O n w a r d

This is a short story about books and Christmas that I wrote in January 2013, but couldn't find a home for, so here it is! Thank you to Yvonne Rupert for appreciating it and for valuable feedback that helped me tighten some parts of the story, and to the editor of Penumbra for saying she "loved it" but it didn't fit their issue's theme – this encouraged me. Enjoy. Sana ambled cheerfully up the winding road. There was a nip in the morning air, and the weather forecast said that there was a good chance they would have a white Christmas. The children would love that, and so would she. It had been a hard few months, what with all the bookshops. Not that they hadn’t seen it coming; but it had been a shock nonetheless. When the one down the road from her children’s school went under, the children had cried themselves to sleep for days. Luckily, there was still Mr. Mistry’s shop – the only one left for miles. Sana knew it was his only family. Mr. Mistry would nev...

“Aha!” thought Marzyciel. He saw a little girl sitting on her father’s lap, her brown eyes filled with laughter as he read to her. This was a nice, clear, strong one. Worth a fortune, oh yes. But it would be worth so much more if it were complete, for then it would skip the Dream Weavers entirely. He took his jar, unscrewed the lid, put down his satchel, and settled comfortably beneath the open window, under the twinkling sky. Marzyciel’s was not an enviable job, but he had never felt pangs of regret for his victims. Indeed, often there wasn’t any reason to. Many were relieved to be rid of their haunting nightmares. They would wake up shivering and shaking, but before they knew it, the shivers would ebb and the dream would blur before disappearing altogether. They never saw it again. He heard a rasping snore from the window above him. Holding the jar ready, Marzy reached out his nimble fingers toward the window, and fumbled. He couldn’t risk the man waking up, and losing the dream...

Junot Diaz's story " The Cheater's Guide to Love " ( The New Yorker ) has been doing the rounds in my social media circles, but I didn't like it. For one, it was predictable; for another - or related - it wasn't senseless enough. And "real life" is, as we know, senseless. Here's a mini story inspired by his. *** Prologue After six years of togetherness - whatever that means - he finally proposed. They married on a snowy November day. She had always loved snow. Their first Christmas together was all cocoa and fairy lights and warm sweaters, and love. Chapter 1: March She finds out that he's been cheating on her with her best friend. She also finds out that betrayal is a solid thing: punch-you-in-the-gut, crush-your-bones solid. F*** you! she screams at him. I wish I'd never known you existed! She pretends the best friend had never existed. Chapter 2: April She moves out. The pain comes in giant waves and...

Marietta Edgecombe has "sneak" written all over her face – in fat, purple pustules, no less. But she has no idea how it happened. One-shot Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix  fan fiction .  *** Marietta woke up in the hospital wing with a throbbing pain in her head. The curtains were drawn around her bed, and the soft white light emanating from them told her that it was late morning.  She wiggled her fingers and toes, trying to assess the damage to her body. But other than the headache, everything seemed fine. So why was she lying in a hospital bed – with the curtains drawn? Madam Pomfrey only ever drew the curtains to give her patients privacy, if they needed rest, or if they were grossly disfigured…  Grossly disfigured. Marietta slowly became aware of a strange throbbing on her face as her mind struggled to remember the previous night. She could feel an odd sinking in her heart, as though her brain was trying to shield her from some knowledge but knew it wou...

I tittered in annoyance. She had disappeared yet again. I needed to find her, and soon. I knew she needed to wander, and she needed her periods of respite. But this was urgent. And she had taken to leaving me at the most inopportune moments these days. If she didn’t return soon, we’d have to go hungry again. Cold days lay ahead. Sighing, I realized there was nothing else for it…I’d have to go and find her. Luckily, I knew where to look. Green. Of course she’d be here. We were so similar, in ways perhaps we’d never understand. But I saw flashes of them, now and then. This was why we were connected in the first place, wasn’t it? This was why she had chosen me. She must have sensed them. The similarities. Green. It was so serene, so resplendent. So inspiring. And familiar. For she had brought me here many times. Many a story had we woven here in this dale. Together. Story. My heart skipped a beat, and the urgency returned. Softly, I called her name, hoping that the tremor of panic ...

