Amoebic Puddles of Red

(Photo from Pixabay)

By the time, the riot police arrived with their threatening paraphernalia, there was left no activity to disperse, no arson to direct their water cannons at and no clashes to separate with their gleaming black batons. The damage was well and truly done. Wrecked furniture lay atop each other in an asymmetric pattern of destruction. An assortment of moans and wails emanated from the ground where prone bodies with broken bones lay curled and twisted. The asphalt had turned darker absorbing the tiny rivulets of blood forming amoebic puddles.

Chairs were hurled at each other by the warring adversities with such ferocity that the law enforcers were stunned to see a couple of them perched precariously on a massive beam overhead. It was like a trapeze artist, who, after being rendered clueless about her next move, was just balancing dangerously on one leg.

It was an innocuous question raised by an octogenarian that made the congregation a tinderbox. “Why shouldn’t the President be made accountable for his devious activities. He is not above any of us – as human beings after all.”

A flying boot made a cracking connection with her jaw. As she hit the ground – mayhem!

(Word Count: 199)

Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Donna McNicol . For more details visit HERE

To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE

 

 

 

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

 

 

Air

(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 

The Input – Output Fallacy

(Photo Credit: Crispina Kemp)

The engine looked straight out of a Lego assemblage. An arresting yellow with a dash of sombre blue. The metal finishing was exquisite and precise to the point of fascination. The “Lord Hinton” was an epitome of perfection. But it was also inscrutable. The 6 axle behemoth popularly known as the SD 70 AC- 4400, and weighing an astonishing 400,000 pounds (a full 200 tons) was not the outcome of hours of labour expended and sweat poured within the confines of an Integral Coach Factory.  The engine was a confounding printout. Yes, you read that right, a goddamned printout! Using unimaginatively sophisticated component called ‘supergoop’, a gargantuan printer the size of a two story building swallowed the design of the Lord Hinton, before spitting out a mind blowing replica of the vintage product.

Capitalism rejoiced as 4578 workers mutinied their obsolescence with placards, plaintive calls and even 15 pathetic suicides.

(Word Count: 150)

Written as part of the Crimson’s Creative Challenge #44 More details regarding this challenge may be found HERE.

Voice Of Empathy

Screen Shot 2019-09-06 at 6.37.56 AM

(Photo Credit: Google Images)

The towering cranes reached out to the sky as if they were either offering their benedictions to an unseen God or trying to desperately snatch at something not belonging to them. An agglomeration of asymmetric noises competed for the attention of whoever was wont to pass by the vicinity. Whirring, Roaring, Moaning, Whistling, Howling and Rumbling, the wheels and motors of capitalism were alive, well and thriving.

The spotless road to the right of which these gargantuan machines were relentlessly at work was called Pioneer Road. As spotless as the blue sky above, one could see one’s reflection on the exquisitely tarred and leveled piece of track.  A Doosan excavator was paving a small patch of road at the cul-de-sac.

Venky wiping rivulets of sweat streaming down his face, thought, “there is every kind of sound assailing my ear except one of empathy.”

Welcome to a New World Order.

(Word Count: 149)

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw

For the complete list of entries, please click HERE

 

PERIPHERY!

(PHOTO PROMPT © Penny Gadd )

It wasn’t just the plant that grew in a bold and unrestricted manner. Every ceiling on desire was brought down and every shackle on ambition unshackled. Each book meriting its place on the bookshelf ceased to command a standing and was now at the apex of irrelevance.  People issuing warnings about the untrammeled profusion of Virtual Reality were relegated to the confines of peripherality as prophets of doom.

Now the machines had taken control. The word was their information highway and mankind, insignificant puppets traversing the lanes. Puppets as worthless as spiraling branches, neglected, and taken for granted.

(Word Count: 98)

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 

Mr.Cat is Hieronymus Bosch

(Photo courtesy of Sue-Z)

The scene looked straight out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. It was definitely not the Triptych of the Temptation of St. Anthony. Although, how a cat could have known whether it was the Triptych or not, only the cat could tell. Since the cat did not have the habit of speaking, or even displaying the merest evidence of attempting to, no one  could tell how the cat could have known whether it was the Triptych or not.

The magnificent Blackburnian Warbler in resplendent orange had flown over striated peaks and gurgling waterfalls before landing on a desolate patch of land scattered with pebbles. The cat intently peered into the screen and without taking its eyes off the Warbler put out its tongue giving the virtual bird two long licks. In one lithe, nonchalant, unhurried and calculated motion, the cat with its paws simultaneously depressed the ‘Control’ and ‘End’ keys.

The bird flew out the laptop screen straight into the wide open mouth of the cat. There was nary a scratch or even an indentation on the Dell Latitude 5480. There was none even last night when the Cuban Hummingbird met with the same fate as the Warbler.

(Word Count: 200)

Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Donna McNicol . For more details visit HERE

To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE