Monday, July 16, 2018

Rain Dance

It’s time to sing our favorite song,
The rains are here again.

Step out dear sister, race the wind
 The rains are here again.

Listen to the clouds calling your name
The rains are here again.

Laugh at the look of splashed puddles
The rains are here again.

Let the drops sparkle in your ebony curls

The rains are here again.

Twirl and dance in tune to the splatter
The rains are here again.

Wave to the inky sky in delight
The rains are here again.

Oh, my sister! Let us celebrate
The rains are here again.

Painting by Mrs. Ratna Pochiraju

Please bear with the words. Writing during a writer's block wasn't easy. 

Wednesday, July 4, 2018


The image is taken from Google. 

The popsicle dripped down her hand. She licked it, wrinkling her nose at the added salt to the sweetness of the grape. With the sun roasting her alive, she finally realized how the turkey feels in the oven. 

A summer tale using 38 words. 

Monday, July 2, 2018

Water Under the Bridge

The image is taken from Google search. 

The rippling waves shied from my touch
like water under the bridge.

A gentle breeze blew the dead leaf from my fingers
like water under the bridge.

The glorious sunset left me in the dark
like water under the bridge.

The reason to wait no longer existed
like water under the bridge.

Yet, my heart refused to let go
like water under the bridge.

Twilight lost its stars in the clouds
like water under the bridge.

While I remained unmoving, my tears flowed
like water under the bridge.

The words of the past swirled around me
like water under the bridge.

The haunting agony not letting me move on
like water under the bridge.

Some stories never leave us alone
like water under the bridge.

This poem is written in Chant style. The poem has no rhyme scheme or meter.
"Water under the bridge" phrase has a different meaning, though I tried to use it in the literal sense, in the 'phrase' sense and also gave it a twist implying that the issue may still affect the person despite saying otherwise. 

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Myra's Wand

The image is taken from Google. 

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” The wiry man with overgrown inky hair asked her.

“Yes, my lord.” Myra murmured peeking at the members of the High Order.

“You may proceed.” The man stepped to a side.

“I plead forgiveness, my lords. My little magic never hurt a being. If you do feel that I crossed the line, I request for another chance to make amends.” Her voice had the right note of apprehension in it.

The four members looked at each other and nodded. The wiry man, a representative, spoke. “Please step into the circle, young wizard.”

Myra obeyed wondering what it was. Her emerald green eyes shone with curiosity. But she remained silent. Her mother would be furious. Despite her repeated lectures, Myra did get the attention of the High Order. It was not a good thing.

Light from the crystal above shone on her. The room looked like a giant crystal ball with rainbow colors twinkling from all sides. Myra wondered if she could take a picture using her mobile. 

“Wizard Myra, please hand over your wand.” The man stretched his hand.

“But…” She looked puzzled. The stern expression on their faces left her no choice. She quietly took out a chopstick from her handbag and placed it in his hand.

“Thank you. Now, the Order speaks.” The man gestured.

An old man with apple-colored cheeks and round belly spoke. “Wizard Myra, the magical power always comes with responsibility. You have used the magic to do your homework, put a frog in your classmate’s dress, tripped an innocent boy, and stole a brooch from a jewelry store.”

Myra looked sheepish. Maybe she went a little overboard in using her powers.

“Even if we ignore those as a teenager’s silly indulgence, we cannot overlook the incident that led to a lost opportunity for a young man.” He continued.

“I never troubled any man, my lord.” Myra blurted.

Another member spoke. She looked at least five hundred years old. “You do not know the consequences of your actions, Wizard Myra. You only thought you were advancing the time so that you wouldn’t have to bear with your chemistry lecture. But, you interfered with the universal clock.”

Myra looked appalled. She twirled her wand thrice and pushed the time by ten minutes.

The apple cheeks man spoke again. “Many people got confused, missed buses, almost had accidents because the traffic signals jammed. And most importantly, a young man lost his only chance to get his dream job because his interview time got lost in your magic.”

“I had no idea, my lords,” Myra mumbled.

“We see that. You have not bothered to listen to your mother’s instructions. Not once did she misuse her powers.” The lady said.

“I apologize, my lords. I will never do such a thing again.” Myra vowed.

