřich Smetana – the Czech Maestro who went deaf !

Written for Firday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

Rest of the fictions are in the froggy link:

Old Wishing Fountain – Friday Fictioneers 20 march 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright – Rachel Bjerke

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright – Rachel Bjerke

“You lost all your money investing in what?” the barman quipped
“Bitcoin”
“What kind of coin is that? Guess you should try throwing one of ‘em, in the old wishing fountain in the woods”
“Old? How old?” he sits up straight.
“Since the Beaker People
“Tell me where – I wanna go right away”
“Don’t try it Lad, unless you want to join the ghost of the barrows!”

Few months later Dartmoor museum had a new benefactor, donating several prehistoric coins and buying the south city castle.

There were no ghost in the barrows – but the fountain bed was full of coins from wishful people of more than four millennia.

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Written for Firday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

Rest of the fictions are in the froggy link:

The Bridge : : Friday Fictioneers 13 march 2015

Friday Fictioneer 15 march 2015

Friday Fictioneer 15 march 2015

Ten years were long enough to change the look of the city. Some of the buildings still survived. Of course this coffee shop overlooking the entrance of the office building across the street was not there.

Sipping his espresso, he kept looking at the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse; he knew she still works there. His mind oscillating between conscious and subconscious, past and present – voices, pictures and smell.

Smell? That perfume seems familiar –

“I knew I will catch you here someday – not fond of burning bridges – right?” Startled, he turns to catch her standing behind, with that familiar stare.

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The second story this week – which I wrote first, for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

 

The Divide : Friday Fictioneers 13 march 2015

Friday Fictioneers- 13 march 2013

Friday Fictioneers- 13 march 2013

Truce was fragile – but everyone tired of the long war, accepted it. The bridge separated the sunny green of Aslan’s land from the frozen meadows of White Witch. Maugrim and his pack sniffed around in the white lands. But they were aware of the centaurs standing guard behind the trees on the other side. They never dared to step on that bridge.

Moles and Beavers had a different agenda though. They tunneled and burrowed, far below for those wolves to smell, and kept planting those greens, one day they will bloom to reclaim Narnia to its rightful occupants.

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Though this is the second story I wrote on this prompt – I choose to post it first ! This is for Friday Fictioneers– hosted by Rochelle !

For rest of this week’s stories follow the froggy link below:

Spring Mushrooms : Friday Fictioneers 6 march 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Erin Leary

PHOTO PROMPT – © Erin Leary

The pinewood beyond the fences or her village home was the place she loved most; it was a place she could find herself back, no matter how tough the day was.

The winter snow thaws to wet
The bed of cones and needles of pine;
A mushroom joins the family.

Every year she sees a new mushroom added as winter makes way for spring.

But for her, spring is yet to come, as she waits for the trial to get over, and see the four animals punished; animals that raped and left her brutally devastated by the roadside to die.

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This week, I thought a lot to write something sweet, fairy or sci-fi, but the recent uproar since last two days on the Delhi rape accused interview, I couldn’t shake off the thought – why those four barbarians are still alive, while the innocent girl’s soul still waits for justice.

For rest of the Friday Fictioneers – click of the froggy link below-

 

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