Sun, Sand and Nattat

(Rasgado’s Jazz Club, Baía Farta, Angola | Claudio González Jorge, Google Maps)

The watchtower-cum-viewing point framed against the bright sky was at once precise and aleatory. While the Geometrical exactness of the structure itself left nothing to chance, the assemblage of buildings themselves gave an impression of being plonked down at random on a randomly chosen location.

“That is enough Nattat”, hollered the big bosomed woman with an arthritic limp. The walls of the kitchen into which she hobbled into was covered in jet black soot. It was the only room other than the stuffed living room that also doubled up as the family bedroom. But it was also 15 year old Nattat’s abode of art. “Come and help me clean the stove. You are in a musseques in Angola!”

With a hardly audible sigh, Nattat, gently placed her latest work of art atop a stack in the corner. This was neither her first sea nor would it be her last sky.

(Word Count: 150)

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw

For the complete list of entries, please click HERE




(Photo Credit: CEAyr)

Words had long ceased to have meaning and meaning itself, was no longer capable of being articulated in words. The interaction between eyes, words and pages had irretrievably lost its cusp. There was nothing left to either define or redefine. The world itself was a vast endless plateau of never ending books each indistinguishable from the rest. It was more a churn arising out of a mass assembly endeavour than a spontaneous outcome of lambent ingenuity.

The same books were being read in prison libraries as well as Parliament portals.  A vile and toxic air, uniformly breathed in by all.

(Word Count: 100)

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

For more stories based on the above prompt, click HERE