“Yes, Wizard Myra. We will see to it that you will not. The Order forbids you to use your powers.” They ruled.

Aghast, Myra blinked her tears. What would she do without her magic? “Please, my lords.”

They shook their heads. “If you prove to be worthy of your powers, you will receive them when you turn eighteen. The Order has spoken.”

Myra stared helplessly as the wiry man broke her wand. She was nothing without her wand. It was only four months ago on her sixteenth birthday that she became a wizard. Her mother tried her best to train Myra. She should have listened instead of taking the powers for granted.

With her head bowed, Myra let her tears fall. The place turned dark for an instant. In the next second, Myra found herself in her room.

She sat on the bed staring at her reflection in the mirror. The musical tune of her mobile phone startled her.

“You are late. Come soon.” Her friend scolded.

Myra looked at her watch and rushed out. She was late for the party. Running out of the house, Myra pulled the stick that held her hair together in a messy knot. The wavy locks flowed down her shoulders. She twirled it thrice. Nothing happened.

“You cannot fool the High Order. Your punishment remains extended for another three years. The real wand in your hand is of no use to you.” A voice spoke from above.

Cursing, she rushed to the nearest stop. She missed the bus by half a minute. With no taxi nearby, Myra walked back home. The wand a mere chopstick in her hands.  

Monday, June 11, 2018

The Nymph

The image is taken from Google and edited. 

It was middle of the night
when a flutter of wings
through the open window
gently shook him from his dreams.

He blinked in surprise
as the nymph blew him a kiss
and faded into the dark night,
luring him to step out of the house.

A flash caught his eye;
was it the nymph or a shooting star?
Mesmerized by the glittery wings,
he followed her into the woods.

She darted from one tree to another,
her tinkling laugh teasing his senses.
Tripping over roots and dead trees,
he lunged to grab her, to own her.

Deep in the thick forest, she enticed and vanished in a blink.
Bewildered, he heaved and huffed,
as fear tingled on his skin.

Soft voices floated around him,
easing his racing pulse.
The nymph danced with her friends,
their sparkle lighting up the delicate blooms.

His feet grew roots into the earth;
his limbs sprouted tender leaves;
tears flowed from his eyes,
as the breeze purified his heart and soul.

His vow to save the trees
echoed in the silence,
after the nymphs left him alone
reflect upon the damage humans do the Nature.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

The Boon

"Open your eyes. Name your wish." The majestic figure smiled.
"Cool. Give me lots of sapience." He scratched the beard.
"It is acquired by implementing intelligence to gain experience," God explained.
"I used my intelligence to chant your prayer for 90 years. Now, give it to me." He demanded.

Monday, June 4, 2018

Where lies Future?

The image is taken from Google and edited. 

Where lies future? Curious,
I stare into the daylight
as the sun smiles glorious,
faint hope blooms to my delight.

I reach for the galaxy,
stretching to touch the starlight.
Clouds snowed on my fantasy,
turning me numb with frostbite.

It must be my delusion;
Life, I know is a tutor.
Yet remains the confusion.
So I ask, where lies future?

Trying out a new poetry style called the Ae Freislighe. (It's an Irish style of poetry.)

Monday, May 28, 2018

Ode to Salt Waters

Cold waves touch my feet, bringing tears to my eyes,
as I struggle with the burden of my sins.
The chosen pathway unknowingly leads me
deep into the chasm.

The distant hills echo my agonized cries
luring me with compassion I got nowhere,
even as the twilight sky left me lonely
with nothing but void.

Losing my last chance to go back forever,
I stand alone, begging the sea to take me
away to the point of no return. For me,
life is an abyss.

An attempt to use the picture prompt and emotion prompt in the Sapphic Ode poem.

Monday, May 21, 2018

The Unforgotten Lullaby

Those were the days of cassettes and tape recorders. I loved listening to songs, especially the ones by AR Rahman and Ilayaraja. I barely understood the lyrics. That did not stop me from signing my version of lyrics. Then CD’s came first followed by pen drives and memory cards. Technology advanced into iPods and music apps. We could download almost any song from the internet. Boasting a vast collection of instrumental music became a matter of pride.

