My Short Fiction



The neon glow enveloped the city built by and for corporations. The streets looked soul-less, though crowded with bodies walking in black coats, past glaring lamp-posts.

Roy stepped out of the shadows. Then he froze.

All eyes were on him. The neon lights seemed to gather together to reflect his name. The voices from the bodies rose as one – a chant as deep as a bottomless pit and as empty as the yawning mouth of a deep hole —

“Welcome to hell, Roy.”

Note: First Line Friday prompt at Mindlovemisery's Menagerie
My Poetry

Froggy Season


Where I live, when the frogs come out at night, to sing their deep choruses to the moon, we know it is time to celebrate, for they signal the onset of monsoon. The monsoon is a very dicey season in these parts, though. The rains are not a surety at all. In fact, this year past, our city has not seen a drop of rain — we have had a dry monsoon season. We have heard no frogs at all for months! They are, right now, a distant memory; the sound of them lost behind the foggy veil of too much time gone by.

one drop, two drops, three —
the bull frog leads the bass
in the chorus after the rain.

Note: Haiku prompt by Heeding Haiku with Chevrefeuille on Mindlovemisery's Menagerie.
My Short Fiction



Cynthia sighed with relief as she closed the backdoor behind her. In front of her lay the narrow mud path that led to her favourite spot in the whole world. Clutching the little cloth bag that hung against her knobbly knees, she scampered along the path and up to the base of an umbrella tree, its branches spread so wide that they appeared to shelter from wind, hale and rain.

Cynthia gazed in silence at the roughly hewn wooden base of a swing, dangling from sturdy ropes tied to a low branch of the tree. She reached out a seeking hand, and curled it round a rope. Soft tears dangled upon her lashes. Her father had built it for her, so that ‘his little princess’ would have her very own secret place where she might hide from the world.

Cynthia was hiding now. Hiding from the solemn voices, and the keening tears. Out here, under her little umbrella tree, she was alone with her father.

Note: Tale Weaver #215 prompt at Mindlovemisery's Menagerie
My Poetry

A Sentinel of History


How still a monument can stand; the silent, stone-cold witness of centuries past. Its walls might have ears, but there is no tongue. History, as we know it, is shaped by the version we read. What living man or woman can know the truth? Read with a pinch of salt and connect the dots. That is the only way to look at millennia and a world of things that have happened and people who have lived. Who is to say what history would look like a hundred years from now? Will I feature in it as a villain or a hero? Or will I simply be a person without a voice — a blur in the face of history.

mark of a dynasty
lost in the truth of time —
the Qutb Minar

My Poetry

Moonlit Dinner

white and black moon with black skies and body of water photography during night time

Seaside dinners near moonlit waters are utterly charming. I shudder in delight when I think of the dappled moon playing with the inky sea, drawing me into the non-anfractuous expanse that merges with the shadows stretching into the night. The dancing foam that flirts with the shoreline is a mesmerising sight too.

Only a few months ago, my husband and I sat sipping wine and gazing into the sound of the sea. We tasted ten blissful years of togetherness upon our tongue, and exchanged customary sighs of pleasure. The faint, rhythmic base from the bar filtered through the air, but failed to mar the beauty all around us.

twilight deepens
into stars and silence —
must one get tipsy on wine alone?

My Poetry

Peace of Mind

Photo by Wahid Hacene on

racing through the seconds, minutes, hours of the day;
day after day, week after week, one quick month followed by another;
then a year is over, and another, and another;
and every time you think about it — how time flies!

memories merge one into another — the good, the bad, the ugly;
joy mixed with pain; both a necessary part of true living;
change — the expected and the unexpected — twirling
your life in to living, breathing moments of thought and emotion.

but, in it all, there is one constant, the never-changing presence
of Christ the Living Word, and the peace He brings from moment to moment —
“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives.”[1] —
and every moment spent thus, and yet to be spent, is worth it.


*Inspired by the prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.
[1] John 14:27 NKJV

My Poetry

A Cascading Haiku for the New Year

fireworks display above trees
Photo by Matej on

The New Year

school buses enter
interrupting my walk —
the new year begins

the new year begins
heart high on resolutions —
the season is cool

the season is cool
ripe for new beginnings —
pray they continue


*Inspired by the prompt by Heading Haiku with Chevrefeuille at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie