The Lego Serious Players

(Photo Credit: Renee Heath)

Three deck chairs provided a glorious view of the sun set. The plunging orb cast an orange hue around the mountain ranges overlooking the sparse shrub land. The mobile caravan, a mere euphemism for being a hair’s breath away from being homeless was parked a few feet away from the chairs. One of the world’s largest technology companies that took concepts such as Lego Serious Play and NLP with the same gravitas reserved for welcoming heads of States, was planning its “Hackathon” in the open plains.

The family stood no chance. The eviction notice was only a few heartbeats away.

(Word Count: 100)

This story was written as part of the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS challenge, more about which may be found HERE

 For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

Soul Strolling

(Talinn, Estonia | Daniel Pettersson, Google Maps)

Parveen leisurely ambled her way through the narrow cobblestone alley that led to the breathtaking park at Kadriorg. Kadriorg itself was a quaint, leafy and benevolent area within walking distance from the Old Town. Parveen ran her hand through her red-tinged and woodgrain inspired cascading locks. Ribbons of auburn gold were streaked throughout her hair. Otherwise a girl of astonishingly simple wants, the one luxury which she liberally allowed herself to indulge in was dabbling with hair colours.

Taking out a worn out notepad that had dog eared pages, she scribbled, “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” Invictus – her favourite poem.

A girl with a maturity belying her age and a resoluteness that was a latent spark of fire, she never carried a camera with her nor used her phone to click pictures. Moments and memories mattered more than Instagram and Facebook!

(Word Count: 150)

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw

For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

 

The Witness

(Photo Credit: Ted Strutz)

“Can you see the hood open as wide as the jaws of a hungry shark?” The terror was palpable in Venky’s eyes and rivulets of sweat streamed down his cheeks. “The black car came crashing in through the trees before coming to a standstill. The hood sprang open and the murderer just floated out from its confines with a sickle in his left hand and the head with fresh blood still dripping from it, in the right.”

Inspector Shaun and Detective Ivan looked at each other.  The land in front of them was desolate, barren and absolutely empty.

(Word Count: 98)

This story was written as part of the FRIDAY FICTIONEERS challenge, more about which may be found HERE

 For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

Knives and Wives

Call me a nomad, a mendicant, or even an aimlessly meandering soul

Brand me a wandering ascetic bereft of all concepts of either fair or foul;

The world for me is now an inexplicable sphere of chaotic welter

Where thoughts, deeds and words make for a messy grid running Helter-Skelter.

 

Impervious to bliss and ignorant of pain

I am an empty hollow within which all emotions lay slain;

Thus when accosted by armed assailants seeking to induce dread

I calmly said “Let him strike me who he thinks can kill something that is already dead”

 

Helter-Skelter they ran with their guns and knives

Some tale that to narrate to their wives!

Courtesy of Sammi Cox Weekend Writing Prompt

We owe it to the Ozone

spf 11-18-18 joy pixley 2

(Photo Credit: Joy Pixley)

The gravel pathway leading on to the Research Centre was prevented from getting baked underneath the heat of a blazing sun by a gnarled and twisted canopy of brown and green. The shadows of the knotty and contorted bark made for an interspersion of asymmetry as Siew Kuan studiedly made her way to the non-decrepit office. Beyond the stone walls could be glimpsed the vast expanse of an azure blue sea.

Opened with the usual fanfare and flamboyance, The Centre for Ozone Restoration, was both Siew Kuan’s altruistic brainchild and politics’ assiduous neglect. Lobby cartels and unscrupulous Multinational Corporations prevailed over restrictions on the use of Ozone depleting substances such as hydro chlorofluorocarbons (HCFCs) and chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs). Capitalism and Carbon emissions were after all siblings operating in tandem.

First they revoked Siew Kuan’s patented technology for Ozone preservation. The screws were further tightened when the funding reduced to a mere trickle. Now with all the employees gone, the Centre was virtually gasping for air.

But Siew Kuan had not decided to scale this summit for nothing. Fight she will, ferociously, fervently and fanatically like a wounded tigress. This much she knew, she owed Mother Nature!

(Word Count: 195)

This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

Oymyakon’s Revenge

(Photo Credit: Sue Vincent)

Oymyakon, as was universally admitted, would never be a threatening contender for the most flocked to holiday destination in the world. This quaint and tiresomely accessible place in Russia had the distinction of being the coldest permanently inhabited place on earth. Temperatures averaged around -58 degrees Fahrenheit during the winter months.

Hence, when this isolated and unheard of city found itself at the centre of the world’s imagination in the bleak winter of 2018, it created more than just a few minor ripples. On a desolate stretch of land between Yakutsk, the city centre and the railway station, could be found a two-thousand-year-old gnarled and wizened tree. This child of nature had seen revolutions and recriminations, stood mute witness to pillages and prosperity and was a silent spectator to carnage and celebrations. Right beside this tree was a big piece of stone that resembled a giant walrus in undisturbed repose. This unusual and unassuming combination of tree and stone spawned a bone chilling sequence of stories that made even Urban Legends read like kindergarten rhymes.

Rumours had it that on the second Wednesday of the eleventh month in the year 2018, three people who sat on the stone facing the tree (at different points throughout the day) had undergone a chilling transformation. The tight lipped and tongue tied locals were too terrified to even reveal the exact nature of the misfortune that had plagued the troika or the people associated with them.

Renowned climatologist and the inveterate nature lover, Blaise Huizen decided to take both matters into his own hands along with a camera. After a laborious and back breaking journey that involved all possible modes of transformation from an airplane to a mule, Blaise finally reached the objects of attention. There wasn’t to be seen a single soul in sight. Setting the camera on timer mode and ensuring that the experimenter and the experimented would be clearly captured, he positioned his camera at the most appropriate angle prior to positioning himself atop the rock and facing the tree.

Time seemed to stand still and except for the unceasing falling of snow. Just when Blaise was about to get himself off the rock, he felt a powerful surge of heat flow throughout his body. This sensation lasting just a couple of seconds had him drenched in sweat. Gathering his wits, thoughts and camera, Blaise headed back home.

Mrs. Doolan, hearing the doorbell ring slowly trudged towards the door with her arthritic limbs groaning and creaking at every step. “Hello Mama!” Blaise greeted Mrs. Doolan. “Hello son you are…….” Mrs. Doolan jerked back as if experiencing a powerful electric shot. She slowly brought her crooked fingers to cover her mouth. Although she saw the glint of pure evil in the blood shot eyes of her son, she could never see the arm with the machete springing up before coming down upon her, mercilessly, ruthless and perhaps – inevitably.

All metamorphosis may not be external. Some of the deadliest transformations are those that stem from within.

This is a response to the #writephoto Prompt – Snowfall curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Click on the link to read other stories inspired by the image.

Frosty’s Failure

3 sheep

(Photo Credit: Crispina Kemp)

Frosty couldn’t have known that he was genetically engineered; the boisterous children who named him so didn’t realise he was genetically manipulated, the breeding centre which housed him couldn’t care less whether he was transgenic or bio-technology derived. The shining innocence of the kids and the startling indifference of Science both used Frosty to serve two totally contrasting purposes. Purposes driven by conflicting motives.

While Frosty’s creators were waxing eloquent about their achievements, the masters of modern technology failed to inform Frosty as to whether they had adhered – in both letter and spirit – to the Guidelines on genetically engineered animals used in Science. Frosty was the poster boy of social media. But neither the filters on Instagram nor the frenzy on Facebook told his real story.

A story of deceit and diffidence which made Frosty unable to stand or sleep for more than an hour a day.

(Word Count: 147)

Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #11 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.