The FM radio had ups and downs; some RJ’s loved more than others. But a common problem persisted- the advertisements that would play right in the middle of a song. World Space, the satellite radio with over 40 channels worldwide came to in the year 2000 (India). It came with a set-top box, a mini dish-like antenna, and a remote.

Life was heaven again. I no longer asked my father sing lullabies for me; of course, I was into my teens by then. The radio played all day in the background as we went about with our work. Mom had her favorite channel, dad his and I mine.

The morning began with Carnatic or Hindustani and ended with old classical Hindi songs or Western Classical (if I had my way). We ended up with two World Space instruments (one mine, other dad's) when they mailed about closing the radio station. I was sure it was a hoax. Alas, one not-so-fine morning, the music stopped. Dad and I refused to throw away the units. We contacted the people who worked with the company. They said it might be available online as an app. It did though the result was unsatisfactory.

I got a replacement in a portable music system (nothing fancy) with two small speakers. It stands on my desk along with three sheets of songs listed in chronological order. I am one of those people who need music to study, to write, to draw, to cook, to eat and to sleep (you get my point). Though I tend to listen to the same old songs (read favorites), I do try and keep track of latest numbers. But when I fail to sing a two-month-old song which topped the music charts, it does show the declining quality of lyrics. (I am one of those people who remember song lyrics even during examinations and viva.)

Now in my twenties, I miss my father’s lullabies. He sings, but not when I ask him to. I remember how mom would rock me to sleep as dad sung a song he learned from his mother who in turn learned from hers. Yeah, it’s more of a family song. One day in future, I’ll be singing it for my kids.
I don’t think it’s available on the internet, though a few relatives are trying to find the source of the song. It goes something like this one.

“Govinda ram ram, govinda hari hari (3)
Radhe govinda krishna, radhe gopala Krishna,
Govinda ram ram, govinda hari hari (2)
Palukanela palukavo, panchadara chilakavo,
Govinda ram ram, govinda hari hari (2)”

I am going to ask my dad to sing it for me and record it. This song always soothed me to sleep when I was cranky, grumpy and irritated. No matter how many favorites I have in music, this song will always be special. 

The image is taken from

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Ode to Thunderstorm

The image is taken from Google and edited.

Oh! The blinding flash of lightning strikes again.
How the trees bow down in respect for the wind!
The lashing rain manages to soothe my soul
no sunshine could touch.

As the thunder echoes in my vacant heart,
the bolt that strikes a distant tree blinks at me.
Nature's vengeance they say. To me it is life
I cannot escape.

Thick dark clouds protecting me from the harsh sun
while the whirling wind carries with it the pain
into the realms of the unknown, my eyes blur
tears mixing with rain.

An attempt at Sapphic Ode with only syllable count and no scansion. 

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Still Waters

In the middle of nowhere,
secure on the rippling waves,
with nothing but gold around,
we sat aware, yet unconcerned.

There was so much to say,
words swirled in my mind,
I look at you, my heart heavy,
your eyes devoid of emotion bring tears to mine.

How did we go wrong?
Which noise broke our whispered silences?
No, do not answer.
I see the truth in my heart.

If only! I wish!
Oh! How I wish,
each day, every minute,
but my courage deserts me.

The golden dusk was once pale,
in the warmth of your smile.
Today, we are mere strangers,
even as the rings glint in the sunlight.

I cannot bear this anymore,
let us go back to the real world.
The power of Nature breaks my heart,
only if I could, I would apologize forever.

An attempt to use the image as well as the word prompt (show guilt without naming it) in a single poem. 

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

The Meeting

It was a dark and stormy night, as the vision in pale silver glistened over the rippling waters when wolves howled and owls hooted announcing the arrival of a stranger whose smile broke the hearts of maidens; the perfect night for a clandestine meet. 

The image is taken from google. 

Monday, April 30, 2018

Dealing with the Wall

Seeing this week’s nonfiction prompt made me cry. April for me has been a disproportioned sine wave with a lot of lows. I barely completed my Camp NaNoWriMo thanks to the instinct which made me change the goal from word count to hour count.

Writer’s block is nothing new to me. I’ve endured months of it with no success. But back then, the writing was only a hobby. Now, I dread the times when I stare at the blank pages willing myself to write something, anything. The frustration makes me grumpy, not that I am sunshine otherwise. I snap at everybody only to feel bad later on.

