Tag: short story

A show

Bethany was small-made, yet boisterous. It was surprising because her parents were nothing like her. Hating those who belittled her, she blew her own trumpet — raising her voice in pointless arguments, bossing the boys to assert equality, strutting the school corridors cursing the canteen food. Despite her bony figure and tiny profile, Bethany’s brassiness baffled all those who interacted with her.

Only years later — after she had children and grandchildren — did they find her diary. She had revealed her true self: a puny child hiding behind a fake voice to fit in to a noisy world.

A mother regrets

Alison switched on the television, and international news came on. An Indian reporter spoke in grave tones as she stood in front of a burnt down building. Wiping her brow, she continued in her thick accent, “It’s been 48 hours since the bomb detonated within the university campus…”

“The bomber, Rahul Tegari, was an orphan who grew up in multiple correction centres…”

Alison shivered—it wasn’t the first time that an unmanned child had gone awry. Flipping through news channels, she wondered about her own. Then a teenage mother, she had cast him in an orphanage.

What would he be now?

Lifesaver

“We’re talking about a life here!” With hands on her hips, Jane stood in the middle of the room, eyes and voice livid. She was addressing the lawmaker, her father, who sat smoking his pipe, cradling the arm of his couch.

“Calm down, Janet,” he spoke in a gruff, unperturbed voice, “Don’t strain yourself.”

“But,” she protested, “I’ve known Marigold all my life. They can’t slaughter her just because she’s growing. It’s unfair. We have to fight them!”

Her gazed at her teary eyes. “Don’t lose hope, yet. We’re in the right. The council may still reprieve your mango tree.”

Wandering soul

wandering

Great start to the week, James mused looking at the bleary-eyed fifth years rummaging their backpacks for paint and brushes. Art was the first class on Mondays.

He walked amongst students, now hunched over with brush strokes waltzing on canvases. Later at his desk, James was skirting through the paintings when he stopped at Jason’s. Jason’s family had fallen apart a few months ago, James knew, when his widower father had left, leaving Jason in his grandmother’s care.

James stared at Jason’s painting—a boat adrift the sun-kissing ocean— and realised Jason had drawn not a boat but his heart.