No one really liked Frank. Not even his wife. Would you like someone who toasted thus: “Happy 25th anniversary, to two people who can barely stand each other”? To be fair, it was true enough of Raj and Julie, and everyone in the room knew it. But how dare he bring it up at this moment? A pregnant pause. Glares and mutters. Alison stared at her plate rather than look at her husband. They had been married nearly as long as the couple they were all here to celebrate. “Uhm, excuse me. I seem to be quite drunk!” Frank still couldn’t stop grinning. “To Raj and Julie!” Everyone raised their glasses of champagne. Raj thumped Frank on the back as people turned their attention back to appraising the cost of the flowers and Julie’s dress. Alison attacked the salad. They had watched Silver Linings Playbook last week, and Frank had, it would seem, taken Jennifer Lawrence quite seriously. “We’re not liars like they are”, she had said, her eyes sparkling out of the silver screen. And all w...

Tara ran down the stairs two at a time, jostling a few people, and desperately hoping she hadn't missed the 13.31 metro. The next one would leave 3 minutes later, but she couldn't risk being late again. She was on probation. Running onto the platform, she heaved a sigh. It hadn’t yet arrived.  A few seconds passed before she noticed a man standing a few feet away. Clean-shaven. Piercing grey eyes. She especially noticed the eyes, because they were fixed on her in an unblinking gaze. Fidgeting uncomfortably, she started to walk away as the train pulled in. A mass of people poured out. She scrambled to find an opening in the human wall and squeezed herself through the doors. Taking a corner seat, she looked around, relieved that the man was nowhere to be seen. Her phone buzzed, and as she busied herself replying to the latest text message, he sat down in the row right across from her. She looked up straight into his staring grey eyes, discomfited. But at least there wer...

Once upon a time in India, there was a disease. A disease that ate away from the inside, making everyone condemn it as dangerous and rotten. The people were very sad and very poor. They felt all the symptoms of their disease without knowing the cause. Was it a virus? Was it genetic? So far, it had only affected the leaders, but if it could affect the leaders, surely it would plague them sooner or later. Moreover, the expensive treatments being used were draining the public money. "Where does our money go?" they were quick to demand. It was very sad, very sad indeed. Obviously, they needed a hero with superpowers to deliver them from this Evil. Nothing else could work. This hero soon came to them. In fact, I will go as far as to suggest that till he came, the people had not really even realised that anything was wrong at all. But he came, and their eyes were opened to this awful plight. This hero was - what shall I say? - remember the Pied Piper of Hamelin? This hero w...

On the (locked) door of flat number 7186: So your team lost. It's the World cup, not the end of the world. You're still a little boy, throwing fits every time things don't go your way...all your rages, moods, all the broken remotes and vases and phones. I'm through. Through with you lolling on the couch, utterly useless. Calling yourself an artist, that's your excuse for everything, isn't it? The money you never get, the lack of responsibility towards what you call 'worldly things', the impulsive chase hoping that something, someone will give you your lucky break. And I just sit back and pity you and give you whatever you ask for...but no longer. That TV, you begged me for it, you knew we couldn't afford it but you begged. You're so good at begging - that's something you might want to remember - I can't believe you made me spend my hard earned money on that and broke it like...like it was just one other thing you didn't c...

That seashell you found for me. The clovers you strung together to adorn your head, and our crazy, free laughter. Those ladders we made from iris leaves, believing like fools that if they were long enough, we’d be able to climb them to the city of clouds. The city of dreams. The scuffle in the soft, fluffy snow, and the snowman we built, complete with your feathered hat. The one you trampled on a few years later. The one you used to wear when we played hide-and-seek. Those inky nights, when we peered from our windows to see if the snowman would really come to life; and stared anxiously and protectively at each other’s door. Do you remember? I want to relive those moments. With you. I want them back. I want to feel the salted air tingle on my tongue while you carry me on your back, and I want to split the first snowflake with you before it melts. I want to get drenched in the blinding rain and jump in puddles, and I want to fly beside you with eagle wings. I want to listen to o...

He clanged and clattered the bars with bestial ferocity. His fiery eyes gleamed, now orange, now gold. Displayed in the middle of the crowded square, everyone saw him, yet no one did. No one could have missed his wild roars, yet they all seemed deaf. I stood, in my new blue robe, separated from him by a film of false faces. I shut out all sound, not because I wanted to be like the puppets around me; oh no, I always prided myself on being different, on standing out from the crowd. No, I just wanted to see, and sight is often unclouded in the absence of sound. Just as the blind Yarn-Spinner had suddenly heard the cacophony he had hitherto ignored. He had told me all about it. Similar, yet not quite the same. I saw. I saw past the ferocity and the wildfire that issued from him. I saw past the aura of mystery he had seemed to exude. I saw him, so transparent now, so desperate; caught soundly between two worlds. One his own, one alien. One that he wanted to abandon, one that he wanted to...