Tag: short story

Resistance

Martha was the pickiest eater her colleagues knew. She’d decline late-night parties and would never go to the hot dog stand. She ate from her packed lunch, often some chicken and quinoa, oatmeal and fruit, or whole-wheat tortilla with meat.

When they went for lunch treats, Martha would choose salad with dressing on the side. Her team would roll their eyes and “LOL” to each other while she’d pick on her salad, looking unperturbed.

But unknown to all, Martha had a poster of mascarpone pizza in her bedroom, right next to a photo of her obesity-stricken family.

Blast From the Past

He walked down the empty corridor looking at the pictures that lined the walls. Old youngsters laughed back at him, their arms around each other, huddling behind a rusty trophy.

He read the description. “Dr. Charlie memorial soccer tournament. Class of 1935.”

Charlie’s eyes unfocused for a second before focusing again. 1935 was a long time ago. More than sixty years after he had gone. He tried to calculate when he had died, but soon remembered he’d never cleared a single mathematics examination. Giving up, he walked on.

A little further, he stopped at another picture. It was a portrait of a woman clad in graduation robes, smiling wide in joy and pride. The picture looked newer. And the woman familiar. He squinted at the description that read, “Mrs. Charlie Yaxley. Senior Professor, Mathematics.”

Realisation shot through him like current. He staggered forward, reaching out. Just as he reached his arm to caress her cheek, a stern voice rang through the corridor.

“Charlie!”

It was Tracy, his maths teacher. “This is a huge museum, stick with the group or you’ll get lost.”

That Bus Ride

As I leaned back on my seat, trees flew past and humans became a blur. The driver had a slow and late start. He sounded short-tempered and even the slightest sign of a hold-up triggered his irritation. He even snapped at the cashiers in every toll booth.

We were running behind schedule and he had the obligation to make up for lost time with speed. He stomped on the accelerator like he’d done so many times before and the bus shot forward, covering miles in minutes.

Next to me sat a young woman with distress in her eyes. She hit the redial button on her phone for what felt like the fourth time in five minutes. Every time the call went through, the person on the other line disconnected the call. My inherent sleuth recognised a strained relationship. My intuition, however, warned me to shut up.

Feeling a sudden jolt, I returned my eyes to the whizzing greenery. We cruised by, a marred Volvo along a tarred road. I heard the driver’s annoyance again as his swearing at the other vehicles carried through to the end of the bus.

My hearing impaired for a couple of minutes because the horn had gone on for a couple of seconds. Through the window, I watched: in one quick motion, we swerved away from the road as another bus rushed toward us. Before I could draw a shuddering breath, we had swerved back on track having avoided the collision. We sailed again, and I smiled to myself. Lucky for me, almost all drivers are experts in navigating the troubling Indian roads, living to laugh about it.

A mile behind us, another driver swerved. He was no expert.

Happy Holidays

hapy-holidays

As he lit the candles, Mr Aarons remembered the pain of his people. Never forget, was his policy. Dr Lawrence, though, was welcoming on the outside. But in the privacy of his living room, he was just another paranoid man; doubting the weird neighbours who had no wreathes.

Holly and Abigail took the same bus, to the same school, and sat in the same classroom. At class, they made holiday cards. When Holly handed hers to her parents, they couldn’t believe their eyes. Neither could the Aarons.

“Merry Christmas” wrote Abigail and “Happy Hanukkah” wished Holly. Kids have bigger minds.

The Homecoming

For Lisa, Richard’s homecoming was the biggest present. He had been abroad for four years, visiting only for his father’s funeral.

She examined his round shoulders, muscled biceps, and pruned beard. Her son had grown up. She welled up remembering the day he left home; a lanky lad going far away. But he had come back for her sixtieth birthday.

He pulled back the strings of his backpack, pulling out a tiny box. “Happy Birthday, Mom.” He smiled as Lisa’s eyes lit up at the chocolate cake. She hadn’t touched cake since her husband died of diabetes two years ago.