Books have always rescued me from such situations. This month, even they deserted me. I read like crazy only to continue staring at white sheets of paper. I finished the entire Lady Julia Grey Series by Deanna Raybourn with such obsession that I dreamt of Brisbane and Julia bickering and solving new cases. At least if I remembered a quarter of those silly dreams, I’d have attempted my first ever Fan Fiction. Alas, it was not to be. I woke up feeling groggy and irritated; not the best way to start a day.

I turned to music and ended up with a similar result. Nothing worked, not even the daily prompts I get to see on my newsfeed. I read a few more books, skipped a week of the YeahWrite challenge, tired some crafting, and watched the saved episodes of CID. For the previous week, I forced myself to attempt both nonfiction and fiction grids (I would get a free review after all). The nonfiction was decent, I suppose with few errors but the poem, sigh! It was one of the worst ones I’ve written. Still, I posted it, desperate to get back on the track.

I’m not sure, but I feel a little better now. It could be the after-effects of celebrating my birthday (Sunday), but I am confident I can write can this week. A flash fiction flowed easily. I sent it before the deadline.

What I think eventually helped was my persistence to not give up. I bought myself a new pen, mixed inks to create purple and reddish black colors. The incentive to use these colors served to an extent. Constantly reading books was a bonus. Even if I use the Regency language in my writing, the paper is not blank anymore.

What works effectively to kick aside the writer’s block is ultimately the determination to write. It may take days or weeks to get over it. And there are no standard cures. Each barricade is a new one and has to be dealt differently. But, the underlying force will always be the grit to survive and move on.
The image is taken from Pinterest.

The New Room

The image is taken from Google.

My heart swells with love
as sunshine fills the room.
The faint smell of new paint,
a balm to my tingled nerves.

The walls were bare,
patiently awaiting the arrival
of chubby hands to make them
the best canvas on earth.

Yellow lace curtains danced
as the spring breeze wafted through
blowing the tendrils of my hair,
making a giggle like a child I carry.

The new empty cradle stood steady,
confident to safeguard the baby.
The rainbow cushions and silk blankets
grinning at me, eager to hug the newborn.

Sleepless nights and tired mornings
put a blush on my cheeks.
A load of chocolates I relished
sweetening the discomfort of swollen ankles.

Dark circles make my eyes glow
as the smiles and mutterings fight to win.
I can hardly see the ground,
my eyes only for the tiny red socks.

Sinking into a soft chair,
I sigh as the baby kicks, again.
Eight more weeks before I hold
a precious bundle of joy in my arms.

Oh! How I yearn,
uncaring the fatigue and pain.
Every second that passes,
takes me closer to my dream come true.

The prompt is to write a poem expressing an emotion without naming it. The POV is a first for me. I hope I've done justice to it. 

Monday, April 23, 2018

The Nostalgic Dice

Reading about the games of dice made me nostalgic. I remember the summer holidays when I and mom would go to my grandparents’ house. I would get bored in the noon (stepping out in the summer heat was not even an option), so we would sit and play board games.

Sometimes it was me and grandpa and other times it was with my cousins (two of them). My mother bought this big chart for me- we call it Vaikuntapali in Telugu. It’s basically the Snakes & Ladders. The other side had ludo, called Ashta Chemma (I’ll come back to this one later).

With cooler in full blast, we would sit on the floor fighting over choosing our favorite colors as chips. The game would go on for two or three hours with bickering, pouting and laughing thrown in. Mom or aunt would make some juice for us and sit reading a magazine or doing embroidery (my aunt was amazing with a needle).

But we did not use the dice always. We instead had shells- four big brown shells of equal size. The count would invariably change. It was 1, 2, 3, 4 & 8. The 4’s & 8’s got double chances just like the 6’s in dice. And this is where the ludo comes in. Ashta is 8 and Chemma is 4.

Ludo is, of course, a strategic game where we have to escape from being killed, kill the opponents’ chips and reach the house first to win. We were pretty competitive. There were times we would fight like monkeys and swear not to talk to each other. The fact that we would go out together barely an hour after the fight was entirely a different matter. Sometimes, they would coax and drag me along (I was the most stubborn).

