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'Is there no way out of the mind'-Sylvia Plath
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Written by Firdaus in portal Poetry & Free Verse

don't leave me alone

with my thoughts

I stumble over things

you've failed to explain

knots gather in my throat

stones in my gut

cracks sob back

to the surface again

so do not leave me

with myself

I'm not yet immune

to this pain

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Written by Firdaus in portal Poetry & Free Verse
don't leave me alone
with my thoughts
I stumble over things
you've failed to explain
knots gather in my throat
stones in my gut
cracks sob back
to the surface again
so do not leave me
with myself
I'm not yet immune
to this pain
#overthinking 
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2
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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry

Homeless

the moon is silver

a shiny coin in the night sky

wish I could pocket it

some bread maybe

for tonight's dinner

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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry
Homeless
the moon is silver
a shiny coin in the night sky
wish I could pocket it
some bread maybe
for tonight's dinner
#perspective 
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Written by Firdaus in portal Stream of Consciousness

Happy Birthday @Soulhearts

I 'met' her almost three years ago. We were fledgling members of this huge world of words. Still discovering ourselves, groping through the many alleys, finding our footing. I liked her instantly. The soul can recognise the goodness of another soul I believe. And she shone through the crowd, pulling me towards her. I'm blessed by her constant support, encouragement and love. The unselfish way she gives without expecting anything in return makes me believe in the goodness of this changing world. I turn to her when life isn't quite right. She's wise and kind, full of heart and soul. Today she turns a year older, a year wiser, a year more a friend. Happy Birthday to this beautiful soul.

in the pitch

of a long night

I see the flicker

of a little flame

dancing–beckoning

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Written by Firdaus in portal Stream of Consciousness
Happy Birthday @Soulhearts
I 'met' her almost three years ago. We were fledgling members of this huge world of words. Still discovering ourselves, groping through the many alleys, finding our footing. I liked her instantly. The soul can recognise the goodness of another soul I believe. And she shone through the crowd, pulling me towards her. I'm blessed by her constant support, encouragement and love. The unselfish way she gives without expecting anything in return makes me believe in the goodness of this changing world. I turn to her when life isn't quite right. She's wise and kind, full of heart and soul. Today she turns a year older, a year wiser, a year more a friend. Happy Birthday to this beautiful soul.

in the pitch
of a long night
I see the flicker
of a little flame
dancing–beckoning
31
17
51
Juice
119 reads
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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry

you wield a sharp sword

of reality my love;

slicing away these wings,

shredding the soul,

piercing this heart.

pray let destiny play,

let fate decide our days.

succumb to moments:

this time –now,

tomorrow can wait,

don't let it arrive today.

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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry
you wield a sharp sword
of reality my love;
slicing away these wings,
shredding the soul,
piercing this heart.
pray let destiny play,
let fate decide our days.
succumb to moments:
this time –now,
tomorrow can wait,
don't let it arrive today.

20
5
4
Juice
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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry

waking up

night songs

clinging to morning haze

your steady breath

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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry
waking up
night songs
clinging to morning haze
your steady breath
18
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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry

dipped in the waters

of a silent pond

where clouds have drowned

your voice

cuts through the stillness

like restless dragonfly wings

etching, cutting, stinging –

echoes blossom on my skin

14
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Written by Firdaus in portal Micropoetry
dipped in the waters
of a silent pond
where clouds have drowned
your voice
cuts through the stillness
like restless dragonfly wings
etching, cutting, stinging –
echoes blossom on my skin



14
5
2
Juice
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Firdaus in portal Simon & Schuster

The Ways Of The Heart

Every love story comes to an end. But love itself isn't transient, it shifts from one person to another, finding a new home. At least that's what happened with me.

Peter will be 5 years old next week. This past year has been an emotional rollercoaster ride. Losing George was devastating and it crushed me, but I couldn't let anyone see how much it affected me. So I mourned the man I had secretly loved, silently. Looking after Peter, was the one thing that kept me sane. Avi became a quiet presence in the house. He immersed himself into office work. The only time I saw him laugh freely was, when he played with Peter.

The adoption papers arrived this afternoon. I cried, clutching the manila envelope to my chest. The realisation that Peter was now mine, opened the floodgates I had clamped shut for so long. Avi gave me a quick hug, then picked up a rather distraught Peter into his arms, and hugged him until the little boy started squirming and protesting. My tears would not stop.

Peter walked up to me, his hazel eyes so much like George's, full of concern. My breath hitched a little.

"Why are you crying Priya?"

"Because I'm very happy you're my son now," I ruffled his brown curls, wishing he'd learn to call me Mom and Avi Dad, someday.

His eyes lit up and he gave me a toothy grin.

"Now run along both of you," I looked at Avi watching us, "go wash your hands I'm serving lunch."

"Yes mom," saluted Avi.

"Yes mom," mimicked Peter.

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

One year ago things were different.

"You aren't going out in that, are you?" I stood looking down at Avi, as he sat on the bed tying his shoelace.

"Why, what's wrong with my clothes?" he stood up smoothing down his old faded tee shirt.

"There's a hole right there," I pointed at the centre of his chest.

"That's an air vent," he grinned.

"Avi, I can put two fingers through it," I protested.

"Exactly love, it's for scratching."

I put two fingers into the hole, he chuckled when I scratched his chest. I smiled sweetly, then ripped the fabric right down to the hem.

"Oops," I mouthed.

He stood there gaping for a second, then his face contorted into mock rage, I backed away giggling, then ran out of the room.

He chased me into the living room, "That was my favourite tee shirt."

"It'll make a good dusting cloth," I shot back as he closed in.

Grabbing me from behind, he picked me up. We fell on the couch together and he started tickling me.

I could hardly breath as his fingers continued digging into my waist.

"Stop!" I kept shrieking until suddenly he was still.

"You need to be punished," his brown eyes were darker than usual. He had both my hands pinned above my head while his other hand slipped into my tee shirt. I felt a familiar heat pool between my thighs. It had been so long, his work always getting in the way.

Sunday morning walk was not happening today.

And then, out of nowhere the thought of the picture in my pocket stirred guilt in my stomach. Panic began to creep in as I struggled to free myself. It excited Avi more, he pinned me down with his body. I moaned, more in protest than pleasure, when his lips came down hard on mine. I tried to feel the excitement, but I became a mere spectator, watching our bodies move. I felt nothing. 

At that moment I hated George with all my heart.

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

I found his picture in an old album, while looking for something in a cupboard this morning. I don't know why I slipped it into my pocket. I should have just left it there, with the other memories.

I could hear Avi tinkering around in the kitchen; he insisted on preparing Sunday breakfast.

I took the picture out and stared at it.

"George," I sighed, and he smiled back, a familiar smile I'd thought about a lot and then the smile had faded away over the years – seven years.

The first time I'd seen George was when he came to visit us a couple of months after our wedding. He was Avi's friend, from university days abroad.

George with the funny jokes and funnier accent. He and Avi were always arguing and betting over stupid things. Once Avi lost a bet and he had to shave his head.

We walked down the street to the local barber. George was in his ridiculous shorts and Avi's one size too big bathroom slippers. A Nikon hung from his neck on a leather strap. The slap of the slippers against his feet as we walked made me giggle. Avi though, wasn't laughing, that made it all the more funny.

It was so hot that day, the barber had put a chair under a tree outside his shop and hung a mirror on the wall. I stood watching and laughing, as George instructed the shirtless barber to pose for pictures, while the deed was done. The barber chuckled the whole time, his protruding belly jiggling with laughter.

And then, the night before George left, he had kissed me, or rather I had kissed him, under the Neem tree in our backyard. I blamed the wine then. I always blamed the wine.

"It was the wine George," I said.

"What," Avi said, coming from behind.

"Nothing," I tucked the picture into a book on the table and took the tray from him.

He picked up the book and looked at the picture.

"George?" he looked puzzled and I thought I saw something cross his eyes, "where'd you get this picture?"

I shrugged indifferently.

"Speaking of the devil," Avi sounded cautious, busying himself with the cutlery. He handed me a fork without looking at me, "he's coming to visit us next week."

"Oh," was all I could say, stabbing the cheese omelette with my fork.

