Wednesday, 13 March 2013

VisDare: whorl

There are four maps protected by the life of four of our comrades. Find them before the literati...

Aleksei Volvakov was heading home after work when he first saw them. A fleet of black cars with the logo. His hand immediately reached for the locket around his neck and his lips started moving in a silent prayer. Four tough looking men bathed in guns of all shapes and sizes stepped out.

They don't know where the map is. He told himself. And I won't tell them.
He tried to act unfazed as they closed in. 
They won't kill me. Not until I tell them the map's location.
One of the men took out a revolver. 
"Your locket please." He said.
Aleksei was shocked. How could they know? But even before he could come up with a plan a muffled shot echoed through the deserted park and Aleksie Volvakov slumped in a heap on the wet grass.
The men tore the locket from around his neck and opened it. It revealed a murky photograph of an old house.
The coordinates of the orb of knowledge.

Intrigued? Read the rest of this story here.

Oh and here is a bonus entry for today's VisDare. A quatrain!

The world unfolds in a delirious haze,
familiar streets and signs morph into a confounding maze.
Faces transcend into masks, hearts to clay.
Strange how life can flip in a single day!

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

VisDare: Whimsy

"Look at them carefully, my little gladiator," he murmured, "look how they keep moving toward their destination."
"But daddy they are soooo slow. Gladiators are fast. I want to be fast." 
"Speed isn't everything Lisha. You need stealth and presence of mind. You need to have eyes on the back of your head."
Lisha frowned as her five year old brain tried to superpose a picture of her eyes but at the back of her head. She didn't like what she saw.
"Why do I need eyes at the back of my head?" she questioned. 
"So you can stop me from doing this!" The young girl squealed in delight as her father picked her up and twirled her around and around in their own little heaven, in the middle of nowhere, away from harm.

Alisha inspected the abandoned ruins with indifference- even as memories threatened to knock her down and run her over. 
"Are you sure this is the place?" Ryan asked. "It doesn't look like a 'place' to me, never mind the perfect house." He dusted off the cobwebs that had settled on his jacket and gave Alisha a sideward glance. "You don't have to come in if-"
"The stairs to the basement are somewhere out back." She cut him off and strode purposefully ahead.
Delving in memories is for the weak. Gladiators look ahead, never behind.
The voice of her father pierced her heart.
I will avenge you Daddy. 

Read more about Ryan, Alisha and their around-the-world-quest here.

Tuesday, 5 March 2013


So. I thought I'd give Ryan some well deserved rest for a little while. Plus this is an attempt at longer piece for fiction after a long, long time. It's written for Mid-week-blues-buster. Check it out!


She revved up the engine. There was a spray of gravel as she screeched out of the driveway, dark sunglasses covering her moist eyes and a carefree smirk camouflaging the turmoil within. She turned up the radio-until the very windows reverberated- and pressed the accelerator down harder. The suffocating city traffic soon dispersed and she found herself driving on an uncannily familiar road. She switched off the air-con and rolled down the windows breathing in the smell of freshly cut hay and wet soil. Her blackberry started vibrating on the dashboard but she couldn't care less.
Where are you?
The message blinked.
Purgatory. She thought of replying but didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath and stared straight ahead.
A few turns but eons later she spotted the building. Time seemed to slow as she took one faltering step after another to the crumbling building in the distance. It hadn't changed much. The saplings she had planted had morphed into tall trees; the immaculate garden was not-so-immaculate anymore; the roof was nothing more than broken planks supported by ropes. But it hadn't changed much. The feeling of love hung in the air and somehow it blanketed the vibe of abandonment that otherwise radiated from the building.
She didn't knock. She never did. A gust of dampness and a burst of emotions almost knocked her back, but she resisted and walked to the far end of the hallway-beyond cobwebs and dusty walls; beyond old portraits and desolate walls; beyond her real life- and right into history.
Sunlight poured in through the half open window of the shack, illuminating not so much the occupants of the room as memories of a time long gone. The old lady with the wrinkled face looked up from her knitting, finally acknowledging her presence and just like she had always greeted her, she whispered, "Welcome home, Anna," and broke down crying.
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