Talking about Ashta Chemma always makes me smile. You see, there is a movie of the same name. It is a rom-com with more emphasis on comedy. It is a lovely film to watch and laugh until our tummies ache. The comedy is clean and refreshing. The director was influenced by Oscar Wilde and it shows on screen.

The storyline is pretty simple with melodious songs. The movie was shot half in the city and half in a village in Andhra. With four main characters and a bunch of side characters and decidedly no negative roles, the movie is as good as the evening breeze.

I and my sister (cousin) went to watch this movie during a trip for her brother’s marriage. We had our favorite mini onion samosas, dilpasand (it’s a jam and nuts stuffed bun) and Pepsi to give us company as we laughed in the cinema theater and on our way home.

Life during holidays was entirely a different experience and I do miss it sometimes. 

Monday, April 9, 2018

The Exam Guide

The image is taken from Google

I do not usually do the non-fiction challenges. Somehow I don't get those right. But this week, I wanted to give it a try.

The topic, to write a tutorial in seven steps got me thinking. It's just like writing a recipe or a flowchart. Now, I've written programs and flowcharts when I was in college- the computer record books, pages of coding that had to be executed without error, and finally diagrams of the result. For exams, every answer had to have an example if we were to score good marks.

Exams! That's it. I agree half of the kids are done with their Boards, but there will always be other examinations to study for. I could write my procedure to prepare for those horrifying days.

Disclaimer: The system may or may not work for everyone. Go with what suits you the best.

Step 1: Get a copy of the examination timetable. Make duplicates and keep one on the desk or stick to the wall. It has to be where you can see it, every time.

Step 2: Make a plan. Calculate how many hours you will need to allocate for each subject. Be realistic. (You need to eat, sleep, shower). The more detailed a plan, the better.

Step 3: Collect the required material from the library, friends, etc. Arrange them neatly on the side. Divide the day into parts and schedule the study time. Some prefer early mornings while some prefer late nights. (Mine is neither)

Step 4: Have a stack of plain sheets ready. Use the ones leftover from previous notebooks. Get the pencils or pens (whatever preferred).

Step 5: Start making notes topic wise for each chapter. Write the side headings and key points for each topic. Place the sheets in the main book you refer.

Step 6: Read the notes you've made. It will help you remember better. Do not forget to take some power naps. Also, have a small chocolate once a day.

Step 7: A day before the exam, make cryptic notes with only the keywords. The entire syllabus should fit on a single sheet of paper. Carry it to the examination center. But do not take it into the hall. (cheating is bad)

Finally, if it feels like this might work for you, give it a try. Good luck. After all, exams have a habit of arriving every year.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

The Oceanids

The image is taken from Google.

A shining constellation of stars
making us feel they are ours.

Calming the sea for a sailor
in answer to their silent prayer.

Guiding the Zuni farmer
with little more than a murmur.

Girls of water, Maidens of ice
Oceans, snow, showers, frost- they entice.

Fluttering wings of a dove
flying safe from Orion's love.

May for Maia, beautiful and shy
The Great One, brightest star in the sky.

Electra gave birth to the Trojans
slipped away to deal with emotions.

Alcyone, a leader and a rival of the elder
but she turned a lover as Ceyx held her.

Taygete the companion of Artemis
potnia theron, had her lair in the hills.

Sterope, mother of a war God,
weakest she was, yet they applaud.

Celaeno, the faintest of all,
mother of two is all they recall.

Merope, a lost sister of the cluster
married a mortal, turned an outsider.

The Pleiades, a part of Taurus,
the seven sisters remembered in the Greek Chorus.

Note: I tried to write a poem using couplet style, but this poem does not have a meter. I am not good at scansions. I am learning to get the rhyming right first.
Also, the poem has full rhymes, near rhymes, and even vague rhymes.
The poem is about the Pleiades or the Seven Sister Stars. Each mythology has different versions. I used a few.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Fairies Dance

The image is taken from

“Seven of them.”
“They are here.”

*Rolling eyes*

 “I see nothing.”


“Me too.”
“Use your sight.”
“My! My!”
“Yeah! Told you.”