******

Memories lie dormant for years, faded and frayed. Yet they can emerge, without warning, as clear as yesterday. The news that George was visiting us again took me back seven years to a night I had buried deep.

"So how does this arranged marriage work?" George took a gulp from a bottle of beer.

I stared down at the glass of wine in my hand and shrugged, "I don't know, it just does."

"And what about love?" He took another big gulp, staring straight ahead.

"Love comes later I suppose," The buzz in my head was increasing, too much wine probably.

I felt uncomfortable sitting there alone with him. I had been avoiding him ever since the day at the Dilli Haat and I had a feeling he was avoiding me too.

Dilli Haat is an open-air food plaza and craft bazaar located in Delhi. Small thatched roof cottages and kiosks give the plaza a village atmosphere. Since Avi was out of town, the onus of entertaining George had fallen upon me. We spent the day at the Haat. George flirted with me incessantly and I admit, I encouraged him. We realised that we had a similar taste in music, and like me, he too was a voracious reader. I was flattered by his constant attention and compliments. It was so easy to be swept away by his charm. All was well until he hugged me in the car park. It was supposed to be a thank you hug, but when I felt his lips graze my forehead I wanted so much more, that scared me. I pushed him away rudely, and we drove back home in an awkward silence.

And now, love was the last topic I wanted to discuss with him. The feelings I had been having for him were driving me crazy. I didn't dare explore them. I loved Avi, I kept telling myself that.

There was a gentle breeze and the leaves of the Neem tree shivered in the moonlight. We were sitting in plastic chairs, a small stool with our drinks, between us.

Avi had gone inside the house to wrap up some last minute work on his computer, and I was left, rather reluctantly, alone in George's company.

Avi and I had been married for the past couple of months. I was trying my best to adjust to living with a stranger and was quite content. Avi was kind, considerate and loving. What more could I want, but then George showed up and everything changed.

George didn't say anything after that. An uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by the sound of the distant honking of traffic and dogs barking. I squirmed in my chair trying to think of an excuse to leave.

"I think I have a headache, I should go in..." I got up putting my glass down on the stool, somehow it toppled off. We both bent down together to grab it before it hit the ground. Our heads collided. I cursed under my breath. George was up on his feet, rubbing his head, then reaching out for me.

"I'm sorry, are you okay," he held me by the shoulders, then his hand came up to where I was rubbing my head. His fingers threaded through my hair. I flushed as waves of desire coursed through my body. I felt ashamed and aroused at the same time. I had suppressed my feelings all week and now my body wanted to explore this dangerous path. I searched his eyes for a clue about his feelings. It was too dark to see, but I heard the quick intake of his breath as I looked up. The wine made me bold and with a sigh I went up on my toes and pressed my lips to his, my fingers tangled in his long hair.

For a moment he didn't respond and I panicked, then his lips moved over mine, hot and moist. I was lost in the taste of beer on his lips and the musky scent of his cologne. In that moment I knew I had fallen hard for him.

The creaking of the backdoor, as it swung open, had us jumping away from each other. We glanced guiltily in the direction of the sound. The moonlight gleamed off Avi's recently shaved head, he stood in the doorway watching us.

*******

Anxiety and anticipation hounded me till George's arrival. The last time he had left, I had a big hole in my heart. I had stalked him on social media, messaged him repeatedly. I don't know what I wanted. When I didn't get any response I was heartbroken, then angry. For several months I was miserable. I have no clue whether Avi had witnessed the kiss. He was his usual self, in fact, he was more attentive towards me. I tried to love and appreciate my husband again.

Wounds heal, they become scars and finally the throb deadens. George's arrival into our lives again stirred up old emotions. I dreaded the day of his arrival. Avi noticed my agitation as we waited for him at the airport.

He took my hand and squeezed it. After a little deliberation he sighed.

"Priya, there's something you need to know."

I was too distracted to pay attention.

"Priya," his voice sounded thick, "George is very ill."

George was wearing a blue bandana over his bald head. His smile was the only thing that looked familiar. My heart ached at the sight of him. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his cheeks were sunk in. He had lost so much weight that his bones jutted out. My pulse didn't quicken when he gave me a quick hug, I just felt a deep affection.

"I want you to meet someone," he smiled and looked down at the little boy clinging to his thigh, "this is my son Peter."

A mop of curly brown hair fell over two hazel eyes. My love found a new home.

26
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by Firdaus in portal Simon & Schuster
The Ways Of The Heart
Every love story comes to an end. But love itself isn't transient, it shifts from one person to another, finding a new home. At least that's what happened with me.

Peter will be 5 years old next week. This past year has been an emotional rollercoaster ride. Losing George was devastating and it crushed me, but I couldn't let anyone see how much it affected me. So I mourned the man I had secretly loved, silently. Looking after Peter, was the one thing that kept me sane. Avi became a quiet presence in the house. He immersed himself into office work. The only time I saw him laugh freely was, when he played with Peter.

The adoption papers arrived this afternoon. I cried, clutching the manila envelope to my chest. The realisation that Peter was now mine, opened the floodgates I had clamped shut for so long. Avi gave me a quick hug, then picked up a rather distraught Peter into his arms, and hugged him until the little boy started squirming and protesting. My tears would not stop.

Peter walked up to me, his hazel eyes so much like George's, full of concern. My breath hitched a little.

"Why are you crying Priya?"

"Because I'm very happy you're my son now," I ruffled his brown curls, wishing he'd learn to call me Mom and Avi Dad, someday.

His eyes lit up and he gave me a toothy grin.

"Now run along both of you," I looked at Avi watching us, "go wash your hands I'm serving lunch."

"Yes mom," saluted Avi.

"Yes mom," mimicked Peter.


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

One year ago things were different.

"You aren't going out in that, are you?" I stood looking down at Avi, as he sat on the bed tying his shoelace.

"Why, what's wrong with my clothes?" he stood up smoothing down his old faded tee shirt.

"There's a hole right there," I pointed at the centre of his chest.

"That's an air vent," he grinned.

"Avi, I can put two fingers through it," I protested.

"Exactly love, it's for scratching."

I put two fingers into the hole, he chuckled when I scratched his chest. I smiled sweetly, then ripped the fabric right down to the hem.

"Oops," I mouthed.

He stood there gaping for a second, then his face contorted into mock rage, I backed away giggling, then ran out of the room.

He chased me into the living room, "That was my favourite tee shirt."

"It'll make a good dusting cloth," I shot back as he closed in.

Grabbing me from behind, he picked me up. We fell on the couch together and he started tickling me.

I could hardly breath as his fingers continued digging into my waist.

"Stop!" I kept shrieking until suddenly he was still.

"You need to be punished," his brown eyes were darker than usual. He had both my hands pinned above my head while his other hand slipped into my tee shirt. I felt a familiar heat pool between my thighs. It had been so long, his work always getting in the way.

Sunday morning walk was not happening today.

And then, out of nowhere the thought of the picture in my pocket stirred guilt in my stomach. Panic began to creep in as I struggled to free myself. It excited Avi more, he pinned me down with his body. I moaned, more in protest than pleasure, when his lips came down hard on mine. I tried to feel the excitement, but I became a mere spectator, watching our bodies move. I felt nothing. 

At that moment I hated George with all my heart.

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

I found his picture in an old album, while looking for something in a cupboard this morning. I don't know why I slipped it into my pocket. I should have just left it there, with the other memories.

I could hear Avi tinkering around in the kitchen; he insisted on preparing Sunday breakfast.

I took the picture out and stared at it.

"George," I sighed, and he smiled back, a familiar smile I'd thought about a lot and then the smile had faded away over the years – seven years.

The first time I'd seen George was when he came to visit us a couple of months after our wedding. He was Avi's friend, from university days abroad.

George with the funny jokes and funnier accent. He and Avi were always arguing and betting over stupid things. Once Avi lost a bet and he had to shave his head.

We walked down the street to the local barber. George was in his ridiculous shorts and Avi's one size too big bathroom slippers. A Nikon hung from his neck on a leather strap. The slap of the slippers against his feet as we walked made me giggle. Avi though, wasn't laughing, that made it all the more funny.

It was so hot that day, the barber had put a chair under a tree outside his shop and hung a mirror on the wall. I stood watching and laughing, as George instructed the shirtless barber to pose for pictures, while the deed was done. The barber chuckled the whole time, his protruding belly jiggling with laughter.

And then, the night before George left, he had kissed me, or rather I had kissed him, under the Neem tree in our backyard. I blamed the wine then. I always blamed the wine.

"It was the wine George," I said.

"What," Avi said, coming from behind.

"Nothing," I tucked the picture into a book on the table and took the tray from him.

He picked up the book and looked at the picture.

"George?" he looked puzzled and I thought I saw something cross his eyes, "where'd you get this picture?"

I shrugged indifferently.

"Speaking of the devil," Avi sounded cautious, busying himself with the cutlery. He handed me a fork without looking at me, "he's coming to visit us next week."

"Oh," was all I could say, stabbing the cheese omelette with my fork.

******

Memories lie dormant for years, faded and frayed. Yet they can emerge, without warning, as clear as yesterday. The news that George was visiting us again took me back seven years to a night I had buried deep.

"So how does this arranged marriage work?" George took a gulp from a bottle of beer.

I stared down at the glass of wine in my hand and shrugged, "I don't know, it just does."

"And what about love?" He took another big gulp, staring straight ahead.

"Love comes later I suppose," The buzz in my head was increasing, too much wine probably.

I felt uncomfortable sitting there alone with him. I had been avoiding him ever since the day at the Dilli Haat and I had a feeling he was avoiding me too.

Dilli Haat is an open-air food plaza and craft bazaar located in Delhi. Small thatched roof cottages and kiosks give the plaza a village atmosphere. Since Avi was out of town, the onus of entertaining George had fallen upon me. We spent the day at the Haat. George flirted with me incessantly and I admit, I encouraged him. We realised that we had a similar taste in music, and like me, he too was a voracious reader. I was flattered by his constant attention and compliments. It was so easy to be swept away by his charm. All was well until he hugged me in the car park. It was supposed to be a thank you hug, but when I felt his lips graze my forehead I wanted so much more, that scared me. I pushed him away rudely, and we drove back home in an awkward silence.

And now, love was the last topic I wanted to discuss with him. The feelings I had been having for him were driving me crazy. I didn't dare explore them. I loved Avi, I kept telling myself that.

There was a gentle breeze and the leaves of the Neem tree shivered in the moonlight. We were sitting in plastic chairs, a small stool with our drinks, between us.

Avi had gone inside the house to wrap up some last minute work on his computer, and I was left, rather reluctantly, alone in George's company.

Avi and I had been married for the past couple of months. I was trying my best to adjust to living with a stranger and was quite content. Avi was kind, considerate and loving. What more could I want, but then George showed up and everything changed.

George didn't say anything after that. An uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by the sound of the distant honking of traffic and dogs barking. I squirmed in my chair trying to think of an excuse to leave.

"I think I have a headache, I should go in..." I got up putting my glass down on the stool, somehow it toppled off. We both bent down together to grab it before it hit the ground. Our heads collided. I cursed under my breath. George was up on his feet, rubbing his head, then reaching out for me.

"I'm sorry, are you okay," he held me by the shoulders, then his hand came up to where I was rubbing my head. His fingers threaded through my hair. I flushed as waves of desire coursed through my body. I felt ashamed and aroused at the same time. I had suppressed my feelings all week and now my body wanted to explore this dangerous path. I searched his eyes for a clue about his feelings. It was too dark to see, but I heard the quick intake of his breath as I looked up. The wine made me bold and with a sigh I went up on my toes and pressed my lips to his, my fingers tangled in his long hair.

For a moment he didn't respond and I panicked, then his lips moved over mine, hot and moist. I was lost in the taste of beer on his lips and the musky scent of his cologne. In that moment I knew I had fallen hard for him.

The creaking of the backdoor, as it swung open, had us jumping away from each other. We glanced guiltily in the direction of the sound. The moonlight gleamed off Avi's recently shaved head, he stood in the doorway watching us.

*******

Anxiety and anticipation hounded me till George's arrival. The last time he had left, I had a big hole in my heart. I had stalked him on social media, messaged him repeatedly. I don't know what I wanted. When I didn't get any response I was heartbroken, then angry. For several months I was miserable. I have no clue whether Avi had witnessed the kiss. He was his usual self, in fact, he was more attentive towards me. I tried to love and appreciate my husband again.

