Hello friends, curious about the outcome, I couldn’t resist writing a sequel to last week’s FF: The Helpline Number but I think (and hope) this works as a standalone story as well. As usual thank you for your indulgence 🙂
Photo (c) Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Missed Call
Words 100
“Yes?” The portly neighbor’s eyes glistened.
“I’m locked out.” She said. “Could you call a carpenter?”
“At this time?” He opened the door.
She backed away.
But she wouldn’t call him.
His house was spic and span. Not a crease out of place. Just the way he liked it. Yet everything looked cold, clinical.
He gave the cushion a restless twitch.
Her inhaler.
His breath caught.
What if she needed it?
What did he care?
She had walked out.
Why the hell wasn’t she picking her phone?
“How careless can you be?” He brandished her inhaler.
She burrowed into him.
***
Written for the Friday Fictioneers – A story in 100 words or less. Thank you Rochelle for hosting the challenge and the photo prompt. To read the other stories inspired by this prompt click here.
It was dark when she let herself into her new apartment. Switching on the lights she gazed around delightedly.
The room was exactly as she had left it. The upturned heels, the dupatta* trailing on the floor, a half-opened book, the banana peel.
She was truly free of that obnoxious odious nitpicking man!
Humming, she threw open the windows.
Neither a ‘garbage dump’ nor a ‘pigsty’ she thought as she put out the trash.
A gush of wind slammed the door shut.
Locked out without her phone!
Sweat broke out on her brow.
She couldn’t recollect any phone number.
Except for his.
***
*dupatta: a long scarf usually of cotton or silk.
PS: Would you like to know what happened next? Click here 😉
Written for the Friday Fictioneers – a story in 100 words or less. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the challenge and J Hardy Carroll for the photo prompt. To read the other stories inspired by this prompt click here.
Lush green and sprightly, she swayed with the winds, laughing at the elements as they cared for her like their own.
Only she wasn’t.
She was meant for another garden.
It was her prarabhda* to nurture and provide for strangers, to steer them through strife, storm and drought.
Her roots held them together.
Bound and unable to leave she withstood the onslaught of the changing seasons -waiting and hoping for eternal spring.
Years and they passed her by: demanding using cutting slicing.
Until she stopped waiting.
There was beauty in fall too.
***
A/N: Prarabdha is a Sanskrit word meaning commenced or begun. Prarabdha is one of three types of karma (originating from the root kri, meaning to act).
The others are sanchita karma – sum of all karma that has been collected; kriyamana karma, or agami – karma that is currently being created and will yield results in the future.
In Vedantic literature, there is a beautiful analogy. The bowman has already sent an arrow and it has left his hands. He cannot recall it. He is about to shoot another arrow. The bundle of arrows in the quiver on his back is the sanchita; the arrow he has shot is prarabhda; and the arrow, which he is about to shoot from his bow, is agami. Of these, he has perfect control over the sanchita and the agami, but he must surely work out his prarabdha.
Prarabdha karma is only exhausted after its consequences have been experienced or its debts paid. There are three types of this karma:
Ichha, that which is personally desired
Anichha, or karma without desire
Pareccha, or karma that is the result of another’s desire
The yogi who has achieved union with the Higher Self does not experience ichha prarabdha karma but is still subject to anichha and pareccha.
This is my second offering to this week’s Friday Fictioneer’s – sorry I couldn’t resist 🙂 The first one is here but they aren’t interlinked.
Written for Friday Fictioneers – a story in 100 words or less. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the challenge and Sandra Crook for the beautiful photo. To read the other stories inspired by this prompt click here.
“Mother!” Shvetaketu was aghast. “What are you doing with him?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Her face was still flushed with passion.
“Mother, whose son am I?”
“Mine.” She straightened and smiled at him affectionately.
“I demand you tell me.” He roared.
“Hush! It’s a free world. I can do what I like, with whom I like.”
“I shall rewrite the marriage laws.” Shvetaketu declared. “From now on you can go to other men only with your husband’s permission.”
“You will still not know whose son you are.” She twinkled.
“But of course your husband’s. He owns you like his fields and any crop that comes out of you is his.”
“I am not a field!”
“So be it. From now on you will be allowed only four husbands, the Moon, Gandharva Vishvavasu, Agnideva and finally your husband.”
Is that why when husbands no longer want their wives she is passed on to fire?
***
A/N: In Hindu mythology, Gandharva Vishvavasu is a celestial being skilled in the art of music and Agnideva is the god of Fire. This piece is inspired by Devdutt Patnaik’s book 7 Secrets of the Goddess, which describes the origin of this Vedic wedding ritual. Until now I wasn’t aware that I have four husbands. Did any of you (wedded according to Vedic customs) know it?
Written for What Pegman Saw – a story in 150 words or less. Thanks to J Hardy Carroll for hosting the challenge and Google Maps for the photo prompt. To read the other stories inspired by this prompt click here.
Thank you for reading. I dithered quite a bit over the title – could you help me? Do you think it would have been better if I had titled it TheEvolution of Civilization?
“Why do you ritualistically put in some extra rice grains and then put back some in the container?”
“Traditionally we cook a little extra for an unexpected guest and make sure to keep some for tomorrow.”
“As if that tiny bit will help!” I scoffed. “Superstitious nonsense.”
“No harm done…”
“My cook’s son lost his job. There’s an opening for a driver but she refused.”
“Why?”
“The astrologer advised against it.”
I scrolled down for the Friday Fictioneer photo.
Damn. Where could I spot a flying crow at night?
***
Words 101
Photo (c) Douglas M. Macllroy
Note: For the uninitiated, myna birds are very powerful and accurate fore-tellers.
One for sorrow (which can be dispelled if you spot a flying crow)
Flying one for success
Two for joy
Three for letter
Four for boy
Five for gift
I have no idea where this originated from but it is 100 % true especially the one for sorrow. Although I’m not sure if photos count 😉 Psst just in case you can’t find a flying crow, make a circle with your forefinger and thumb and cut (open it) with something (thrice!). 😀
Well I confessed mine 😛 What’s yours?
Written for the Friday Fictioneers – a story in 100 words or less. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting it and Douglas M Macllroy for the photo prompt. To read the other stories inspired by this prompt, click here.
Stories and more 