Fairies danced around the Night Blooming Cereus.

*Shooting Stars*

“Stop it.”

The fairies vanished.

“We’ll see them again.”

“A hundred years.”

This was supposed to be for the Microprose challenge. But then, my Word messed up the count and I being who I am, did not count the words manually. So here it is for the weekend showcase. 

Sunday, April 1, 2018

I am not Envious!

The image is taken from

In the crowded room,
as flash caught my eye,
I gasped.
Diamonds- uncut and pure,
glittered around a thick neck.
My hand closed over
the two dollar trinket,
choking my voice.
She was such a show-off.

My car stuttered to a stop
when the signal turned red,
The sound making me cringe.
Even as a sleek car paused,
silent than a panther.
My eyes widened and narrowed.
Longer than my apartment,
it screamed money and power.
Here comes the idle son of a rich man.

Eyes glued to the screen,
I type faster than a flying comet.
"I've been promoted."
She whispered and giggled.
My fingers curl into a fist.
Three years of toiling,
I am invisible to the manager.
With a fake smile and flashy accent,
she waltzes right over me.

An abandoned basket stood
outside my neighbor's door.
Something whimpered, I peeked.
Soft as cotton, white as a daisy,
it stared at me, unblinking.
Jaw clenched, I hand it over,
as her pale cheeks turned red.
So the wrinkled husband gave her a kitten.
The old couple was nauseatingly in love.

My house is clean, empty.
I have no friends to laugh with me.
Nor do I have pets to comfort me.
Why does the fat party woman deserve diamonds?
What did the rich son do to earn the flashy car?
How could a snobbish female be superior to me at work?
Why should an ugly old woman need so much love?
This would is unfair to me.
I rightfully deserve better than them.

For this week I had to write using one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I chose Envy. It wasn't as easy I thought it would be writing in the first person. I can only hope I did some justice to the poem.

Monday, March 26, 2018

Loss of Control

The image is taken from Google.

The morning sun shone through the curtains
My lips curve into a pleasant smile
I haven't felt this good in a long time
I am rid of her, at last.

I turn to the mirror on the wall
what better than my face to look at in the morning
"Blood!" I am not hurt.
The mirror. It bleeds. How?

The red liquid forms a face
"No!" It cannot be.
She is dead. I killed her.
I can still feel her soft skin bruise as I squeezed her throat.

Too much drink last night.
I step into the shower. Water can wash away anything.
Cold as ice, the droplets hit he hard
I sigh and stare into deep blue pools. Her eyes.

Stumbling out of the shower, I grab a robe
The soft cloth, a balm to my pounding heart.
Why am I acting this way? I am a man.
I am the power that destroyed her life. She cannot scare me.

Hot, scalding coffee burns my mouth
It pumps adrenaline through my veins
I look around the house, it is perfect.
The peace disturbed by a musical laugh. Hers.

I have a special love for the city traffic
The car races on the streets
I sing with my favorite rock band,
A voice chimes along. The car skid on the asphalt. She loved to sing.

Fifteenth floor. Suite room. Doors and windows locked.
This place has the best food and drink.
My stomach grumbles. Never before I had to skip my lunch.
The wine tastes different. Rustic. Bloody!

Pills. Thank god for science.
I will kill her again and again.
How dare she, a mere woman
play games with me? I am the boss. I will show her.

Sheets tangle around my limbs.
The room is hot, stifling. I cannot breathe.
It's her face, everywhere- on the chair, on the glass, in my head.
My hands lunge for her throat. Her laughter echoes, louder.

"No! Go away! Stay away from me!"
I will send her away. I will. I will.
Why is this happening to me? I am strong.

"Hallucination." That's what she is.
A fragment of my imagination. I can control it. I can. I will.
I push aside the curtains. The wind is whispering. "Embrace me. Come to me."
I hear it say. I nod and step out of the window. Free falls are liberating.

This is an attempt to write dramatic style of poetry. 

Monday, March 19, 2018

The Yellow Ball

The image is taken from google. 

With a deep sigh, Mike turned his head away from the ice cream cart. His stomach growled. Mike tightened his hands around the waist and looked at a group of children. They were playing with a bright yellow ball. A smile formed on his dry lips. Trust kids to bring a beach ball to a park, he thought warily.