Wounds heal, they become scars and finally the throb deadens. George's arrival into our lives again stirred up old emotions. I dreaded the day of his arrival. Avi noticed my agitation as we waited for him at the airport.

He took my hand and squeezed it. After a little deliberation he sighed.

"Priya, there's something you need to know."

I was too distracted to pay attention.

"Priya," his voice sounded thick, "George is very ill."

George was wearing a blue bandana over his bald head. His smile was the only thing that looked familiar. My heart ached at the sight of him. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his cheeks were sunk in. He had lost so much weight that his bones jutted out. My pulse didn't quicken when he gave me a quick hug, I just felt a deep affection.

"I want you to meet someone," he smiled and looked down at the little boy clinging to his thigh, "this is my son Peter."

A mop of curly brown hair fell over two hazel eyes. My love found a new home.

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Short Story with a twist! Throw something totally unexpected at me. Don't forget to tag me!
Written by Firdaus in portal Flash Fiction

Almost dead

I was just getting worse, and worse. I realised this, because I felt the glass-like wall getting thicker and slightly blurry. I could still see myself hooked up to the medical equipments. Doctors and nurses were fiddling with my body.

Was I dying? Nooo...but I guess I was.

"Come on. You can pull through," I shouted at my body, "it's not our time yet, fight!" Of course no one could hear me.

Like a caged animal I paced restlessly, banging my fists on the wall.

So this was it. This was how one died.

The place I was in felt like vacuum. The wall between the living and the 'not so living' seemed to thicken every few minutes, or was it hours. I couldn't keep track of time. I tried desperately to find an exit, but there was none.

Moving along the wall, my hands tracing the smooth glassy surface, I found myself outside the hospital. I spotted my wife sitting alone on a bench, her soft brown hair falling over her face as she leaned forward on her elbows. She looked so forlorn. I wanted to break through the wall and hold her, comfort her.

Oh, how I missed her already.

The wall was getting more blurry now. The glass was thickening fast. I rushed back to the hospital room and saw myself being given electric shocks, my body arching with the impact.

Suddenly, the wall just melted away and I felt myself propelled towards my body.

Then, nothing.

The next thing I knew, I was looking into two magnified eyes behind thick rimmed glasses.

I heard my wife's voice, "Doctor, is he going to be okay?"

Why did I sense fear in her voice.

"Yes," the man peering down into my eyes replied, "he's a lucky man. That was a nasty fall."

I blinked my eyes to focus, my mouth dry.

"Oh," she said, and I heard a mixture of apprehension and disappointment in that one syllable.

Then, I remembered, she had pushed me down the stairs.

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Short Story with a twist! Throw something totally unexpected at me. Don't forget to tag me!
Written by Firdaus in portal Flash Fiction
Almost dead
I was just getting worse, and worse. I realised this, because I felt the glass-like wall getting thicker and slightly blurry. I could still see myself hooked up to the medical equipments. Doctors and nurses were fiddling with my body.

Was I dying? Nooo...but I guess I was.

"Come on. You can pull through," I shouted at my body, "it's not our time yet, fight!" Of course no one could hear me.

Like a caged animal I paced restlessly, banging my fists on the wall.

So this was it. This was how one died.

The place I was in felt like vacuum. The wall between the living and the 'not so living' seemed to thicken every few minutes, or was it hours. I couldn't keep track of time. I tried desperately to find an exit, but there was none.

Moving along the wall, my hands tracing the smooth glassy surface, I found myself outside the hospital. I spotted my wife sitting alone on a bench, her soft brown hair falling over her face as she leaned forward on her elbows. She looked so forlorn. I wanted to break through the wall and hold her, comfort her.

Oh, how I missed her already.

The wall was getting more blurry now. The glass was thickening fast. I rushed back to the hospital room and saw myself being given electric shocks, my body arching with the impact.

Suddenly, the wall just melted away and I felt myself propelled towards my body.

Then, nothing.

The next thing I knew, I was looking into two magnified eyes behind thick rimmed glasses.

I heard my wife's voice, "Doctor, is he going to be okay?"

