Category Archives: Flash Fiction

You Made It Too Easy

Hello.

Old friend.

Should I say I’m sorry?
(Oh, but I’m not.)

You see, today was one of those days when the sun was relentless. I fanned myself a few times, but it helped me no more than that stupid broken fan that hangs from the ceiling.

I remember your red hair, plastered to your forehead as you complained about the heat exactly three hundred and sixty five days ago. Yet, you did nothing to fix what you broke, did you?

The air today was heavy with the positively delightful stench of sweat, and it was when I was searching for a cure for this suffocation, a respite, that the idea of, let’s say visiting you, entered my mind.

I’m sorry (again, I’m not) that I broke into your house. You see, I know exactly where you keep your spare key because it’s where I keep mine. It was far too easy to turn the key twice to the right, to let the door swing open, to take in the vision of your garish sunshine yellow washed walls. It was too familiar a sight.

I remember your midnight blue shirt, flecked with that hideous bright yellow. I wanted something less bright, more muted, but you picked the shade for my walls and we painted it one weekend, seven hundred and forty days ago. My walls are still the same, and now yours look like this too.

Your bedroom is no different. There is a window next to the bed, because you like to sleep facing the night sky. It’s why we bought my apartment in the first place, and these days, when I shut my window at night, I wonder if it’s because I can’t sleep facing the same sky as you do.

One two three
One two three

The same books. The same number. Isn’t that why we got along at first? We like the same books.
We like the same stories, so maybe, just maybe you’ll like this one.
The same fittings. The same number of drawers in the kitchen.
The same number of knives in the same wooden block.

It’s your bedroom again. Or should I say mine?
Your wardrobe. Your safe.
My wardrobe. My safe.
Familiar numbers dance on my fingertips. Of course I know your code. It’s the same as mine. It was far too easy to turn the dials, to swipe away all the bills you’ve neatly stacked, to think of it as alimony.
You made it too easy.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to clean you out, to take all your money.
But I need it. I have a fan to fix, dear ex-husband.


Note to the reader: This story was written in response to this prompt. Do check it out and tell me if I’ve done justice to the prompt.

Doppelgänger Alert

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Second Hand

Two years later, I run into you. And as expected, you bring to my mind a rush of memories, forcing me to question why I ever left you.

Trapped in this world, you were always my reality, I think.
Fiction. Crime. Drama. Romance.

An unexpected meeting in a ‘Second-Hand  Bookstore’. I’d hardly call you used, my love.

 

The Siren’s Call

Courtesy- Google Images
Courtesy- Google Images

There’s something immensely beautiful about sailing alone in a vast ocean. Some may even say profound, for it reminds you of how small you are. It instills a sense of humility in you. When a storm is on the rise, this feeling grows, reminding you that you are simply a drop in the ocean.

The waters of the sea lap up against the moderately sized ship. The sailor feels dazed, as if he has just awoken from a deep, deep slumber with no sense of how or when he got there. The heavy waves are rolling against the structure, rocking the sailor and his ship left and right, side to side. He clutches onto railings and bars, in hope that he will not be overthrown due to the sheer force of it all.

“The skies and the seas are angry. They are warring with each other,” he chuckles lightly, shrugging his shoulders, as he observes the darkened sky and feels uneasy at the growing sense of unrest in his heart. The seas roar violently all around him. He makes note, with a sense of panic, that whenever he is gripped with such distinctive emotion, something always happens. It is almost like a premonition.

The warning bells are ringing.

      *****

In an old English tavern, a sailor puts down his final pint of beer and throws his arms around an unsuspecting old man. Excited, he trails off into an extensive rant about the sea, while the other patiently listens. There’s an odd glint in the old man’s eyes and his hair and beard are both long and silvery. There’s something mystical about his appearance, but the young man pays no heed.

After he has said his piece, the old gives him an amused look, and says to him, “You need only to be cautious enough not to succumb to the Siren’s call.”

****

The sailor remembers the strange conversation, and the glint in his eye. He remembers everything. He remembers that Sirens are magical creatures, beautiful and deadly, all at once. They can lure you, entice you and seduce you effortlessly through their songs. The sailor is worried.

*****

In an old house, barely big enough to fit two, the sailor packs his bags. “I’m off,” he calls with finality to no one in particular. He has recently discovered that nothing is more painful to the human soul than the sting of unwanted, agonizing words, sinking in. No feeling is harder to process than the tyranny of words meant to pierce the heart.

In the light of this discovery, he thinks about the death of his first love; a beautiful, slender woman with a stunning face. “Her laughter was like music,” he thinks sadly, feeling a shard of loss strike his heart. He understands that she is gone forever. He understands. He accepts. He cannot move on.

                  *****                                   

The sailor remembers her well. He called her Aglia, a Greek word for splendor and beauty. “She lived by her name,” he thinks sadly.  He misses her far too much.

Still tangled in thoughts of his lost love, he is unaware of the haze that shrouds the ship, obscuring his vision. From somewhere in the distance, he hears a song. An alluring melody. He has never heard anything more pleasing or beautiful. Gripped with inexplicable emotion and lust, he steers his ship towards the clear voice that cuts through the mist. The voice never leaves his head.

You need only to be cautious enough not to succumb to the Siren’s call.

The sailor spots her, poised gracefully on a rock, her fingers combing through her golden hair. Her eyes are blue; strikingly blue, like icy sapphires. When she smiles, he feels lighter, happier, more free. Neglecting the warning words of the old man at the bar, he plunges into the cool waters of the ocean and swims deftly towards the jagged rock.

But it is her voice that has captured his mind. He can think of nothing else.

He feels the echo of desire resonating throughout his body, banging against his every bone; so powerful that he forgets all else. The only thing he thinks of is how sweet her melodies sound in his ears.

He approaches her, and without a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head and presses his lips against her own. The tender kiss, which starts off as a breath of fresh air, progressively turns darker. It becomes more demanding. The feeble woman in his arms grows stronger. He feels giddy and weak as he inhales her brine-infused breath, while she drinks in his soul with dangerous passion.

Within moments, the sailor is a mere, lifeless form, thrown carelessly across the rocks.
The Siren sings another song.