The ball flew in his direction and landed at his feet.

“Hide me, quick.” The ball said in an urgent voice.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you see how those monsters are torturing me? Help me. I’ll help you.” The ball offered.

Mike saw a kid walking in his direction. He kicked the ball into the bushes beside the bench.


“Shut up,” Mike muttered. The kid asked if Mike saw the ball.

Mike shook his head. Dejected, the kid ran back to his friends.

“So Mr. Yellow Ball, what do we do now?” Mike asked amusement evident in his voice.

“Take me to your house. And I’ll kill you if you kick me one more time.” The ball replied.

“Hmm… As you wish.” Mike said. He looked around and spotted a paper bag. He placed the ball into the bag and walked away from the park.

“Not bad, dude. You are a good thief.” The ball teased.

“Yeah! I should have stolen some food instead of you.” Mike retorted. He thought the ball was as good a diversion from his grumbling stomach. Turning into a dirty alley, Mike stopped in front of a rusty door.

He kicked the door closed after stepping inside. “Eww! What is this lousy smell?” The ball asked.

“My home, yellow,” Mike replied. He turned the bag to let the ball roll onto the muddy floor.

“Pick Me Up!” The ball yelled. Mike laughed as he sat on the thin mattress.

“Idiot. Do you want my help or not?” The ball thundered.

“What kind of help?” Mike asked looking curious.

“I can make you rich. But only if you treat me right.” The ball replied.

Mike grinned. He placed it beside him on the bed and took out a lighter from his pocket.
He found the lighter in the same bushes. It was a solid silver piece. Engraved on it was a strange symbol. Casually he flicked it open. The flame danced.  

 “Noo! Throw that away. It will destroy me.” The ball replied rolling to the edge of the bed.

“You are afraid of fire?” Mike asked.

“Not fire. Only this cursed thing. It is evil.” The ball replied in a shaking voice.

Mike shut it off and put it aside. The ball breathed a sigh of relief.

“You are a good man. Now go to sleep. You will wake up rich.” The ball ordered. It twirled thrice.


The soft feathery bed felt like heaven. Mike breathed in a faint fragrance of lily in his sleep. He opened his eyes and found himself in a lavish room. He let out a low whistle. The ball made him a rich man.

Mike stretched loving the feel of silk on his rough skin. No wonder the rich went crazy about luxury, he thought with a grin. He rang the bell that was beside his bed. A well-dressed man walked in carrying a large tray of food. Mike ate until he thought his stomach would burst.

Later in the day, Mike found the ball sitting on the massive chair behind the study table.
“Thank you, yellow.” He said in a warm voice.

The ball shrugged. “Remember, none of this is permanent. If you let this get into your head and ill-treat anybody, you will be back on the streets.”

As days passed on Mike began to resent the ball. It gave him riches, but that did not mean it could dominate him round the clock, Mike thought bitterly.

He remembered the lighter. Mike found it under the pillow when he woke up that day. It was locked in his safe. That night, Mike crept behind the ball. The flames from the lighter engulfed the ball as it cried for help.

Mike walked away. The next morning he woke up to find a rat racing on his leg. The foul smell of the gutters made him puke. All he had was the silver lighter gripped in his left hand. 

P.S: This is my first attempt at Magic Realism.

Monday, March 12, 2018

Land of Witches

The image is taken from google and edited.

Let the forest weave its charm,
accept the fragrant love of flowers,
notice the birds,
dance to the silent song.

Oblivious of the red sky,
follow the wind's siren.

Witches wait in anticipation;
In the darkest hours,
the magic gains strength.
Caught unaware,
hypnotized by the spell,
enter the forbidden land,
surrender to vanish forever.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Shepherd Girl (Version 2)

She stood on top of the hill,
her eyes on the distant land
even as her sheep grazed
patches of fresh green grass.

Her dog, a loyal companion, stood guard
ears twitching at the slightest sound.
Running across the open space,
determined to protect the herd of sheep.

Growing up on a tiny farm,
imagination filled the blanks
real world could not answer,
leaving her to create a kingdom of her own.

Panting by Mrs. Ratna Pochiraju