Why did I sense fear in her voice.

"Yes," the man peering down into my eyes replied, "he's a lucky man. That was a nasty fall."

I blinked my eyes to focus, my mouth dry.

"Oh," she said, and I heard a mixture of apprehension and disappointment in that one syllable.

Then, I remembered, she had pushed me down the stairs.
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Written by Firdaus in portal Flash Fiction

Amma

She had a stoop, stained crooked teeth (or what was left of them), and the gift of spinning stories that could hook you for hours. And that was exactly what my brother and I did –listen mesmerised.

We would sneak to her shabby hut behind our house. Dimly lit by an open flame of a kerosene lamp, the walls would be covered with eerie shadows. There was always the smell of smoke from the hearth and scent of incense sticks.

She would hand us a biscuit each, and sit on her low cot, while we sat cross-legged on a mat. She would take her time, cough to clear her throat, stuff her cheek with a paan and then begin.

I would hold my brothers hand, my six-year old heart thudding excitedly, his eyes round in anticipation. Then her voice would usher in ogres, fairies, witches and djins, and time would stand still.

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Written by Firdaus in portal Flash Fiction
Amma
She had a stoop, stained crooked teeth (or what was left of them), and the gift of spinning stories that could hook you for hours. And that was exactly what my brother and I did –listen mesmerised.
We would sneak to her shabby hut behind our house. Dimly lit by an open flame of a kerosene lamp, the walls would be covered with eerie shadows. There was always the smell of smoke from the hearth and scent of incense sticks.
She would hand us a biscuit each, and sit on her low cot, while we sat cross-legged on a mat. She would take her time, cough to clear her throat, stuff her cheek with a paan and then begin.
I would hold my brothers hand, my six-year old heart thudding excitedly, his eyes round in anticipation. Then her voice would usher in ogres, fairies, witches and djins, and time would stand still.
19
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Juice
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The Great Write! Granted, writers want to write well, but what makes a "Great Write?" If you are primarily a reader on Prose, please join in the conversation, too, by entering or commenting on what makes for a Great Read. All forms of entries and viewpoints are so appreciated for dialogue! (*I won't be submitting a post myself...just reading/conversing if you tag me @MsH : )
Written by Firdaus

Just my thoughts

A great write is something that grabs me by the throat and tells my mind to shut up and pay attention. A great write is something that sucks me into the pages and I disappear from the real world. A great write is something I don't skim over to get to the good parts. A great write does not see me grabbing the nearest dictionary. A great write does not throw at me big words expecting me to catch them. I most probably won't or maybe just tuck them away in the folds of my brain for future reference. See? Connection lost. But beautiful language is always a plus, though please don't overdo it. A great write shows me, never tells me. A great write is not the shopping list of a character's features. A definite put off. A great write is something that will stay with me long after I've shut the book. A great write is nothing but an old story told in a new way. A great write is inside every writer struggling to come out, trying to break through pretentious writing, trying to be the original language of the individual. A great write...I can go on and on. Haha.

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Juice
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Juice
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The Great Write! Granted, writers want to write well, but what makes a "Great Write?" If you are primarily a reader on Prose, please join in the conversation, too, by entering or commenting on what makes for a Great Read. All forms of entries and viewpoints are so appreciated for dialogue! (*I won't be submitting a post myself...just reading/conversing if you tag me @MsH : )
Written by Firdaus
Just my thoughts
A great write is something that grabs me by the throat and tells my mind to shut up and pay attention. A great write is something that sucks me into the pages and I disappear from the real world. A great write is something I don't skim over to get to the good parts. A great write does not see me grabbing the nearest dictionary. A great write does not throw at me big words expecting me to catch them. I most probably won't or maybe just tuck them away in the folds of my brain for future reference. See? Connection lost. But beautiful language is always a plus, though please don't overdo it. A great write shows me, never tells me. A great write is not the shopping list of a character's features. A definite put off. A great write is something that will stay with me long after I've shut the book. A great write is nothing but an old story told in a new way. A great write is inside every writer struggling to come out, trying to break through pretentious writing, trying to be the original language of the individual. A great write...I can go on and on. Haha.
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Juice
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